Pearls My Mother Wore

Whitney Houston’s death has affected me in a way I never expected; I’m envious.  I thought it was anger that I was feeling, but no; it’s envy.

Thirty-five years ago, on February 13th, my mother drank herself to death.  She was forty-three.  After a weekend of around-the-clock drinking at a sleazy bar on the corner of San Pablo Avenue and University, where her husband was a bartender and therefore had the keys, she suffered a heart attack.  Because she was so intoxicated, she couldn’t convey to him that she was in trouble.

They had driven down to the Berkeley Marina, possibly to enjoy the sunset.  The view would have been west across the shimmering bay that ebbs and flows from the mighty Pacific Ocean.  The city lights of San Francisco would have been flickering to the right, and beautiful Mt. Tamalpais would have been in silhouette to the left.  Thick, billowing fog may or may not have been tumbling through the Golden Gate.

By the time her husband realized that she wasn’t O.K., he drunk-drove across town to Alta Bates Hospital where she was pronounced “Dead on arrival.”  Peace be with her.

I was sixteen.

Heart attack or alcohol overdose, it really doesn’t matter.  What matters, and what I do battle with even to this day, is that she chose alcohol over everything else.  She didn’t just drink one day and die; she drank day after day after day.  She chose alcohol over and over again.  Why she did that is her business, but she repeatedly poisoned herself until finally her young body said enough is enough.

My business is to make sure I don’t do the same thing.  Oh, and FYI, in 1948, my maternal grandmother dropped dead off of a bar stool when she was forty-two years old from cirrhosis of the liver.

So, “Envy?” you might ask.  Yes.  Envy surreptitiously gnaws at my resolve to live a different kind of life.  I’ve made different choices, but envy tells me that I want what they had: abandon.  Oh sweet reckless abandon, checking out, total oblivion, not giving a damn, being free from inhibition, discarding all commitments and responsibilities, unthinking and uncaring.  Death is not too high a price to pay; come hither envy calls; you know you want it.

I must, must, must remember that I’m vulnerable to this sick seduction.  As long as it’s my choice, I choose life over death.  Of course I do.  Why shouldn’t I?  Life is so good.  I have nothing to run from when I remember to be honest with myself about the places that hurt and the pain I wish to hide.  I have friends who understand this.  They are my people, my winners circle.  I stay close to them because they save me from my own crazy thinking; they save me from my head that’s out to kill me.

My heart goes out to Bobbi Christina, Whitney Houston’s daughter.  It will be a miracle if she finds some perspective and is able to rejects those wicked, self-annihilating daemons.  I hope she finds a winners circle of her own.  I know it’s possible because I’ve done it.  I’m forever grateful.  Gratitude is what keeps tipping the scale in my favor.  I get to remember that it’s up to me to create a life that’s worth waking up for; thank you, thank you.

These twelve steps can’t fix my problem, but they help.  I think of them as a sieve.  I pour myself into them and what comes out is cleaner than what went in.

Peace be with us.  Have a great week, and I’ll post again next Friday.

Here are a few great “envy” quotes:

• Envy is like a fly that passes all a body’s sounder parts and dwells upon the sores —George Chapman
• Envy, like the worm, never runs but to the fairest fruit; like a cunning bloodhound, it singles out the fattest deer in the flock —Francis Beaumont
• As a moth gnaws a garment, so does envy consume a man —Saint John Chrysostam
• As iron is eaten by rust, so are the envious consumed by envy —Livy
• Envy hit him … like lack of oxygen —William Mcllvanney

Even best selling, Pulitzer Prize finalist, internationally plagiarized authors lose their writing rhythm if they drift from the craft for too long, so attested the witty and perspicacious author, Cyra McFadden, at this week’s meeting of Left Coast Writers.  We were so fortunate to have her as our guest speaker.  Famous for her satirical novel, The Serial, in which Marin County during the 1970’s is portrayed and poked fun at, Cyra has a keen eye and ear for memorable and meaningful characters and their lives.  The Serial was later made into a movie staring Martin Mull and Tuesday Weld.  In 1986, Cyra nearly won a Pulitzer for her second book, Rain Or Shine: A Family Memoir, in which she describes her childhood and life on the road with her Rodeo announcer father.  During the 1980’s, she also wrote a biweekly column, as well as features, for the San Francisco Examiner.

During many of the subsequent years however, she has been a writer interrupted.  Life, with its myriad demands, has kept her from practicing the craft of writing, and she’s feeling it.  To hear her, a woman with so much talent and experience, confess to having trouble getting her writing mojo back up and running, was important for me to pay attention to.  All too often, I’m tempted to walk away from all this effort.  Life gets busy; it gets busy with truly important episodes and events.  Finding time to tap out a few lines or a few paragraphs on a regular basis is a discipline that can all to easily be sidelined.

I fantasize that there will be a time when I’ll be free from all the stuff that both expands and congests my day and my thoughts.  When that day comes, words will flow from me like water from a faucet.  I presume that I’ll be able to jump back into my writing groove, faucet off, faucet on.  But honestly, I’ve never had a faucet on experience when writing; the pipe is always somewhat clogged—drip, drip, trickle, trickle.  So what makes me think that a lack of use is going to improve the situation?  Hum.

Even when Cyra McFadden was at her most prolific, she said her writing efforts were like “cutting stone.”  What a relief!  I’m not alone.  I know we’re not alone in this fact, but it sure helped to hear her, a local icon, say it.  Icon or not, honing sentences into meaningful and entertaining creations is seriously hard work.  I don’t know if it will get easier as I go along, but Ms McFadden’s cautionary tale provided me with that little nudge to stay at it.

Her talk included much more than just what she’s been experiencing lately.  She read a little from The Serial, which was timeless, spot on, and hilarious.  The room enthusiastically agreed that she should consider re-releasing it as an e-book, especially since bootleg versions are circulating without her consent or profit.  She shared with the room stories about whole passages of her work being lifted and used by other authors as if it were their own.  She talked about getting qualified advice before signing any contracts.  The Serial has been sold in several languages beside English, but she hasn’t received a cent from many of those foreign editions.  Ms McFadden passed around an original, out of print, spiral bound copy of The Serial so that we could see its vintage formatting and sensational hand-drawn illustrations.  What a treat that was.  She also donated all of the proceeds from the evening’s sales of her memoir to Left Coast Writers, which was in turn donated to a youth literacy program.

Cyra McFadden was humble, honest, gracious, and exceptionally generous with her published work and life experience.  For me, she’s a role model.  I like her style and willingness to get back up on the wildly bucking bronco called writing.

As always, have a great week, and I’ll post again next Friday.

All week long I’ve been concerned about what I was going to write in today’s blog.  At the end of each day I’d consider all that had gone on, and none of it seemed blog worthy.  My week has been filled with uninteresting duties and details—my routine work and volunteering responsibilities, laundry, groceries, bills, cooking, cleaning, blah, blah, blah.  I was officially voted in as property manager of the four-unit commercial condo complex where I do my hairdressing.  That role requires that I collect monthly dues and pay four bills—PG&E, water, landscaper, and insurance—big whoop.

And then Mitt Romney made yet another off-handed gaffe.  His blunders are all over the internet and news.  We see over and over again how casually he proffered the $10k bet with Rich Perry during a national debate, how almost $400k annual income from occasional speaking engagements is dismissed as if chump change, he earns almost $60k every single day from capital gains and yet he brushes that off as if it were dandruff on a black jacket.  His latest, that the poor of this country are of no concern because they have a “safety net,” is outrageous because it’s like saying a crippling car accident is no big deal because the people had car insurance.  Huh?  I think Romney is suffering from an inability to distinguish trash from treasure.

It’s not my intention to editorialize on Romney.  What I want to say here is that his error has helped turn my own thinking around about the week I’ve had.  For the last seven days I’ve been hunting for something big to talk about.  I’ve tossed off the richness of my life as if it were some inconsequential accounting.  I’ve traded gratitude for greed.  Greedy for that big-fish story, I’d lost sight of the immeasurable blessings I receive daily.

I live in a house that has absolutely no bullet holes in it.  If I’m sick I get to go to my doctor, not the emergency room where they by law have to attend to everybody regardless of ability to pay.  I go to the grocery store and buy what I want, not what I can afford.  I have a loving husband who I can depend on and friends who smile when I come through the door.  My professional neighbors trust me with the condo association’s money.  I remember a couple of years ago when I converted my guest bedroom into an office for myself.  I sold the twin mattress in it to a Hispanic woman who was amazed that it was only my hubby and I living in this 1100 s.f. house.  I have an enviable life.  It’s not the details of my life that matters, it’s how I feel about them.  Whether I’m in an 1100 s.f. house or an 11,000 s.f. house, I need to remember how fortunate I am.

What I have is golden.  Thank you Mitt Romney for reminding me to count my blessings, because not doing so, is hell.

A detail from "The Garden of Earthly Delights" by Hieronymus Bosch

Adversity, a nine letter word for shit.  Shit happens, it hits the fan.  There are little shits and big shits.  We can give a shit or not give a shit.  There’s bullshit, holy shit, shitty shit, eat shit, and full of shit.  So when my friend Cara Wilson-Granat told me she was writing a book titled It Takes A Lot Of Shit To Make A Garden Grow, I thought she was shitting me.  She then said that the subtitle was going to be “Shoveling Your Way Out of Manuretia To A Sweeter Smelling (And Living) Life,” and the book was to be about transforming life’s crap into fertile wisdom.  During that discussion, I volunteered a personal experience that I had many years ago.  Without hesitation, she asked if I’d write it up so that she could include it in her forthcoming book.  Today that book is a reality.  It has the same title except the “i” in Shit is represented with an asterisk (*).  It Takes A Lot Of Sh*t To Make A Garden Grow is currently available through her website: http://wordsfromcara.com/

Paperback $14.95

Cara’s done a beautiful job with her book.  Because crap and crisis are a part of being human, this book has something to say to anyone who’s interested in turning troubles into triumphs.  Whether we are in the midst of it (sh*t) or have loving concern for somebody who’s knee deep in a stinking heap of life’s “manuretia,” this book offers friendly advice and fifteen personal essays from individuals who have turned adversity into advantage.  When we say “misery loves company,” this is the kind of company that can help.  The book focuses more on the gardens grown than the “manuretia” it took to get there.  It’s not a 911 call,  it’s a 411.  Cara suggest facing troubles head on, “What if, you could take the challenge you’re dealing with right now and look at it as a kind of compost to help you re-landscape and ultimately grow a brand new perspective?”

I found the book to be uplifting.  It acknowledges a wide range of challenges from the loss of a child to the big gulp we experience when we look in a mirror at our aging selves and see the reflection of a person we don’t recognize.  There are inspirational stories dealing with health crises, financial nightmares, lost weight, and lost love to name a few.

My contribution to It Takes A Lot Of Sh*t To Make A Garden Grow is titled On And On, where I recount a transformative experience I had while at a spiritual retreat center back in the 1980′s.  This is what I wrote:

It was the mid 1980’s and I was in my mid 20’s.  New Age was still new, and I was spending a late fall weekend at a spiritual retreat center nestled in the coastal mountain range east of Mendocino, CA.  Broken hearted yet again, I was looking for some unknown something to soothe my pain – words of wisdom, direction, higher consciousness…possibly a new boyfriend who possessed a little more sweet and less cheat.  

In other areas of my life, I was a success.  I had a thriving hairdressing clientele, I was putting myself through college, I had a nice apartment, drove a nice car, had money in the bank, and plenty of good friends.  But when it came to love, I was a loser.  Regardless of how hard I tried to be sexy, smart, funny, mysterious, tough, hard-to-get, or easy-to-get, the results kept turning out the same; he’d run off with somebody else, and I’d wonder what I’d done wrong, or what I should’ve done differently.  My feelings of abandonment were pervasive and acute.

Now I can’t exactly remember what the retreat seminar was about, and I’m not trying to mock, but I think it had to do with “astral projections,” i.e. channeling energy from outer space.  I remember it involved some “laying on of hand,” and that was when I became a little uncomfortable and excused myself from the afternoon session.

While the group was doing its thing, I went for a long walk into Hendy Woods State Park.  The day was overcast, every plant dripped with foggy dew, and my path was spongy and fragrant from millennia of accumulated forest mulch.  In a melancholy mood, I moved slowly and meditatively, listening to the lively orchestra of breezes and birds in the trees, small streams trickling over stones, squirrels and chipmunks scurrying about in what appeared to be more play than hunt. 

At one point, I came upon an enormous fallen redwood.  The giant had been down for many years judging by its crumbling, pulpy decay.  Along its massive trunk ferns had taken root, so had grasses and moss that produce easily missed, teensy white flowers.  Baby timber offshoots were eagerly reaching for the sky.  Clusters of plump, yellow-orange mushrooms found footing where the composting tree was most wet.  I was certain that under the remaining bark must have lived teams of mites, grubs, spiders, and ants.  There before me lay a most noble exchange of life, and in that moment my mind opened up as if it were a bloom in a desert rain. 

It dawned on me how polarized my thinking had always been; there was good or bad, right or wrong, yes or no, love or hate, life or death.  On another day, I possibly wouldn’t have even noticed the prone conifer, or if I did, I might have thought, “That tree is dead, how sad.”  But on the afternoon of my somber, late fall walk, when my heart ached desperately for true connection, I suddenly saw life differently.  Instead of sorrow and loss, I saw a magnificent display of continuous life, forward movement, on and on.  Nothing had been abandoned; it had only been changed, transformed.  What I had to do was stop abandoning myself.  I had to stop trying to be something I wasn’t.  Nothing in nature was pretending, and I could follow its lead. 

When I returned to the retreat center I felt restored.  I had been given wisdom, direction and higher consciousness, it just didn’t come the way I expected.  My all sweet, no cheat arrived many years later; he’s my husband. 

___________________________________________

Cara lives in Southern California, but there’s a good chance she will come to the Bay Area during her book tour.  When she’s here, we have talked about linking up as a team to talk about overcoming adversity.  I’ll be sure to post date and location information when it’s available.  Until then, let me know if you’d like to receive a personal invitation so as not to miss the gathering.

There’s just one more thing I have to share.  While forming my ideas about today’s blog, I looked on the internet for “shit” related topics.  One site was a kids say the darnedest things site.  The quote was from a little girl after she had farted.  She said, “I just burped out of my butt.”  LOL

With that, have a great week, and I’ll post again next Friday.

Last evening I took a hike on the Sonoma Overlook Trail. This cell phone picture shows the fog coming in from Petaluma to the west.

Cafe Royale

Answering the call in this case was actually a matter of answering a last minute Facebook message from my new friend and the founder of InsideStorytime, James Warner.  InsideStorytime is a literary event that takes place the third Thursday evening of every month and is held at Cafe Royal on the corner of Levenworth and Post in San Francisco.  I’ve been admiring James Warner’s writing since last summer when I heard him read at another monthly SF lit event, the Portuguese Artist Colony.  That evening he won the “Live Write,” a contest where four authors are given an audience-selected prompt just before the intermission break and must write their hearts out while the crowd is mingling and yakkin’ up a stormg all around them.  After the intermission, each author reads what he or she came up with, and the audience votes on a winner.  The winner is then asked to return the following month to present a more polished version of that pressure driven first draft.  It takes a special kind of talent and confidence to nail such a contest, and James has what it takes.  His short story “Middlegame” is available through the on-line magazine called Narrative, and his novel, All Her Father’s Guns are worth checking out.

Yesterday was my volunteer day at Hanna Boys Center.  When I came home at lunchtime, I saw the Facebook message from James saying that two of his five scheduled authors for InsideStorytime had cancelled at the last minute, and he was asking if I was available.  That was unexpected.  I had a little nervous heart flutter, but then decided to just go for it.  The theme for the night was “Castaways,” and my characters in Pearls My Mother Wore definitely qualify as being, if not adrift, certainly unmoored.  Being added to the author lineup for the night gave me an opportunity to step in front of a spotlight and share what I’ve got, and it’s all good.

Never mind that I had two hours to prepare and it was essentially the first day of winter—yes, it was the first day of real rain around here since the little bit we got back in November—not my favorite driving conditions, but I wasn’t going to say no to the opportunity.  The other stand-in for the night was a lovely Russian young woman, Zarina Zabrisky.  She presented the audience with a choice.  She could read a short story that was funny, dark and funny, dark, or seductive.  The audience voted unanimously for the dark and funny choice.  We were thoroughly entertained by a fantasy tale that involved an Italian chef whose prayers for a trip to the wilder side of life were answered when he found himself in Mexico drinking and dancing with one hot tamale—the devil in a red leather dress.  When he discovers that he’d been dancing with the devil, he became appalled, freaked out, and insisted on scurrying  back to the safe hell he’d come from.

The three other authors were each fantastic.  Zarina kicked off the night.  After her was the poet Maw Shein Win whose CV includes many awards, scholarships, and published poems.  Maw is also  a co-curator for a show at intersection for the arts called “Broadside Attractions,” she’s an Affiliate Artist at Headlands Center for the Arts, and she’s currently working on a book with artist Mark Dutcher.  Following the intermission was Joshua Mohr.  He read from his recently released novel, the third in a trilogy, Damascus.  During intermission, Joshua gallantly introduced himself to me and thanked me for my reading.  It was so gracious of him to extend his hand and chat me down from my stage jitters.  The evening concluded with Alvin Orloff reading from his humorous and insightful 1970′s throwback novel, Why Aren’t You Smiling?

At the end of the night, despite the dreary conditions outside, everybody was smiling and content.  The event had gone off well.  It’s been exciting for me, getting to know other writers and letting them know who I am.  The San Francisco lit scene is definitely flourishing.  I’m glad it’s only an hour away, so I can attend perhaps not all but some of the happenings down there.  BTW, last Friday night, my Sonoma pal Bonnie and I went to SF to check out the internationally traveled literary hullabaloo, the Literary Death Match.  It was wild.  Standing room only at the Elbo Room in the Mission where four authors were judged by a panel of three on literary merit, presentation, and “intangibles.”  It’s all done in good fun and the “intangibles” judge was able to ding one of the writers for a past grievance over her misspelling his name.  Todd Zuniga, LDM’s founder and producer has the stage presents of a circus barker.  He’s probably in his early thirties; tall, skinny, perfectly attired in his early Beatles style suit, he’s smart, funny, and quick, quick, quick.  It was a high-octane night bordering on raucous, but it was a definite must for me, a person who likes to be in the know.

Have a great week, and I’ll post again next Friday

Now that the holiday hubbub is over, I’ve got a new diversion to assuage my winter blue-blahs.  Epic, an overused word that truly applies to the annual two-week wilderness road race called The Dakar.  Almost two hundred competitors gathered on January 1st at Mar Del Plata, Argentina to embark on a nearly 5,600 mile endurance adventure that continues into Chile and Peru.  Using specially equipped motorcycles, cars, trucks and quads, these competitors and their support personnel traverse extreme topography of desert dunes, riverbed canyons,  and treacherous mountain passes.  Racing over unpaved terrain, they endure both blistering 120 degree heat in the Adacoma Desert where there has never been any measurable precipitation as well as oxygen deprived elevations of 15,000 ft. at Paseo de San Francisco in Andes Mountains.

The highest levels of skill and strength are required for this marathon, and still many will not see the finish line.  On day-one, Jorge Boero, a motorcyclist, suffered a heart attack after crashing, and he died.  Death has occurred 21 times in the event’s 35 year history.  Despite that grim statistic, The Dakar continues to draw enthusiastic support from sponsors, drivers, crew, organizers, governing bodies, and fans.  On stage three, my personal favorite in the motorcycle class, American Quinn Cody crashed.  While his injuries were not life threatening, they were serious enough to force his early retirement from the event.  He’s a great competitor, and while deeply disappointed, he conducted himself in exemplary good sportsmanlike fashion during the post disaster interview—blood, bruises, stitches, and all.

Watching the half-hour long highlights show on the new NBC Sports channel is such a teaser, but it’s all we’ve got.  I’d find time to watch hours of coverage if it were possible.  The scenery is so spectacular and the competitor’s determination is so complete that I stare at the TV in utter amazement when it’s on.  As totally far-fetched an idea as this is, I think it would be an opportunity of a lifetime to go in as a volunteer, perhaps serving up food in the bivouac or being a part of the team that tears down and relocates the camp daily.  The enormity of logistical details is impressive, and I think I’d enjoy being a part of it, maybe just once, someday.

Here are a few Dakar 2012 pictures off the internet.

Dakar 2012 motorcycle

Dakar 2012 motorcycles

High centered in the dunes—waiting for help

Robby Gordon forging a river

Mini Coopers appear to have what it takes

Even these lumbering trucks compete for glory

I’m drawn to The Dakar in the same way I’m drawn to The Tour de France; both depict the beauty of perseverance.  In each case, it’s impossible to overlook how much more spectacular the journey is compared to the destination.  Completion is great, but getting there is great too.  As a writer, I appreciate that.  There are no shortcuts.  Epic tours, whether on a bicycle, a motorcycle, a Mini, or a semi truck, are hard work, but they deliver gifts that can’t be found elsewhere.  Every time I sit down to write a short story or something bigger, it’s like heading down the road on an exciting but challenging journey.  If I can remember the gorgeous scenery along the way of Europe’s Tour de France or South America’s Dakar, perhaps I’ll stay at it even when that wicked voice in my head says to give up.

Until next time, have a great week, and I’ll post again next Friday.

If this is the year that the world is suppose to come to an end, it sure isn’t starting out that way.  I’m pleased to report that I spent the 2011/2012 transition hiking in the high desert terrain of Carson City, NV.  The crisp and clear winter air, big and open vistas, gentle colors and textures of the local flora all lifted my spirits and put me in an exceptionally optimistic mood.  It’s not always easy to turn off the barrage of negativity that comes my way via the internet, TV, newspapers, magazines, and general conversation, but get me huffing and puffing on a long hike or mountain bike ride, and that stuff all falls away.  I can’t do anything about Afghanistan, Iran, North Korea, Syria, Somalia, Russia, China, Downtown Oakland or any other other hot spot on the planet when I’m miles from civilization with nothing more than an extra layer of clothes, a bottle of water, and a ham sandwich to carry me on.  Some people get high on drugs and alcohol to find that kind of escape; I sweat in beautiful places to make it happen.  I’ll trade muscle ache over a hangover any day.  Yes, it’s still avoidance therapy, but is there really anything wrong with that anyway?  I don’t think so, especially because it fortifies my soul for when I’m in the real world, the fussy world of people and personalities.

Here are some pictures from my New Years Eve and New Years Day hikes, my soul food:

Kings Canyon valley floor

Lutrell and I high above Kings Canyon

Valley floor at Ash Canyon

Icy stream along the way

Up, up, up

The area was named Ash Canyon long before the 2004 Waterfall fire

Lutrell and I over 7000 ft above Carson City at Ash Canyon

Have a great week, and I’ll post again next Friday

P.S.  Lutrell set up and took all of the pictures.

New Years Eve Eve Word Cloud

It may just be me, but I find myself oddly fascinated and thoroughly entertained by some of the spam I get on this blog – daily.  To date, my spam filter has trapped 8,655 of these little ditties.  I’m not sure how they get generated, if its by people or a some kind of computer generated language.  When I first started reading them I thought, “they like me, they really like me,” but then the fog of glory lifted and I noticed that none of the complimentary comments ever actually referenced anything I had said in my post.  While they’re flattering, they’re totally non specific.

Perhaps you’ll find this sampling of spam comments I receive as odd and amusing as I do:

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Crazy stuff.  What a weird world we live in!

As the 2011 comes to an end, I want to wish all of my friends a big Happy! New! Year!!!

Enjoy your week—as will I, and I’ll post again next Friday.

Tonga For Christmas 

A Short Fiction

So this is how I ended up in Tonga last year for Christmas.

You see, I was married to this guy for like five years, Charlie.  Charlie was all right but it wasn’t like I was in love with him or anything.  I’m mean it’s not like he was the love of my life, not that I’d know what that is.  I’ve never had a love of my life, I don’t think.  Either that, or love is way over-hyped, making me expect something that just doesn’t exist.  How can it be that some people feel all that birds singin’ stuff, fly me to the moon, rock my world, really?

It’s true that Charlie knocked me off my feet when we first met, but I don’t think what happened is what they’re talkin’ about when it comes to love.  I was out front watering my lawn one day, standing on the sidewalk since I didn’t want to get my shoes all wet.  My neighbor on the corner keeps his hedges real high so that he doesn’t have to look out to the street or sidewalk, since he hates everybody.  Because of the leafy green ramparts, it wasn’t until the last minute that I caught from the corner of my eye a flash of movement coming my way.  I’m 5’1” and weigh 105 lbs.  The rapidly approaching mass was over a foot taller and easily twice as heavy.  It was almost as if he was pushing a wall of air, tsunami like, to where I felt him bearing down on me before I actually saw him.

Snapped from the mind-wandering task of watering the yard, deer in the headlights, I looked up and froze.  Heading straight for me were a glistening, sweat-soaked jogger and his panting, black Labrador.  There was a chain leash, a metal umbilical cord, connecting beast to owner that threatened to scythe me in two.  Intent on holding his stride, at the last possible second, the owner jerked the chain and the dog veered around me, almost.  Its paws were the size of horse’s hooves, and damned if that four-legged, black devil didn’t glance against my knees and send me for a loop.  With no time to consider how I might break the fall, my face found the pavement first.  Boom, I hit with such force I thought I had broken my jaw. 

Charlie never would have even turned around except that while I was flying through the air my hose got out of control and doused him real good up and down his back with water.  He was shouting a profanity when he did a 180 and finally caught sight of me splayed out on the ground.  I reached up to my chin and felt warm blood pumping through my fingers, but it was the crunch of my glasses under Charlie’s Shaquille O’Neal feet that really killed me.  I’m blind without my glasses.  I didn’t have to be Dr. Miranda Bailey to know I was going to need a doctor, stitches, pain pills and antibiotics as quickly as possible.  I needed to get to a hospital, but if I couldn’t see, I couldn’t drive. 

“Oh man!  Are you alright?”   

“Ah, I don’t think so,” I mumbled, not wanting to move my jaw, but also trying to turn my head away from the dog that was eager to lap at me and my bloodied face.  I needed to gather my thoughts, which seemed to be cast across the grass like the thousand droplets of water shimmering in the sunlight.  What was I going to do?  Before I could sit up, I asked him if he’d turn off the water faucet; a puddle was forming around me, and my clothes were getting soaked through.  When he came back, I looked up at him, and from the ground, he was gigantic.  “I need a doctor.  I can’t see now that my glasses are crushed.”

Only then did he notice the wrecked lenses and smashed frame.

“Oh man!  Did I do that?”

“I need to get to the hospital.  Can you drive me?” I said, feeling faint.

“Ah, sure.  But it’s gonna take me a while to get my car.  I live over near Serena Park.”

“My Car,” I said trying to use my mouth as little as possible.

“Oh.  O.K.  Sure.  I guess I could do that.  Can Bubba ride in your car?  I can’t go if my dog can’t go.”

I nodded.  “My keys.  Purse in kitchen.  Grab towel,” I said through clinched teeth.

Under normal circumstances I never would have let a complete stranger into my house, alone, with my purse.  I had to trust that the worst of my day was over.  I had to trust that he wasn’t going to rob me on top of everything else he had already done.

 My fears were allayed when he returned without hesitation, but then I became concerned over what I must look like because the sight of me so visibly shook him.  He was surprisingly gentle getting me into the car, but once I was buckled in, he drove like a maniac, again scaring me half to death.  I didn’t dare pull the towel from my throbbing chin for fear that the sight of so much blood would turn my already nauseated stomach.  I suspected that getting vomit into my wound would not be a good idea.  I also didn’t have the nerve to pull down the visor to examine my face in the passenger side mirror.

The hospital Emergency Care Center was packed.  I had to wait in a line ten people deep to be looked at and checked-in.  I wasn’t given a number because they don’t do first come first serve, it’s by severity of malady, and on a scale of one to ten, ten being life threatening, I was probable about a five.  Thirty minutes into my wait, I asked the admittance nurse to call my mother.  I didn’t want to do that, but Charlie was getting real irritated because it was taking forever.  I tried to get comfortable, but that was impossible.  I sat hunched over in a chair, holding myself against the pain that was now radiating from my nose, cheekbone and forehead.  The triage nurse was kind enough to give me some ice, but there were at least twenty people moaning and looking miserable already waiting ahead of me.  Charlie was pacing the floor like a caged Bengal tiger.  He kept going outside to check on Bubba, and I half wondered if he might just drive off and leave me to fend for myself.  He had to get home he said; it was poker night.  When I told him he could take my car as soon as my mom arrived, he huffed and wanted to know, “How long is that gonna take?” 

I didn’t have it in me, in that moment, to go into detail about my mother.  I could only say that she would show up as soon as she could.  Every time the loud speaker summoned a new patient to the doorway into the medical inner sanctum, Charlie would sigh loudly, exasperated that it wasn’t me they were asking for.  Without my glasses, the waiting crowd was a blur.  I could hear an elderly man doing his best to cough up his phlegmatic lungs, and there was an inconsolable toddler wailing in her mother’s arms.  At one point, a little boy appeared in front of me and asked if I had been in a car accident.  He was sweet and chatty, and needed to tell me all about the car accident he once was in.  Finally, his dad called from across the room, “Joey!  Get over here.”

I had no way of knowing what would happen first; either I’d get ushered into one of the sterile medical rooms beyond that extra wide admittance door, or my mother would show up.  An hour had passed when Mumzie showed up.  Charlie was very nearly apoplectic by then, but as soon as he laid eyes on my mom, his mood shifted dramatically, and he became Mr. Concerned Citizen.  I think her Mink coat and Louis Vuitton bag had something to do with it. 

I’ve never known Mumzie to simply enter a room; she makes grand entrances, and that day was no different.  She looked at the pathetic crowd in the waiting room and like a silent film star she struck a dramatic pose as if to brace against a great shock.  She did nothing to hide the expression of horror on her face.  With a barely audible voice I called to her and raised my hand, but I was stiff and sore and my gesture was too feeble to get her attention.  She approached the receiving nurse and demanded, “Where’s my daughter.”

“Excuse me,” the nurse replied, clearly unimpressed by my mother’s haughtiness.

“My daughter.  You called me and said my daughter was here.  Where is she?”

This was not going over well with the lady at the desk.  “Who called you?  I didn’t call you.  What’s your daughter’s name, ma’am?”

Needless to say, the entire waiting room ceased whizzing, bawling, studying magazines and cell phones to take in the bizarre character that had entered the scene.

I shook my head and elbowed Charlie, “Go get her, would you please?”

“That’s your mother?” Charlie asked incredulously.

“Yes.  Get her before she gets us all kicked out of here.  Please.”

He popped up and was delighted to have a legitimate excuse to engage her. 

I watched as he introduced himself and extended his hand for a shake.  But she would have nothing of his hand and pulled back to scoff at the cheeky, gloss-jersey clad jogger.  He pointed my way, and again I raised my hand.  She pulled away from Charlie’s guiding motion and marched straight to me.

“For the love of God, what in the world have you done to yourself now?”

“Mumz, sit down.  You’re making a scene.”

“Ha!  I’m making a scene?  Do you know what you look like?  I’ve got Frankenstein telling me that I’m making a scene.  Ha!”

“Mom,” I entreated.  “Mom, this is Charlie.  His dog accidentally ran into me, and I fell.”

“A dog!  Whose dog?  Any dog that could do a thing like this needs to be put down.”

“Mom, listen, Charlie was nice enough to drive me here, but he’s got to get home, and we used my car.  I need you to wait for me and give me a ride home after I’ve seen a doctor and a pharmacist.

“Well, what are you waiting for, then.  See a doctor already.”

“I’m sure they’re going to call my name any minute.”

And as if on cue, my name was called.  Charlie said he’d bring my car back the next morning, and my mother said she needed a cigarette and would be waiting for me in “the Caddy,” her Cadillac. 

So a long story made short, Charlie came around the next day, and the next day, and the next, and again and again.  He was full of compliments and asked lots of questions about my mother.  He wanted to know all about the business my father had been in before he died.  Charlie brought flowers and candy and was constantly complimenting me on my improved complexion.  He was relentless in his pursuit, and I mistakenly thought he had done that falling in love thing.  With every visit his ardor seemed to increase.  By that summer he had me convinced that we should go to Reno and get married. 

I know.  I was a fool.  No sooner had we said, “I do,” and signed the papers before Charlie fell out of whatever infatuation he had been in.  He spent our wedding night gambling and drinking.  I was bored at the Poker table, so I went to our room, expecting that he would follow me very soon.  When I woke up the next morning he was nowhere in sight.  I ordered room service and ate breakfast, and still there was no Charlie.  I found him looking like a wild man inside one of the dark nightclubs that ringed the casino floor.  He was half passed out, but with help from one of the bouncers, we were able to get him to my car.  Four hours later when we pulled into my driveway, he was still snoring like a chainsaw stuck in mud.  I left him in the car and figured when he came to he’d be able to figure out where he was and come inside.                    

In terms of husbands, on a scale of one to ten, I’d give old Charlie a four.  I could’ve done worse.  He never hit me.  Most of the time he had a job.  He’d shower every day, and whenever I got sick he’d stay away so as not to bother me.  But after five years, I’d had all of the gambling and drunkenness that I could handle.  He’d go off for days at a time, and I’d not hear a word from him until he’d drag his sorry, pitiful self through the front door.  The last straw was when he came home with crabs, not dinner crabs, but crabs-crabs…STD crabs in his mustache.

Christmas was coming and although I didn’t love Charlie, I was feeling lonely.  Sometimes when I’m feeling lonely I go to the grocery store.  If you hang around the aisles long enough pretending to shop, someone is bound to come along who talks to anyone who will listen.

I was in the coffee aisle when a big white lady wearing a Hawaiian Muumuu passed me and stopped very nearby. 

“Ovaltine, Ovaltine.  Where are you Ovaltine?” she was saying to herself, out loud.  “Now where are you?  You were just right here last time I bought you.”

I didn’t say anything at first, but I was sure she’d keep fishing for conversation, and it came.

“Excuse me, do you see Ovaltine on any of these shelves?”

“Ovaltine?  Do they still make that?”

She thought that was funny.

“You bet they do.  They better.”

“Ovaltine, huh?  Secret decoder ring Ovaltine?”

“Oh my God!  Yes!” 

“What do you do with Ovaltine?  Isn’t it a kid’s drink?”

“Oh, I buy half a dozen of them and take them with me when I go to Tonga.”

“Tonga!” I exclaimed.  Where is Tonga?”

“Oh Honey.  Tonga’s great.  If you’ve never been to Tonga, you’ve got to go sometime.”

“Where is it?  What’s so great about it?”

“I’ve been going to Tonga every Christmas for thirty years.  You can’t beat it.  It takes

a day and a half to get there, but once you’re there you forget about all the travel time.  It’s paradise, is all I can say, simply paradise.”

“Really?  Tell me more.”

“Well if you’re so curious, why don’t you come with me?  My sister was going to go, but she’s been too sick with rickets to travel.  I’ve got an extra ticket, and the lodging is all paid for.  And you know what’s so great about Tonga?  They love their women!  The men don’t let the women do any work because they think hard work makes women look ugly.  Ain’t that a kick?”  Then she closed her eyes and swayed her rather rotund body as if it were floating on a tropical breeze.  “Oh! And Midnight Mass will blow your mind.  They hold the service on the beach with hundreds of coconut shell candles lining the silky, sandy path.  Nobody wears shoes, and most of the men, women, and children are in their finest traditional costume.  You just have to see it.  In Tonga, the people celebrate Christmas by giving the gift of their talents, there’s almost nothing about giving presents.  Thank you Jesus!  It doesn’t matter if you’re Christian or not, the service and the people are wonderful.  Come!  You won’t regret it.”

“You know what?” I said to her.  “I’m sold.  When do we leave?”

I called my boss and told him that I was finally going to claim some of my vacation time, and I’d be back to work at the end of January. 

Three days later Emma Jean and I landed in the capital city of Tongatapu.

This year Emma Jean and I left a week earlier and plan to stay one week longer.  Mumzie had a stroke and died two months ago.  Old Charlie didn’t get any of the three million Mumzie left to me.  I’m so happy.  I’ve never been this happy in my life.  You know?  Maybe I am in love.       

Hey everybody, I wish you all the goodness of the season.  Have a great week and I’ll post again next Friday.

Can I hear an Amen!?  Today marks the day of my 100th blog post.  I’ve been posting every Friday since January 2010.  I’ve only missed two Fridays, and that was because I was out of digital range, vacationing in the Sierras one year, and the mighty Redwoods of Northern California the other.  I’m so proud to be here.  I almost parked this self-imposed commitment to write blog posts every Friday a couple of times, but I didn’t.  I kept at it, so here’s to commitments!

To celebrate, I spent last evening in San Francisco with an exciting group of writers at the InsideStorytime event at Cafe Royal.  James Warner is a brilliant writer who, since 2006, has been the mastermind and host of this monthly assemblage of literary talent.  If you have a couple of minutes to sidetrack off this post, James’ remake of Elizabeth Kubler-Ross’s five stages of grief into Kublai Khans five stages of grief is erudite and wickedly amusing.  http://necessaryfiction.com/stories/JamesWarnerKublaiKhan

This month’s theme for InsideStorytime was “Gods and Dogs,” and there were five performing authors who read from their personal works.  The first presenter was Olga Zilberbourg.  I’ll try not to repeat that the authors and the crowd, by and large, were much younger than I am, but I couldn’t help but notice that fact.  Ms Zilberbourg has a delicate voice and speaks with a musical and charming Russian accent.  She read from one of her many published works of fiction.  The piece was titled, “A Dark and Empty Corner,” and the first few words are, “God was present that Thursday night…”.  It was a budding relationship story, rich with new-love awkwardness between two characters, Winston and Peggy.

Next up was a strikingly beautiful young woman who, in Sonoma, would have appeared to be in costume; however, in San Francisco, she seemed perfectly at ease in her 1940′s-50′s attire: fur pillbox hat over wildly curly, flaming red hair, a shapely gray wool dress with a large rhinestone broach at her shoulder, net stockings and knee high black boots.  Alia Voltz read “Vacajun,” a Louisiana, back bayou story where a young man and woman from, heaven forbid, San Francisco get somewhat lost and are pulled over by a patrol officer.  As she read from her many pages, the finished ones she casually discarded to the stage floor, a nice theatrical touch.  In keeping with the theme of the night, when her tale was told and all of the character’s misunderstandings had been ironed out, I had a visceral “Thank God” sigh for their narrow escape from real and perceived danger.

Gary Turchin followed Alia.  Gary is my new hero.  He read from his hardcover, self-illustrated children’s book, If I Were You.  By all appearances, it looks like a book for kids, and it is, but it’s also very much for the child within us all.  Have you ever encountered a little one that is laughing uproariously?  Well Gary Turchin’s If I Were You captures every bit of that child-filled joyous abandon.  It’s a book that celebrates quirkiness and non-convention; it’s toddler Gary speaking to adult Gary.  Little Gary would wear his clothes backwards, just to cover his bases and never be going the “wrong” way.  He’d fight for Dandelions and the equal rights of weeds.  He’d find his favorite spot and ask what the spot had to say to him.  It’s just delightful.

Following his reading was intermission.  I bought a copy of If I Were You and asked Gary if he’d sign it.  I told him that it was a gift to myself, that it’s the kind of book I wish had been given to me as a child, so I was making up for those lost opportunities.  He was touched by what I had to say about my not reading as a child and then going on to become a writer.  He signed my copy of his book, “Terry Sue, The writer in me honors the writer in you.  Create with Joy!  Always, Gary Turchin.”  He’s my new hero because of his generous spirit and authentic desire to give of himself through words and images.  During our conversation, he cautioned me against referring to my writing as a “public hobby.”  He pointed out that writing is a passion, not a hobby, and he’s right.  This isn’t building model airplanes or collecting stamps.  Thinking deeply and coming up with ways to express my thoughts is entirely too personal and challenging to be referred to as a hobby.  Only passion can account for the willingness it takes to persevere in this world of written words.

Following the intermission were Sarah Ladipo-Manyika and Peter Orner.  When Ms Ladipo-Manyika arrived at Cafe Royal, it was as if a spotlight suddenly flicked on and followed her around the room.  She radiated a most compelling, casual elegance.  Without knowing her, I was certain by her bearing that she would be one of the evening’s presenters, and sure enough.  Through James Warner’s introduction I learned that she was raised in Nigeria, held a Ph.D from U.C. Berkeley, and is a lit teacher at S.F. State.  Her short story began, “This house is protected by God.”  I thoroughly enjoyed the pacing and concluding twist in her short fiction.

And Peter Orner, he read an excerpt from his newly released novel, Love and Shame and Love.  The passage he read involved a young man who was brought before a Jewish Judge in Chicago for some private council and dispensing of Chicago style life’s lessons.  Orner, aside from being an accomplished and well-lauded author, holds a law degree.  His legal acumen and knowledge of Moses in the bible made the passage he read creep under my skin and impart a lasting impression.

During the hour-long drive home I savored the events of the evening.  I re-introduced myself to Caitlin Myer, a maven of the S.F. lit scene.  She invited me to join her table, around which gathered a couple Facebook friends, Matthew James Decoster and Andy Dugas.  Andy made a point of telling me about a writers’ conference that he highly recommends.  The Squaw Valley Writers Conference is held in the summer and is a full week of intensive workshops, lectures, critiques, and individual manuscript analysis.  It sounds like a great experience, and I’m going to give some serious thought to going.  Conferences are a way for me to educate myself without having to go back to college.  Plus they build my writing community, and I love that.

Here are some pictures from InsideStorytime at Cafe Royal:

Two cute audience members. Hat makers by trade from Paul's Hat Works

Authors Matthew James Decoster and Caitlin Myer

The scene at Cafe Royal during intermission

Funding the event was a bit on the, shall we say, casual side.

Happy 100th to me, happy reading and writing to you, have a great week, and I’ll post again next Friday.