Sleep Apnea Reprieve--First Appeared in San Francisco Chronicle

            I sat in the waiting room, nervously thumbing through a magazine from the pile on the table next to me.  After a while a door leading to the examining rooms opened and a man came out.  I stopped him as he hurried toward the exit.

“Did you have the throat procedure for Sleep Apnea?” I asked.

“I had the procedure,” he replied, “but not for Apnea.  I snore so much that my wife banished me to the far side of the house.  This deal should fix the problem.”  He seemed happy about the whole thing and almost skipped out to the corridor.  I was somewhat reassured.

As I walked back to my fate, I wished that I had never mentioned fatigue to my internist.  She was the one who, months before, had ordered a sleep study.  I had to go to one of those places where you arrive in your pajamas and climb into a strange bed where the technician attaches wires to your head, neck, chest, abdomen, one finger, and a leg.  The results of my test showed that I snored and had sleep apnea.  This meant that I frequently stopped breathing, a practice not to be recommended.

The sleep specialists prescribed the nighttime use of a machine that sends forced air through tubes into your nose and opens passages in your throat to maintain respiration.  I tried hard to like the new appliance that traveled with me wherever I went, even off and on airplanes in the forests of Costa Rica.  I truly gave it every chance, but I could not manage it.  If I happened to fall asleep, I would awaken an hour or two later and just lie there.  It dawned on me that I slept far better without the machine, even if I did stop breathing.  My internist said I fell into the thirty percent of patients who could not use it.  It was time to see a throat specialist.

This physician told me about a relatively new treatment that seems to take care of snoring and mild to moderate apnea in eighty percent of patients.  He explained that three small synthetic rods are inserted with a special instrument into the soft palate where it joins the hard palate.  These rods make the tissue rigid and permit the passage of air, similar to the action of a baton in a sail to avoid luffing.  He asked me how old I was, then hid his shock and said politely that age didn’t matter, because I was in good health.

The procedure was not too unpleasant.  The doctor injected novocain into my throat so that I would feel nothing when he shot the little rods into place.  Everything went exactly as he had predicted, including the mild sore throat that would persist for a few days.

My little operation took place ten days ago, but I do not know if I still snore or if I am breathing continuously.  One of my younger friends gave me a nudge and suggested that I have an overnight guest to find out.  I’m not quite sure what she meant, but I reminded her that I am a senior lady and that she should respect her elders.

This is a developing story.

From Alsace to Woodside--First Appeared in the Country Almanac

In 1911, twenty-three year old Antoine Zaepffel left Dambach Laville for England to be with friends, but after a short visit, he stowed away on a ship bound for America.  When hunger drove him from his hiding place, he shoveled coal for the remainder of the voyage in return for food.  In New York City, Tony, the name Antoine came to be known by in America, took what work he could find, including the position of waiter at the Four Hundred Club. On a good night he earned $l.50 in tips, and kept forever the one dime thrifty John D. Rockefeller gave him.

Although the west beckoned, once again Tony had no funds for travel.  He made his way to Canada hoping to find work on the railroad.  No jobs were available, but he was allowed to ride the train in exchange for selling candy and snacks as a “peanut butcher.”  After a year in Alaska checking out the end of the gold rush, he finally arrived in San Francisco.

The Alsacian community welcomed Tony, and eventually   friends introduced him to their sister Elise.  Not long in the United States Elise had worked briefly as the French governess to the children of Franklin and Eleanor  Roosevelt.  She found the position difficult and soon left to join her brothers in San Francisco.  Tony and Elise were married, went to Virginia City, where the first of their five children was born, and opened a bakery.  Back in the Bay Area, Tony worked in a pawnshop and again as a waiter.

Tony’s first entrepreneurial attempt came as he opened an ice business in Redwood City.  When a large ice supplier refused to sell to him, he wisely approached a farmers’ co-op in the Santa Clara Valley who made their own ice.  To secure their assistance he borrowed money to install better equipment and soon had 15 delivery trucks from Menlo Park to Burlingame.  After a few years, he sold out his entire business to his large competitor with the exception of the route in Woodside, a town whose beauty reminded him of Alsace Lorraine.

The Zaepffels rented a home in Woodside on Tripp Road and bought property in the vicinity of Whiskey Hill.  An old barn was torn down and a small store moved to a better location.  Tony developed the property and added a gas station and an ice house.

He hired an assistant, and the older children worked after school and on weekends.  Tony drove the ice truck and called on homes all over Woodside, including ours.  No matter how busy his day, he always made time to sit down for a visit.  When Grandmother took out her purse to pay for the ice, Tony made change from a graying sack of coins fastened with a rubber band.  Before he left, he gave us children a sliver of ice to suck and then showed us how he could whistle through his fingers.

When Tony called on neighbor George Whittel, Mr. Whittel would sometimes pour out schnapps for the two of them.  On one occasion the Whittel’s pet lion took a swipe at Tony, but thanks to his protective leather vest, he was unharmed.  The Zaepffels rememberd seeing Mr. Whittel’s Deusenberg parked in front of the Pioneer Saloon, its owner inside the building as the lion waited in the car, tearing out the upholstery.

My mother often bought the wonderful thistle honey Tony obtained in Los Molinos, near Red Bluff.  In order to travel so far and back in one day, Tony had to leave very early, and he took son Alexis with him.  Alexis remembers being frightened to death on one occasion when Peninsula police pulled them over to examine the contents of the truck.  Alexis was quite relieved when his father showed the jars to contain honey and not the Prohibition contraband the police suspected.

Tony took the whole family to Europe in 1929.  He did not find it necessary to inform his wife until a day or two before departure.  Elise had to scramble to get clothes ready for a family of seven.  On the other end, relatives in Alsace Lorraine were equally surprised to find the large family on their doorstep.  Around home, Tony would occasionally take his brood for drives in a big old touring car complete with jump seats and crystal flower containers.  In the mid thirties, Tony once more surprised the family by moving them from their Woodside cottage to a large home in San Carlos.  I remember visiting there as a child and being amazed at the impressive mansion, its beautiful ceilings hand-painted by a European artist.  It also had two full kitchens.

Tony was a clever, hard working businessman who enjoyed his life and his customers.  He could do all manner of mental arithmetic and at a glance could correctly estimate the board feet in a pile of lumber.  His gas station was the first in Woodside, and later he was to install the first computing gas pumps.  He recounted proudly selling gas to President Herbert Hoover.

The time came to slow down, however, and in 1943 he sold the business to the Holts and bought a ranch in Lake County.  Elise refused to give up the San Carlos home, so they traveled back and forth often. 

Through intelligence and endless effort, Antoine Zaepffel came to a new homeland, reared a fine family, and founded a successful business.  He also enjoyed his life as Tony the Iceman.

Belated Motherhood--First Appeared in the San Francisco Examiner

      Gertrude was not my cup of tea, but she was lonely and a fellow writer.

      And adhesive. 

If you’d allow it, she would attach herself and never let go.  I made duty calls as infrequently as possible.

One afternoon, more than a year before she died, she stared at me over the top of her glasses.

“I’ve decided to tell you something.”

I nodded and wondered how soon I could escape.

“I had a child out of wedlock.”

I hid my surprise as she told the story -- although I couldn’t imagine why she would want to at this late date.

“I was 16 years old, living at home.  And because I was overweight, no one seemed to notice the change in my waistline.  My mother kept making me larger clothes but said nothing.

“I was in my room one evening when the baby was born. My parents came in and Father asked if I wanted to marry Tom.

“I said no, and that very night my daughter went to a childless couple in our community.  My (younger) sister never even knew about it.”

I was flabbergasted.

“Did you see your daughter again?”

“We moved to Florida soon after, but I had a good friend who kept tabs on her for me,” the old woman said.  “A couple of months ago she wrote that both adoptive parents were dead.  I felt that I could now make contact.  I got up my courage and made the call.

“My daughter answered the telephone.  I asked if she was aware of her adoption, and she said ‘yes.’  I told her that I was in a position to put her in touch with her mother should she wish it.

“There was along pause. Then she asked in a quiet voice, ‘Are you my mother?’

“I swallowed hard, trying not to cry, and said ‘yes.’”

The daughter was by now 63 years old.

“What took you so long?” she asked, and I could hear the tears in her voice.”

As the months went by, the saga continued.  It made visiting Gert a lot more interesting.  Mother and daughter –- one 80 years old, the other 64 -– began telephoning each other and became friends of sorts.

Gertrude had been a teacher of creative writing.  Oddly, so had her daughter.

After a year of calls and letters, the daughter asked if she might travel west to see her.

I happened to drop by that afternoon and found Gert in a quandary.

I asked, “Don’t you want to meet her?”

“Of course,” she said. “But then I’ll have to tell my son about her.”

She eventually told her son.  The daughter finally arrived.

The visit was not a success.  She supposed her daughter was nice enough, But Gert wasn’t jumping up and down. 

Gert at long last told her younger sister about the existence of the daughter.  The sister, who had two unmarried children living with partners, was furious.  She said that Gert had done a terrible thing six decades ago to their parents.

But Gert said that what really miffed her sister was being left out of the secret all those years.

On the other hand, Gert’s son and his new sister hit it off.

After she returned to her life in the Midwest, the daughter would call her elderly birth mother occasionally, but Gert suspected that her daughter and her son were talking more often.

She was jealous.

Costumes for Everyone--Even Bears

     Costumes are fun, especially at Halloween.  When we were children, I remember lengthy discussions about what we were going to be that year.  I don’t know why we bothered.  In our house, we were always clowns.  Because there were four of us, Mother kept recycling the same costumes.

     I have always liked to dress up---at any time. I recall suggesting to my own little family that we acquire bear costumes for our summer trips to the Sierras.  Other motorists might have enjoyed seeing a car move down the highway with Daddy and Mama Bear in the front seat, their cubs in the back.

     We have a friend, George, who has never gotten over the pleasure of make-believe.  For any occasion, and especially for Halloween, he dons costumes to amuse the children in his family.  Over the years he has been many things—Miss Piggy, a bee, a lion, a striking viking, Energizer Bunny, a turkey.  Even a broken building after that terrible earthquake.  His favorite is a gorilla suit which he once wore crossing the Bay Bridge.  The toll-taker feigned boredom.

     George recently visited friends at Tahoe who were still gasping over an uninvited visitor who had just left.  The host said that he had looked across the table at his two small grandchildren and saw their eyes open wide.  He followed the direction of their gaze.  There in the kitchen was a bear, standing on his hind legs and dipping into the bowl of fruit which the family was to have for dessert.

     His heart almost stopped, but a moment later he remembered.  George was due to arrive at about that time and had undoubtedly decided to give the children a pre-Halloween surprise.  But then the bear dropped to all fours and turned in his direction.  It was not George.

     As calmly as he could, he whispered to the children to go upstairs and stay there.  For once, they obeyed.

     He quietly approached the bear and motioned to it to leave.  The bear obliged and retraced its steps down the hallway and out the front door.  When the host slammed the door, the bear must have realized it had been hoodwinked.  With delicious odors wafting from the kitchen, it banged and pounded on the door, then tore off the outside screen.  It walked around the house, hitting windows, but it fortunately was unable to operate the sliding glass doors.  After pacing back and forth on the porch, it sat on a chaise to wait the human inhabitants out.

     Everyone was shaken by the experience.  The forest rangers came and baited a trap for what they considered to be a friendly bear, the most dangerous of all.

     If our friend George had chosen that day to amuse the children, I wonder what that bear would have thought to enter a house and see a gorilla or Miss Piggy sitting at the table.  I also wonder what George will be this Halloween.

Angels that I Met on High (First Appeared in the Contra Costa Times)

     I was on my way to heaven when I met three angels.  They may have saved my life.  They certainly saved my car.

     My son and his wife live high in the hills above a San Francisco Peninsula valley.  Their home is on a rocky knoll where they can almost reach out and touch the clouds.  On a clear day, they can see five bridges.

     It’s a long trek up the mountain, and there are two ways to do it.  One route goes forever past meadows and through canyons, then residential areas, and the road is good.  If you stay alert and watch the road signs, your chances of making it are excellent.

     The other road also climbs interminably but is far more difficult to navigate.  It is substantially a single lane thoroughfare upon which a complicated negotiation ensues if you meet a car coming the other way.  On one side of the road, banks rise steeply.  On the other, the roadside drops abruptly to a meandering creek that becomes a rushing stream in winter.  This road, however, is far more beautiful, hence a more interesting journey.

     All the rain of this winter reminds me of a perilous journey I took on this road some time back when it was plagued with slides.  On the way to visit my family, I made a last minute disastrous decision to opt for beauty.  A big mistake.  The gate across the narrow road was latched back, so naturally I thought the way ahead was clear.

     Shortly after I began the climb, I could see that the road was being repaired. Tractors and earthmovers were parked along the roadside, which made moot any thought of turning around.  My only choice was to proceed.  The high banks on my left were being scraped and sprayed to prevent new slides, and the movement of repair equipment had torn up the surface of the roadbed.  Recent rains had deposited mud at the base of the high banks and spattered it across the pavement.

     I knew I was in trouble as the reconstruction continued, and the road worsened and narrowed.  All I could do was go on.  By this time, I was becoming frightened, and the way had never seemed so long.  On and on I went, endlessly upward, until finally the last gate loomed ahead, a beacon marking the end of my ordeal.

     I put on the brake, got out of my car and approached the gate.  A chain and padlock secured the portal—an appalling betrayal on the part of the company doing the repairs.  And there I was, at the top of a torn-up narrow road with mud on one side and the sloping creek bank on the other.  For some reason, my cell phone would not work.

     All I could do was to start backing down the several twisting miles I had just painfully traversed.  It was almost impossible to make much progress with my foot on the brake as I tried to stay on the road.  About fifteen minutes and one-quarter mile later, I saw a car coming up behind me.

     I got out and explained our predicament to the three women inside.  Together we decided that there was a slight chance of turning a little farther down, and I begged them not to go off and leave me alone.  After many back and forth maneuvers they finally succeeded in pointing their compact downhill.  Then it was my turn.

     Those three angels stationed themselves around my car and literally inched me around.  I could never have made it without them.  Shaking with relief, I got out of my car to thank them.

     They nodded, but no one smiled.  Then one of them said quietly, “I knew there was a reason we drove up here today.”

Cruising Down the River

     Our cruise ship was a great place for character study, and there were a few characters on board the ship.  Never mind that those people were forming similar opinions of us.

     Three of our family were on a Swiss river boat cruising from Budapest to Amsterdam, the culmination of months of planing that our family group would sail those rivers and canals and see the sights along the way.

     Our first impression of our fellow passengers was one of incredible senility and that everyone else was far older than we.  As we met them, people began to grow younger, and by the end of the cruise they seemed positively juvenile.

     Almost everyone had a story, some more interesting than others.  As the days passed, we heard many of them, and those we didn’t hear, someone in our party had.  The ones I liked most were the romances. 

Several honeymooning couples were aboard.  One pair found each other after marriages of almost half a century were over.  It was wonderful to see their quiet pleasure in each other. 

     Another couple of newly-weds told of their recent wedding.  They described the ceremony in which their combined seventeen grandchildren preceded them down the aisle, the little boys in navy blazers and the girls in matching flowered dresses.

     One somewhat younger couple seemed happy enough together, but the lady confided that if she had it to do over again, she wouldn’t.  His three teenage daughters made her life a misery, and she would forego the pleasure of his company to dispense with theirs.

     One attractive lady with a highly developed southern accent chewed gum and displayed an inordinate amount of cleavage.  This love of decolletage extended to sweaters, tee shirts, and dresses.  Her husband, a retired pilot, liked to talk about his landings.  It interested us the first time, but after that the subject paled. 

     We observed the unusual friendship of two older ladies.  One had a bad ankle and was somewhat physically dependent upon the other.  The second woman, ever solicitous, complained bitterly whenever she could escape.  She had bought her own ticket, but the first one treated her like a paid companion—-expecting her to fetch and carry on command.  In the cabin they shared, the old curmudgeon would not allow the doormat to turn on the lights and refused to share even one of her three clocks with the poor slave who had forgotten hers.

     Then we had the Texan and the Trophy.  He was a balding, middle-aged man given to wearing ten-gallon hats.  She looked twenty years younger, thanks to a superb facelift and a great hair job.  She liked form-fitting garments and bought a new sweater at every port—-purchases much appreciated by male passengers.

     We all avoided Jack the Rapper.  He talked incessantly and woe unto the one whose attention he captured.  He ranted on, hands waving in air as the unfortunate listener suffered.  We were surprised to learn that he was a psychiatrist.  His patients must have found their sessions unhelpful as he did the talking and they sat and listened.

     Few people smoked, but one section of the bar was reserved for those who did.  One of the most unlikely devotees was a dear white-haired lady who, as she sipped a martini, liked to tell about her childhood on the farm and her horse named Dick.

     Sightseeing often curtailed shopping time, much to the chagrin of many of the ladies on board.  The average male passenger preferred to find a sidewalk café to enjoy the native brew.  One husband could not elude his wife and sat forlornly in a front corner of the store while his bride made her purchases.  He looked at us sadly and pleaded, “Please buy me and take me out of here.” 

     The crew afforded us an opportunity to speculate.  Every woman on board admired the handsome young captain and wanted to take him home for a spinster daughter.  Some of the ladies thought he and the cruise director would make a pair.  Their husbands did not find that a subject of interest.

     The sightseeing was spectacular along the way.  Wonderfully preserved walled cities of medieval days with Disneyesque moated castles vied in fascination with storybook towns often photographed and painted for Christmas card scenes.  Guides pointed out ruins and spewed forth more history than we could absorb.  They took us to cathedrals dating back to the tenth century and threw about dates of events even older.

     Jet-lagged and weary, we arrived home to a mountain of accumulated letters, bills, magazines, and junk mail.  Our clothes were dirty, the refrigerator was empty, and the garden cried for attention.  Within a day or two we were restored enough to think back on our trip and all we had seen.  We also smiled at the memory of our fellow passengers.

The Gift Horse Had Cavities

At a recent charity event, my neighbor Lynn won THE primary door prize: A weekend at a cabin in the Sierras, and I was one of three friends she invited to go along.

We could hardly wait for the date to roll around.  We’re all pals and relished the thought of being together for three whole days.  We planned to hike and swim and just loll and read in the comfort of our alpine retreat.

Lynn got the key from the generous owner, a San Francisco businesswoman who described the cabin as rustic.   She told us how to operate the burglar alarm and gave directions on how to get there. 

After a three-hour drive we found the house and saw what we had expected.  A mountain cabin in the pines with an inviting porch.  The inside was another story.  It was a disaster.  One look and we wondered how we could last through a whole weekend.  My first impression was that we had arrived at the home of the Addams family and that Morticia would appear any minute.  Or maybe Lurch.

We had thought it would be an old cabin with tired furniture, but a dirty old cabin was not in our plans.  Cobwebs festooned walls and ceilings, some with hard-working spiders spinning away inside.  King-sized ants marched around the bathroom and few reacted to the insect repellent we sprayed on them.  The bathroom fixtures were rusted, the mirrors mottled.  Tattered draperies hung unevenly from occasional hooks in the living room.

To judge by the stuff that crowded every shelf, corner, and closet, the cabin had been in the owner’s family for generations.  It looked as though anyone who had anything he didn’t want drove it to the mountains to molder and die. 

We took our own sheets, so we were sure of that much.  The blankets, however, emitted clouds of dust as we made the beds.  As a matter of fact there was an inch of dust on everything.

It was hard to understand how anyone could donate the use of her home and not clean it up--a little anyway.  We decided that the owner wanted to appear generous at the charitable event and didn’t care about the comfort of his guests.

It never dawned on us to go to a motel.  We liked the idea of making our own breakfast coffee and lunchtime sandwiches, after scouring the counters, of course.  Good restaurants within walking distance supplied our dinners.

We walked among the pines, lazed on the porch, visited friends, and inspected the shops.  Most of our cabin time was spent outside on the porch where we laughed and giggled over the bridge table and everything else.  I stopped laughing when the bridge scores were totaled and I owed the most money---$2.95.  This, of course, had no correlation to my skill.

When it was time to shake the dust from our things and go home, we searched out the cleaning equipment.  The only broom must have been a wedding gift to the owner’s grandmother.  We found it hard to sweep with only an inch or two of straw.  We folded the lint-filled blankets but left the spider webs for the next tenant’s pleasure.

I think we were all glad to leave, but I don’t know when we’d had more fun.  All anyone needs is good friends, good food, and a sense of humor.  Were you to ask if we would go back, at this moment I’d have to say, no, but then, maybe we would.

A Different Kind of Bedroom (First Appeared in the San Francisco Chronicle)

One night two weeks ago I slept in a strange bed in a strange place.  I was not entirely alone.                                  

At a recent check-up, I had told my physician that I was often so tired that I could fall asleep in a room filled with people and be out for an hour.  She did not make the point, bless her heart, that as we mature, being tired is part of the picture.  Instead, she asked how I slept at night.  When I replied, “Not well,” she recommended that I have a sleep study.  I did, and it turned out to be a rare experience.

Sleep centers are a relatively new addition to the medical landscape. They have sprung up in many communities to help diagnose sleep problems that once went undetected.  More and more, young medical school graduates are turning to this specialty.

I had to wait six weeks for an appointment, and following directions, I arrived at the sleep facility about 9:00 P.M. with my nightie and toothbrush.  The technician led me to a cozy bedroom complete with T.V. and reading lamp.  I had just returned the day before after a long flight from afar and was so jet-lagged that all I wanted was to crawl into that inviting bed and pass out.  It occurred to me that given my condition, the study might not be valid, but my greatest wish was to get it over with.

I was no sooner under the covers with my eyes half-closed when the technician reappeared with an array of plugs, wires, and belts which she proceeded to attach to my head, neck, chest, abdomen, one leg, and one finger.  These electroids would monitor brain waves, respiration, and movement of my limbs.  The leg and finger attachments were to measure blood saturation.  She told me that I could turn from side to side but that I must not roll around completely or I would be all wound in wires.  Under ordinary circumstances I could never have slept, but with my sleep deprivation from travel plus the time changes, I declined the sleeping pill and was gone immediately.

The next thing I knew, it was 1:00 A.M., and the young woman reappeared with a nose mask and more wires.  She explained that the mask would force pressurized air into my nose, and that results from this part of the study would be compared with those recorded without the mask.  I was too tired to care what she was doing and fell asleep again.

It seemed like a minute later she was back to inform me that it was 5:00 A.M. and that I could go home.  I could have slept several hours more right where I was, but I dressed and drove out into the pre-dawn darkness to return to my own bedroom.

The bad news came about a week later.  It seems that I have S.A., Severe Apnea, (alas, not Sex Appeal).  Apnea is a condition where one stops breathing, or as the dictionary defines it, transient cessation of respiration.  It is the “not breathing” part that could, in extreme cases, send one into a permanent sleep.

Last Friday, I appeared at the sleep center to be fitted for my very own sleep mask.  The technician spent nearly an hour explaining the operation of the new apparatus that now rests next to my bed.  The prospect of attaching myself to cords and wires for the rest of my life does not thrill me, but I have little choice.  I should like to continue breathing.

My dear husband passed away nearly three years ago, so, mercifully, he will be spared the sight of his aging bride with her new appliance.  In addition to the mask I also wear a little boudoir cap to save my hair-do, and a mouth guard to keep me from grinding my teeth.  I have no desire to remarry, and for sure, now I never can.

The New Hire

Last night for all of two hours I was part of a Silicon Valley internet company.

A few days ago my son’s wife, Karen, called to say that her spouse was working on the east coast and would not make it home for her company party.  She asked me to be her date.  Of course I said yes, though I couldn’t imagine why she would want to take her aged mother-in-law.  The event was to be at a hot new place in the San Francisco warehouse district, and she thought I’d like it.

I needed directions and called information for the number of the restaurant.  A man answered my ring, and I asked how to get to their establishment from the East Bay.

“You can’t get here from there,” he told me.

I gasped and he called a co-worker to the telephone who said I must be crazy to drive so far.  It turned out I’d called a pizza parlor with a similar name. 

I finally got the right number and received good directions from a man who saw no problem in getting there—-even from the East Bay.

When I got to the restaurant, my gray-white hair drew the immediate interest of a hundred and twenty-five young people, all in their twenties and thirties.  They probably couldn’t figure out why I was there, but they welcomed me.  The group was an energetic combination of computer whizzes, engineers, and business minds who had arrived in the Bay Area from all over the country to take part in the internet phenomenon and make a million dollars.  They had come to the party to have fun, but I noticed that quite a few of the guys did not have dates. 

I know that those young men are far too busy for a big social life.  Most of them arrive early in the day and occasionally work far into the night.  Some evenings they break about ten, roller-blade to McDonald’s for dinner, then return to the office to play computer games for a few minutes’ relaxation.

One twenty-eight year old business type told me it wasn’t true that there weren’t enough women to go around down in the valley.  He said that he was doing fine and that if anyone was having trouble, it had to be the engineers.  The engineers would probably say it was guys in sales.

As the evening progressed, we moved among the throng.  In one conversation I explained that I was a teacher turned writer.  The eyes of a young man lit up.  “We need writers,” he said and turned to my daughter-in law who is sometimes a recruiter.  “What do you think?” 

She looked at me speculatively.  “Maybe,” she said, “if we can get her to brush up on her internet skills.”  (I don’t always read my Email).

I thought about it all the way home and decided it was time I got a real job.

I may be moving from the East Bay to the Silicon Valley where it’s all happening.  But first I’ll try a little Miss Clairol.  Then I’ll buy the roller blades.

And I will not call a pizza parlor for driving directions.

Back in the Good Young Days

                It was fun to be young in San Francisco a long time ago. I drove by the old Coliseum Theatre on Clement Street the other day and felt a pang of sadness at the sight of that boarded-up derelict.  The Col once enjoyed the delighted patronage of neighborhood children on Saturday afternoons.  To be old enough to join friends and plunk down our dimes for admission was a coveted step in maturation.  Our mother occasionally supplied an extra nickel for the frozen chocolate-covered bananas we bought in the little shop next door.

     A dear uncle was always thinking of special treats for my brothers and me.  I think our most favorite was when he took us to Playland at the Beach to ply the slides at the Fun House and drive the little cars at the Red Bug.

     Because we lived nearby, Golden Gate Park became our playground.  The boys played football, baseball, and soccer after school in those wonderful meadows and fields.  One time my ten year old brother nearly went over the waterfall at Prayer Book Cross and had to be pulled to safety by his older sibling.  The museums, the aquarium, and the tea garden were ours to explore on Saturday mornings while our shepherd Jeff waited outside. 

     At Presidio Junior High we girls began to notice the boys, although I think I had my eye on them all along, and loved the dances where we could watch an adorable drummer by the name of Johnny.  The captain of the traffic squad once invited me to the policeman’s ball and although not a real date, it was a kind of coup.

     On Wednesday afternoons, a group of us would rent horses at the St. Francis Riding Academy on Seventh Avenue.  The instructor took us out on the bridal paths of Golden Gate Park or put us through our paces in an indoor ring.  I was actually nervous about horses and only went because one of my best friends was wild about them.  My first date occurred when she chose to go riding one Friday night and told her beau to take me instead.  We went to Topsy’s At The Beach for dinner, a divine place with slides from the balcony down to the dance floor.  I remember ordering coffee which I detested in order to appear more grown-up.

     An exceedingly pleasant evening during teenage and college years was hotel dancing.  For the price of a few cokes, which in those meant cola, we danced the night away to the dreamy music of Freddie Martin, Carmen Cavallero, and Ernie Hecksher.  When it was time to go home, the lights dimmed and the band played Good Night Sweetheart.

     We didn’t have TV, computers, or even a refrigerator in those days, but I wouldn’t trade the memories of my youth for all the VCRs and video games in the USA.  Perhaps the years have cast a rosy glow over those years, but I don’t think so.  They were wonderful days.

Sudoku (First Appeared in the San Francisco Chronicle)

Sudoku puzzles have ruined my life.  They have robbed me of my leisure, my creativity, and my peace of mind.  The worst part is that I’m not very good at them.

Months ago when I first zeroed in on the Sudoku puzzle on the back page of the Datebook, I glanced at it and quickly decided I didn’t have time for such nonsense.  I had enough with Cryptoquips and crossword puzzles, let alone paying the bills and doing my housework.  When I learned that several people I admire were doing them as part of their daily routine, I realized there might be pleasure involved. 

As time went on and against my better judgment, I tried a few columns of Sudoku but with little success.  I might have done better if the squares were much larger and didn’t get all smeary as I erased.  I pushed the paper to one side, but I noticed that my eyes lingered on those little boxes, as my brain struggled with a whole new concept.

I understood the general premise that one must use numbers one through nine, usually non-consecutively, in every row across, in every row down, and in each of the nine blocks of nine squares.  The problem was that if it worked one way, it probably wouldn’t work the other, or in the little blocks.  It all seemed too complicated to bother with, so I went back to my beloved Cryptos.

One day a few weeks ago I was in a bookstore and saw a display of books on Sudoku.  I browsed through one on the top of the pile and opened to the chapter that said, “How to Begin.”  In those few minutes I learned two important things:  Always start with a block that has the most numbers already inscribed and NEVER GUESS.  That was my big breakthrough.  Until then I was throwing in any number I thought might work.  Someone told me that as a neophyte I should begin with one star puzzles that appear in the early part of the week and gradually try the harder ones. 

Unfortunately, I had two perfect days, and that did it.  I was hooked.  I soon discovered that I was still a long way from knowing how to do it.  I have not repeated my earlier coups and have wasted too many hours trying.

First I try juggling numbers in each block, then in each row across, and finally in each row down.  On the first round I may only find one or two numbers that fit, then I start the whole procedure again.  It’s gotten to be such a challenge that should I wake in the middle of the night, I flip on the bedside lamp, put on my glasses, and work another hour.

The biggest drawback is that the alteration to my daily routine has encroached on other facets of my life.  It has smothered my creativity by filling that time with play.  I would also like to read more, but how can I when those tempting little squares are calling?  I try to justify continuing because of vital medical messages in newspapers and magazines in which we are told the importance of mind-challenging games and puzzles to hold dementia at bay.  Every time I question the validity of such time wasters, I remember that I may be doing myself a favor by imbibing in them. 

I could probably cut down on my Sudoku time by learning the correct techniques or by consulting my genius friends.  As the very least, I may break down and go back to the store to buy a how-to book.

The Terrorist (First Appeared in the San Francisco Chronicle)

I am living with a terrorist.  There may even be a whole cell of them.  My enemy remains mostly invisible; he does his damage and disappears before I can confront him.

We have been in our house for fifty years, and early on we erected a tall chain-link fence to curtail the unneighborly activities of our German shepherd, Fritzie.  All this time we have raised flowers, shrubbery, and vegetables without interference.  Lately things have changed.

In the past month I had six new rose bushes planted on a sunny bank near my bedroom.  I happened to be away at the time and returned to find the vegetation in place but looking bedraggled.  The landscape man called that evening to find out how I liked the pink roses he had selected.  “What roses?” I asked, and the truth hit us both.  He said, “Oh, no.”  I said, “Oh, yes.”

     He came over the next day, and we traipsed all around the perimeter of my small acreage to look for breaks in the fence. I mentioned that I suspected the deer were probably getting in by jumping over the fence, high as it was.  The logical way to handle it, he suggested, would be to add six foot extensions to the existing stakes, three feet above the fence line and three feet below and wired into place.  Then we would stretch a visible wire in between to foil the high jumpers.  In the meantime we found a couple of narrow openings along the fencing which he covered with new screening.  Good, I thought.  We’ve got those nasty critters.

     That evening I was sitting in my den which looks out onto a lighted patio.  I glanced away from “Law and Order” for a moment and there, staring at me through the sliding glass door was a large deer.  I looked at him and he looked at me.  I could almost read his lips as he said, “O.K., sister, this is war.”  Then he sniffed, tossed his head, and sauntered off.

     We also have a small enclosed area off our kitchen.  Last year I planted two glorious roses, which I could admire as I washed the dishes.  This year they have not been pretty—-only an occasional flower and nothing more.  After my nocturnal visitor of the previous evening, I went out to examine the kitchen garden, and hoof prints told me what I had to know.  The nurseryman said that if a fence is too high for deer to leap over, they sometimes go beneath. I found a place on the upper bank where our dear dog had excavated and pulled off the bottom boards of an inner gate.  I decided that for the present it was simpler to roll over a big log to block that entrance.  If the deer are going under somewhere else, chicken-wire can be added to the fence and pegged into the ground.  Pegs may be dowels or small sticks hammered down and nailed to the fencing.

     The next day I climbed up on our back hill to look for signs of suspicious behavior and found none.  What I did see on the other side of the fence were two deer, glaring at me.  I hid behind a big bush to watch their movements, but they seemed to know I was still there.  After waiting ten minutes, I gave up.  They were not going to reveal their secret entry while I was present.

     Summer is over, and the deer are coming out of the hills in droves.  I bought twenty yards of anti-terrorist deer netting to cover my roses, although bird netting would also have worked.  Unfortunately, I have problems with this remedy.  One rose blossomed and stuck its head through the mesh.  I went out with my clippers and was able to reach underneath to cut the stem.  The flower itself had grown through the netting and was so thoroughly imbedded that I could not free it.  The netting also gets caught on the thorns, so pruning will present a problem.  It may be that the roses will bloom but remain unattainable.  The deer won’t get to the roses, and neither will I.

Most nurseries recommend barrier sprays as the best solution to invading deer.  With rain and sprinklers often washing them away almost as soon as they are applied, it is necessary to spray frequently.  Remembering to do it is the problem.  They won’t work for my new roses, however, because that particular area is irrigated by automatic rain-birds.  There is no point in spraying, and I am not about to change to a different kind of sprinkler.

Whatever one plants, it is wise to spray immediately with a liquid anti-deer product to give the new growth a chance.  Gardening books often contain lists of deer-resistant plants with the caveat that deer-resistant does not mean deer-proof.  Among other blooming plants, deer seem to detest daffodils and salvia but find hydrangeas and azaleas delicious.  Whatever the vegetation, deer sometimes try to eat it, only to discover they don’t like it.  Occasionally, a few ornery ones just pull the plants out.

Almost everyone has a favorite preventative:  nylon stockings filled with human hair, garlic chips, tiger urine(if you happen to have a tiger), human urine sprayed on cinder blocks, blood meal, motion detectors, sprinklers, home-made sprays (a mélange of eggs, milk, and hot sauce for one), plot-saver tape, or special deer fences.  Best of all is a good dog.

The war continues.  The terrorists may strike again, but when they come, I hope our improved homeland security will be in place.