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.