Perfect Happens...

Today was a perfect day. It was sunny and warm here at the beach. I always wonder, as I awaken in the morning, if there will be fog. And today? There wasn't any.

It was a fun day, too. Breakfast at Kitty's Kitchen. Sitting by Morro Rock, enjoying the view. Walking along the beach, finding seashells, watching the surfers, and feeling the sand between my toes. There wasn't a cloud in the sky.

And then, traveling by car down to Avila Beach. Another walk in the sunshine, meandering in and out of cute little shops. And what did we buy? An ant. A metal ant, about four inches long and an inch and a half tall. Why? It looks like an ant and it tickled my fancy. That's why.

By the time we got to Pismo Beach, it became obvious that each little seaside town had its own flavor. Morro Bay is a fishing village, with things for tourists to do. Pismo is all about tourists, I think. And it has a “younger” vibe than Morro Bay.

After walking on the pier, it was time for lunch. The Splash Cafe was great: they made more than 18,000 gallons of clam chowder last year, according to the information on the menu. And, on the busiest days, they serve more than 20 gallons of it. Their specialty is clam chowder in a bread bowl. So, what did he have? A chili cheese dog. I did have the seafood salad....

The last stop of the day was San Luis Obispo. We walked along the streets in the downtown area, admiring the amazing architecture, then went to see the mission. San Luis Obispo de Tolusa is in downtown SLO, by a small river. After touring the mission museum, and admiring the gardens, we walked across the river and, for the price of a bottle of water, enjoyed sitting in the shade in the outdoor dining area by the river.

On the trip back to Morro Bay, we stopped for an ice cream cone at McDonald's. It was a refurbished Mickey D's with a safari theme. Murals on the walls, “leopard skin” upholstery, and the requisite play area. A great place to people watch, for sure. As we sat and enjoyed our ice cream, I took a moment to text my son and let him know we were enjoying shirt sleeve weather. He texted back that it had been 71 in Podunk today, too.

That's good....

And then? Sunset, of course. Sitting in a restaurant on the Embarcadero in Morro Bay, sipping an adult beverage, enjoying the view out on the bay. Could things have been any better? Well, we ordered a bowl of clam chowder and one dinner: petrale sole, lightly breaded, with capers, and rice pilaf.

Dinner came on two plates: each with two filets of fish, and servings of rice and steamed vegetables. Hmmmmm....dinner for two, paid for one. How cool is that? And then, of course, another walk along the Embarcadero to work off our dinner.

Now, it might be fun to go to Paris, or Rome, or Hawaii. It might be great to see the Great Wall of China. Or go on a cruise. I hope to do all those things, someday. But for right now, today, I had the privilege of enjoying a perfect day, with truly perfect weather, and the very best company ever.

What more could I possibly ask for or want?

Nothing, of course....

Pancakes....

It's Saturday. I fixed pancakes this morning for breakfast. Pancakes and Saturday morning: they go together, don't you think? At least, they always have at my house.

Saturday morning, the little ones in their jammies, watching Tom and Jerry or Porky Pig and his friends. Pancakes, bacon, orange juice and maybe, scrambled eggs. Afterward, we started the day's activities.

As I was cooking the pancakes this morning, I thought about a time, long ago, when I was fixing pancakes over a campfire in Morro Bay State Park. I was there with my husband and my three small children, another couple from our church, and about a thousand teenagers.

Well, maybe there were only about 25 or 30 teenagers but, it seemed like a lot more at the time.

We had brought our church youth group to camp at Morro Bay State Park, on the central coast of California, for a weekend of fun and fellowship. And Saturday morning started with pancakes...

Someone else was cooking the eggs and bacon, I was just in charge of the pancakes. Just about the time I thought I was through cooking for all those kids, one of them walked up to me and asked for another pancake. Just one. He just wanted one.

For whatever reason, I decided to make the pancake in the shape of the first letter of his first name. When it was done, I placed it on his plate and he grinned and said “thank you.” As he walked back to his table, I started scraping the griddle, preparing it to be cleaned.

I looked up and was a little bit surprised: almost every kid in camp was in line, waiting for another pancake. A pancake in the shape of the first letter of his or her first name. It was amazing: how could they be hungry for just one more pancake? How could just one more pancake satiate their teenage hunger pains?

Or, did they just want something made specially for them....

Poor Me....

Life is full of curious quirks. Things are not always as bad as they seem. And sometimes, the most dreary day can be full of sunshine.

I was so tired the other morning that I truly didn't want to go to work. I have been working a lot recently and it finally caught up with me. I was dragging. And I knew it was going to be a long day, again.

After rushing around for most of the morning, it was time to go see a patient who lives near where I live. After seeing him, I planned to go home and have lunch. And maybe, put my feet up for a few minutes. Poor me: I have to work too much.

As I arrived at the patient's house, it started sprinkling. I looked at all the things on his lawn as I walked up to the front door. I guess the only way to describe it would be to say there were started projects, gardening projects, everywhere. And nothing was finished.

I knocked on the front door, and then opened it. He knew I was coming and he left the door unlocked for me. I started calling his name as soon as I was inside and told him it was me. The house is so small, I only had to take a few steps to round the corner and be in his sight.

He was in his bedroom, sitting in a chair. He was doing his nebulizer breathing treatment, hunched over in the chair. I gently reminded him to sit up straight so his lungs would inflate more fully with the treatments. He silently complied.

There was no sparkle in his eyes. He was ashen and his eyes looked glassy, as a child's eyes do when he has a fever. I touched his hand and it was clammy. His bedroom window was wide open and the fan was running on “high” in the corner of his room.

He started to say something and I waved him off: “finish your treatment, then we'll talk.” He went back to taking deep breaths with the mouthpiece perched in the middle of his beard. His breathing was audible, stertorous, but unlabored.

When he was finished with the treatment, I checked his vital signs: no fever, normal blood pressure, and adequate oxygenation. Although his skin was clammy, he said he felt like he was “on fire” and took off his sweatshirt. I helped him get it over his head.

He said he wasn't feeling well. He hadn't eaten much in the last couple of days. His caregiver has a sick child and hadn't been to see him today. He was fixing his own meals: a can of soup, heated on the stove, once or twice a day. He said he didn't want any more to eat than that.

“No, not much” was his response when I asked him if he was having any pain. His only “pain” he said, was trying to breathe. Forty years of smoking had rendered this formerly robust and energetic man into a nearly helpless invalid, fighting for each breath. “I would rather be dead than keep living like this....” was his bleak pronouncement to me.

I don't know why, but I asked him what he had done for a living, before he retired. He started telling me about his life.....serving in the Navy......living in Bakersfield......the store he owned......his kids....His face lit up and the sparkle was back in his eyes.

I stayed a lot longer than I should have, but I simply couldn't leave. He had things to tell me, and I wanted to hear them. He was talking a lot, so I checked his oxygenation again, just to be sure I wasn't wearing him out. It was fine. And, when I touched his finger to put the pulse oximeter on it, it wasn't clammy anymore.

Finally, as his caregiver arrived to make his lunch, I told him that I needed to leave. He thanked me for letting him talk and I thanked him for sharing his stories with me. His face was no longer so very pale and his breathing was much less labored.

“Have a great day, Kiddo....!” he told me as I left. As I walked back out into the front yard, it had stopped raining. The sun was shining.....

For both of us.

Setting the Stage....

Yesterday was a busy day. It started fairly early and ended very late. In fact, I was sitting at my daughter's table, in another town, talking about worldly things, sipping Turkish coffee, at eleven o'clock at night. Well, others were drinking Turkish coffee; I was drinking cardamom tea.

Earlier in the day, I delivered some furniture to a long-time friend and fellow antiques dealer. I hadn't spoken to her for a few years when she called me a couple of weeks ago. She had been to Sylvia's shop and knew I sold some of my antiques. She wondered if I had anything else to sell.

And so, yesterday morning, I delivered the things she purchased from me. I was excited to see her new apartment. Well, she has been there for two years now, but I hadn't seen it before. It was lovely. Sort of.

The walls are all painted a lovely pale taupe, with white ceilings and beige carpeting. Her furniture is all white, with white-on-white accents. It is reminiscent of French country, or Shabby Chic. And it is quite feminine.

Absolutely nothing was out of place. Each tabletop tableau was perfectly positioned, strikingly beautiful, and recently dusted. The open floor plan allowed me to peek into the kitchen, with its decidedly country feel. Red and white transfer ware perched on an antique scale. An old carpenter's carryall filled with antique jars holding cooking staples.

Nearly a dozen white candle holders occupied the dining room table; fitted with white candles and adorned with crystal vines. I am sure they must be a dazzling sight at night, with the candles lit.

But, that's the problem: the candles are rarely lit. All the frou-frous on the dining room table are never in the way: no meals take place there. The dishes on the antique scale never grace the table, never are laden with a home-cooked meal, and never need to be washed.

There are no books, piled randomly on tables, or the floor, by a comfortable reading chair. In fact, the reason I sold her the two chairs was because they are so uncomfortable to sit in, although they are lovely to view.

As I stood up to leave, I felt that I should plump the pillow I leaned against and straighten the cushion on the sofa. I had disturbed the vignette, mussed up the setting, so to speak. And I realized: her apartment is a stage, set to present a play. Life is to be acted, thoughts scripted and lines memorized.

And so, she lives in her own little world. Beautifully appointed, almost to excess in most cases, and lives out her days in her own chosen surroundings. She has no car, little income, and two “new” French Provincial chairs....

Quite a contrast from last night: sitting around a simple, unadorned table, talking about whatever interested all of us, enjoying refreshments and good company.

Nothing in my daughter and son-in-law's condo is “off limits” or unusable. Chairs are comfortable and inviting. The walls are lined with bookshelves. The table is a place for eating meals and lingering over Turkish coffee.

And life is not scripted...

Thoughts About Noise...

Noises are funny. Well, sometimes they are.....

Some noises startle us, and others are soothing. For those of us who are lucky, life is full of noise. If I had to choose between losing my sight or losing my hearing, I would opt to give up my sight. I have beautiful memories of sunsets, sunrises, my children, my grandchildren, my parents and all those I love. All those pictures occupy my mind. Forever.

But noises are different. Although I hear them, and they are familiar, I don't carry them in my mind the way I do pictures. Hearing certain noises evokes those pictures in my mind. Hearing them again and again strengthens the memories.

Part of my comfort level is knowing what the sounds are that occupy my space with me: the screech of the screen door in the kitchen, the beep-beep-beep-beep of the alarm system when the door is opened. The monotonous, droning complaints of the washing machine as it cleans my clothes, the hum of the dryer as it dries them, and the buzzer when it is finally through.

The unmistakable clank of the mail slot, as the mail drops through, followed by the incessant barking of Miss Cinnamon, announcing that the mail person has invaded her space.

I remember sitting at my kitchen table, talking to my mother, when there was a sudden racket from down the hall. She was startled by the noise and wondered aloud: “what was that?” I smiled and told her not to worry, it was just my little boys dumping their Legos on their bedroom floor. It was a new noise for her, but a very familiar one for me.

As I walk through this house, the hardwood floors squeak. I have been told, by countless visitors, how to make the floors stop squeaking but, I have only one question: why would I want to do that? It's hard to be lonely when the floors talk to you. And they tell me when someone is walking towards me, too. I like that. I startle easily and I guess the floors know that.

Some sounds leave me with mixed emotions. I heard rain on the roof last night. It's always nice to realize that we are warm and safe in our beds when it's pouring rain, I think. But, I am working today, so rain means getting wet and cold. And that's not so comforting.

And it seems to me that attitude affects sounds, just as the rain affects me. Some people wake up angry because the person next to them is snoring. Others of us are just glad to hear someone else breathing, close by.

Sometimes we are mortified by the sounds that emanate from our bodies, and hope that no one noticed. Unless, of course, you are a child, and then the “proper” thing to do is announce to anyone who can hear: “I farted!” And, looking at the child's face, there is usually a look of joy and pride in their accomplishment.

Noises.......it's a matter of perception, I guess.

It seems to me that we spend a lot of time tuning out ambient noise, and trying to focus on the tasks at hand. Perhaps it would be better to tune out the task at hand and listen to the noises that surround us.

Right now, I'm hearing the refrigerator hum........and black birds in the backyard.

Rocket Man...

I'm getting things ready for a birthday party, next Wednesday. My son has a birthday on Sunday, but he will be out of town. So, we are celebrating it next Wednesday. All of us, Mom, Dad, stepmom, kids....all of us.

He came to us on Leap Year Day. It was so appropriate: he just doesn't do anything the same way others do it. He's Rocket Man.....Tower of Power. To me, anyway.

Such a sweet little boy, with curly brown hair and chubby cheeks. He liked to draw and did so for hours. He drew a picture once, of a store that sold ice cream. He put his whole family in the picture, too. And the name of the store?

Basket of Robins.....

That's what he thought it was, not Baskin/Robbins. And he didn't need 31 flavors: he liked the ice cream with little pieces of bubblegum in it. I remember well because I got to hold the bubblegum for him as he took it out of his ice cream.

He could write his name when he was three. In fact, he wrote his name, in crayon, on the back window of our station wagon one morning. I had loaded the kids in the car, still in their jammies, to take Daddy to work, so we could have the car for the day.

When I got home, there he was, looking out the back window, and grinning. I decided that the best punishment for writing on the window was to make him clean it off. Mean mother that I was, I made him sit in the back of the car, by himself, and wash the crayon off the window.

I was glued to the kitchen window, keeping a close eye on him. As teenage girls walked by our driveway, heading to school, they would smile and wave at him. He smiled and waved back. I guess what he learned had nothing to do with the consequences for writing on the car window.....

Cute is its own reward.....

He was my middle child, and he had all the middle child issues. His sister was the oldest and his brother was the youngest. He was just the middliest, and that wasn't as cool. Or so he thought...

What he was more than made up for any loss of status when his brother was born. He has always had a way of looking at things that just delights me. I remember in high school, he informed me that his grades were not a reflection of his ability to learn but, more appropriately, a reflection on the teachers' ability to teach.

I think he was right.

He did go to Europe during the summer after his junior year of high school. He was part of a group of students who were studying French and had mastered it well enough to be turned loose in France and try out their language skills.

Lots of years have passed since then. He still has a little bit of curl in his brown hair. His eyes still dance when he is telling a funny story, and he still has a delightful way of viewing the world. He isn't brilliant, wildly successful in the business world, or a highly-paid athlete. He's just my middle child, my Leap Year Baby, and a very nice man.

He's my Rocket Man....