And the Cupboard Was Bare...

...well, not quite.  There IS food at the Berkeley Food Pantry,  but it is flying out the door faster than ever, and the shelves have to be re-stocked constantly with whatever is donated or can be bought with donations.  And the bags we're giving out are lighter.

On Monday, we had 68 households requiring food, a record for my nearly three years of being a Monday volunteer. Sitting at the table checking in clients, I was struck by the desperation many of them radiated, people whose cupboards are really, truly bare. Those of us in the front room, where the clients come, were thanked and blessed many times by people who carried groceries home on bikes, in carts, in roller bags.

I asked one lady, who had blessed us amply,  if we would go to heaven.

"Oh, definitely," she said, graciously. "And we will, too, because we were helped by you."    

Monday volunteers  Pat, Judy, and Maria.





Hanging with the Girls

The girls next door, Leah and Annika, are home for a couple of weeks, and of course I have to rush around and DO things with them while they're here.   Our association dates from 1996, when Leah, age 4+,  appeared at my door with a basket of fruit and her puzzled but obliging mother. She wanted to be friends.  Soon she brought over her older sister, Annika.

Last Tuesday, Annika and I went to the Mission District in San Francisco to look at art galleries.  Which it turns out there are not many of.  The ones we found were in tiny rooms at the back of shops (notably: Gallery Belljar and Needles and Pens, both on 16th St.).  Creativity Explored, also 16th Street, is the SF equivalent of Creative Growth in Oakland, with a nice little gallery.  Paxton Gate, 766 Valencia, is a fascinating shop,of  all things Nature and gardening.   Lunch at Papalote Mexican Grill on 24th Street;  ice cream at the Bi-Rite Creamery at Dolores and 18th.  We walked and walked and WALKED in the hot sun.

On Wednesday, Leah and I drove  to Pt. Reyes, first to Chicken Ranch beach, where we ate sandwiches, then to Abbott's Lagoon for a hike all the way out over the dunes to the ocean. There was an unexpected wall of fog at the ocean, the first we'd seen in an otherwise brilliantly sunny day. Then tea 'n treats at Blackbird in Inverness, a tete-a-tete with a dogsitting friend, and on the way home a stop at Comforts in San Anselmo for take-out Chinese chicken salad.  Then I shamed myself by drinking half a bottle of champagne at their house, while they drank more moderately and talked about Life.

Yesterday we hung out on the sidewalk in front of their house, waiting for Leah's pal Hannah to come and collect  her cell phone, which had gotten waterlogged in the gutter and dried out by Leah in the oven.  Don't ask. 

Sitting out on the sidewalk, waiting for Leah's friend Hannah  to come by.  Why not make the sidewalk your front porch?

Couch Quilt

I'm making a quilt as a wedding present to the couple getting married over Labor Day weekend. The bride chose a quilt she liked from photographs of quilts I've made.  Her favorite by far was one I made in 2000 for friends who live in Inverness, blues and greens and suggestive of nature, which is right up this couple's alley (see detail of quilt, below).

Last night, I finished the horizontal piecing--hurray!--and then had doubts. The groom is very tall.  The bride is also quite tall.

So I e-mailed Scott, the groom, who is beginning his residency in ER medicine at Duke University and about to get married and has a hurricane bearing down on him,  and asked how tall he is.  The answer arrived promptly this morning:  6'4".   The current version is 72" long.

My question: How long does a quilt have to be so that a 6'4" man can take a couch nap with his feet fully covered?

                                                               

The Michelle Obama Dress

Both sizes of the dress have arrived.  See photo below, which  Annika took.  I am wearing the smaller of the two sizes.  Have not tried to sit down in it yet.  Annika strongly encourages me to wear this dress to the wedding.  It is not as comfortable as a long  (dowdy?) skirt.

"Let Me Down Easy"

On Saturday I went to see Anna Deveare Smith's "Let Me Down Easy," at Berkeley Rep for the third time, and I loved it for the third time.  This  last time I inadvertently became a ticket broker when I bought three extra tickets online while being distracted talking to Jerry whether or not he'd be able to go.  No problem re-selling them, though.  And to the ten people who went with me  to one or another of the performances--Laura, Leah, Annika, Lin, Kate, Bob, Pat, Judy, Claudia, and Suzanne:  wasn't it great?

I don't want to write a review of the show;  there are plenty of those online.  I just want to say that each time I felt I was being ushered to the brink of heartbreak--injustice, illness, death--and then it turned out not to be a brink we'd topple over, but a journey Anna Deveare Smith guided us through,  full of richness and truth.  Each time I emerged into the cool foggy Berkeley night feeling so thankful that I'd made the journey and wondering if I could go one more time. But I don't think so.  The show closes on September 4.

Adventures in Retail

First off,  I had no intention of shopping today.  I had to drive a temperamental sewing machine out to Walnut Creek to be fixed and decided to reward myself  with a drink at Starbuck's, which required parking near Macy's.  Then a  little light came on: I'd seen an ad in the newspaper for a  swimsuit sale at Macy's.  I buy swimsuits all the time because they rot after repeated exposure to chlorine, such as my twice-a-week water exercise class.

I quickly shopped the rack of swimsuits  in my size.   Marveled at all the tankinis.  Tried on several one-piece possibilities.  Decided on a swimsuit that was 60% off.  So far, so good.

Here's where it all went wrong:  Someone had left a dress in my size in the dressing room.  It was short and cute, so I tried it on.  Too tight, but I had a Michelle Obama Moment and became entranced with the idea of buying a sleeveless dress for a wedding I'm going to over Labor Day.  Macy's had thousands of them--I do not exaggerate--on a one-day sale.  I bought the swimsuit,  wandered around gathering up an armload of dresses, and returned to the dressing room. 

The dress  I loved, conveniently black-and-white so the pair of heels I share with my sister would coordinate, was too small.  I tried on a much larger size: too big.   Oh, I wanted this dress!  It even had a little embroidered flower detail on one shoulder, very Michelle.  It did reveal quite a bit of untoned upper arm, but  I would cleverly camouflage that  with bronzing cream.  The saleslady gave me a long list of Macy's stores  that had the dress in what I thought would be my size.  I would have to do the calling around myself.

So I came home and called.  On the fourth try, I found the dress at the Beverly Center in Los Angeles. Oh, hurray! I ordered it.  Then I worried that the size would be too small.  I moseyed around online and  found the same dress one size bigger on Overstock.com for $50 less. I ordered that one, too.  Now I'm in the position of hoping I take a larger size so I can get the dress for $50 less than it cost at Macy's.

I am now officially finished with shopping.

A Dose of Doctors

I had two doctor's appointments today, two hours and fifteen minutes apart.  Each lasted less than 10 minutes, but the process took most of the afternoon, driving to the first one, waiting, figuring out something to do between appointments, driving to the next one, waiting,  then driving home.  And the upshot?

1. Watch gum adjacent to recent root canal for any swelling.
2. My overall physical condition is "stable."  Which was not what I was looking for.  The words "healthy" and "fine" come to mind, but that is not what my considerably younger primary care doctor chose. "Stable" says to me, "On the trajectory of late middle age, you're holding your own."

My primary care doctor has precisely cut short hair with the first hints of gray, wears a tidy black pantsuit, and rolls a typing table with a laptop computer on it  into the examining room ahead of her.  She is very cheerful,  but I can almost see her checking off a list in her head titled "Early Geriatric: What to Watch Out For."  She is concerned about the drought in Texas and the dust storms in Phoenix (small talk).  She loves that another doctor recommended ginger tea, which she says is a long-time Chinese remedy.  And I should not be a weenie about getting a shingles shot.

I don't want to be bullshitted about the perils of aging.  Really.  I like that my doctor is sensible and cautious, and  I know there's only one possible end to this story, way down the road, I hope.  On the up side,  I feel as good as I ever have about how my life has gone, and it's getting easier to wring the richness out  of the moments that are dished up.    Even so, that word "stable" gave me a pang.

Toddling Around the Farmer's Market

Just back from the Berkeley Farmer's Market, where I sat in the sun, eating a very large and very delicious chocolate chip cookie (but not INSANELY delicious, so I didn't have to feel that guilty) and  listening to mellow, vaguely medieval music played by a young man with an unidentified stringed instrument.   The music seemed to float out over the crowd, perfect on a summer's day when you're relaxing with a cookie and watching the world pass by.

There were toddlers all over the place: a grubby one in camouflage sweat pants, a fashion-plate little girl with a Louis Vuitton-carrying grandmother, and many proto-typical Berkeley toddlers in mismatched clothes and sun hats. Many of them had a big cookie like mine, and some had an ice cream cone from the upscale ice cream stall.  

A toddler of my acquaintance, Rylan, an  indescribably adorable seventeen-month old, had a medical inning last week that shook up everyone who knew him.  He managed to hit two children's hospitals in two states (he got sick while vacationing) and spiked a fever of 106 degrees.  He had two seizures, which are apparently a child's way of protecting his brain from a high fever.  This was very scary. At my age, I have come to accept a near-chronic angst about people over 50 developing serious illnesses and sometimes dying, but  I am in no way ready for small people at the other end of the spectrum getting very ill.  I had a very uneasy night when I heard this news. 

Rylan has  recovered and is now back to chasing his cat, tearing up newspapers, and knocking around in the world in the way that toddlers do.  I made up a batch of the cinnamon and ginger tea my doctor recommended, which is so soothing that I am tempted to send the recipe to Rylan's mothers:

6 cups of water
2 sticks of cinnamon
1/2 cup very thinly sliced fresh ginger
2 T honey

Simmer for 1/2 an hour and strain.  Drink to calm shattered nerves.

Tour Bus Fantasy

Yesterday, Pat,  a co-volunteer at the Food Pantry mentioned yesterday that she was going to take a discounted Gray Line tour of San Francisco today.  "Oh, me, too!"  I thought.  "I want to go."

Then I thought, hell, this is stupid! I was born in San Francisco and have lived near the city my entire life.  I find tourists there annoying,  underdressed for the weather and a nuisance when they stop dead on sidewalks in front of me to consult maps.

But last week when  I was in  San Francisco to go to a quilt show,  I noticed a red double-decker bus full of tourists on Mission Street, obviously a sightseeing tour.  I was envious.  I want to be driven around and told the history of the city!  I would never do this in Manhattan--way too conspicuously uncool;  I'd rather bumble around by myself.  But in San Francisco, I'd have a free pass, cool-wise, because I'm a native.  As if anybody cares.

I came home and consulted the Gray Line website.  It's $47/adult for a 3-1/2 hour tour; $37 on weekdays.  They take you to Fisherman's Wharf, Chinatown, Coit Tower, Nob Hill, Twin Peaks, Golden Gate Park, and more.   When it got down to the nitty gritty, my fantasy dissipated.  Think of the fog.  Think of the inane patter of the driver over the loudspeaker, the crappy shops and the crowds Fisherman's Wharf.   End of that idea.   Unless Pat gives me an especially good report next week.

Polygamy and Poufs

I've had it with polygamy.   Since Friday, when I bought a copy of Carolyn Jessop's "Escape," I feel as though I've been living the life with her, page after page, pregnancy after pregnancy, with catty sister wives, too many children,  and too few washing machines.  And worst of all, utter submission to "Father," as the husband is known,  he of the clammy, grasping hands, seven wives, and 54 children.  It's a startling, depressing book.

Jessop was a member of the Fundamentalist Church of Jesus Christ of the Latter Day Saints (FLDS), which broke away from the mainstream Mormon church in the early 20th century over "the principle," which holds that polygamy is the way to the highest level of salvation.  The followers live mostly in the western US, Canada, and Mexico.  Jessop lived in Colorado City, Arizona, a town so remote and unhospitable that there are no hotels. Everyone is FLDS.

It's one thing to look photos of FLDS women, with their dowdy pastel prairie dresses and weird pouf hairdo's, and wonder why on earth they'd choose to live that way, but another to read the texture of that life, the infighting and competition among wives, the domestic abuse by the all-powerful husband.  Jessop says that in every household, the husband has a favorite wife, and everyone knows who that is.  In her house, it was Barbara, who wept everytime the husband slept with another wife, and then connived to get even by abusing that woman's child or anything else she could think of. Jessop escaped with all eight of her children after 17 years of marriage.

On the internet, there are websites like "Polygamy Chic," which celebrate this life: the fresh-faced women, the simple modest clothes, the bountiful children.  But according to Jessop, it's a life grueling beyond our imagination.  Jon Krakauer, in "Under the Banner of Heaven," writes that Joseph Smith himself, founder of the Mormon Church, took up polygamy in the 1830's because he was horny and wanted more power.  His first wife, Emma, fought it and lost.

I don't know whether I feel more outraged that this Taliban-like oppression is going on in the US,  or grateful that I have my own car, can go anywhere I want,  and read anything I please without getting permission.  And then I'm mad about feeling grateful.

A Scary Suit, with Pearls

Okay, okay,  Michele Bachmann won the straw poll in Iowa.  My heart lurched when I first heard, but by my calculation, that means she won only 4,930 votes.  In Iowa.  In a Republicans-only poll.  Only 16,892 people voted, and the campaigns paid the $30 per person it cost to cast a vote and threw in lunch.

But I'm still thrown that anyone, ANYONE, would vote for this woman.  I'm surprised--and alarmed--that the New Yorker has a lengthy profile of her in the latest edition.  A wry but diligent reporter followed her around and wrote down what she said and provided some background.  This woman thinks global warming is a hoax, that homosexuals can be converted, that intelligent design should be taught in schools.  

She's confused John Wayne with John Wayne Gacy, the serial killer. She helped a professor write a book that contended that the US was founded as a Christian theocracy and should become one again.  Medicare and Social Security should be phased out, and people should be "weaned off" these programs. She graduated from Oral Roberts University law school, where the two goals of the school are "to equip our students with the ability to bring God's healing power to reconciile individuals and to restore community wholeness," and  "to restore law to its historic roots in the Bible."

She is fringe, that's my point.  Maybe not among Iowa Republicans, but among the overall, thank-God plurality of people of the country.  It means nothing that she's declared her candidacy for President.   I hope it means nothing, anyway. 

Ode to a Bowl

I eat oatmeal  for breakfast each morning.  I'm just sentient enough to dump a cup of water in a bowl, add a half cup of oatmeal,  set the bowl in the microwave, punch buttons, and then stand back so I don't get a brain tumor from the radiation.  A not-good morning  is when all the deep cereal bowls are in the dishwasher, and I have to use a shallow one, and the oatmeal bubbles up and over the rim, creating a mess in the microwave that's a bitch to clean if it hardens and unpleasant if it hasn't because your sponge gets slimy.

Enter Agnes.  She is a friend from my quilt mini-group and she is a Major Fiestaware Afficionada.  She has many colors of Fiestaware, that distinctive heavy (some would say "clunky") china first produced in the 1930's.  It went out of fashion, and then it came back into fashion, and you can buy it in many colors and mix them up because it's open stock.  Glory be!  She mentioned that she'd bought yet more of it recently, a lightbulb went on, and I went to the website (http://www.megachina.com/) to see if I could get cheap and cheerful deep bowls.

Yes, I could!  And for only $9.99 each!  I  ordered some immediately, and they arrived yesterday.  I chose a color called "Marigold.  They are sunny bowls.  The oatmeal does not overflow in the microwave.  They are sturdy and no-nonsense.  I want more.

Agnes has a remarkable story.  For years, she had an office job with a lot of  responsibility.  She didn't like it, but she had health insurance for herself and her husband, and it was a steady job.  That job ended.  She was almost sixty. What to do?  Why, take a job with a piano service business. Start in the office and move into the actual shop and learn to be a piano technician, about which she knew nothing. That was six months ago.  Now she knows a lot about Steinway pianos, knows their innards, and  uses DRILLS and other scary tools to work on them.  Read her blog, http://www.bldg14.blogspot.com/    Notice that she includes really nice pictures.   I hope to follow suit soon.
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Go Nora!

Taking a tip from myself, I re-read Nora Ephron's "I Feel Bad About My Neck."  I have to say, I still love it.  Especially the chapter about all the work that goes into holding the line against aging, otherwise known as "maintenance," or in, her words, "Pathetic Attempts to Turn Back the Clock."  She includes hair, nails, unwanted hair, exercise, and skin.  Eight hours a week she spends on all this, she says, and she laments it even as she sits for three hours getting highlights in her hair.

I would like to say, "Ha, ha, ha, Nora, that's crazy!  I'm a Berkeley woman. We don't do that here!"  But I do a lot of it, notably hair, for which I travel to San Francisco every six weeks and undergo foil packets and scissors and sometimes wax. It's nuts and probably socially irresponsible, but there you are.

Years ago, I discovered Nora Ephron through her collections of essays, "Crazy Salad,"  "Scribble, Scribble," and "Wallflower at the Orgy." Boy, did she sum up the sixties and seventies!  She called Julie Nixon "a chocolate-covered spider."  She described Pillsbury Bake-off dishes as having "snicky snacky" titles (try, "Sweet 'N Creamy Crescent  Crisps").  She wrote about journalism, feminism, popular culture, and politics. 

Then, blessed event, she got into writing screenplays.  This after she divorced  Carl Bernstein and wrote the novel  "Heartburn" to get even, and it got made into a movie.  Then she helped write "When Harry Met Sally," and she and her sister Delia wrote "Sleepless in Seattle" and "You've Got Mail."   By then, I was hopelessly hooked.  I own all those fluffy movies and sometimes re-watch them.  I re-read her books. I wish I could be as funny and smart as she is.  

Parish Magazine

When we were in England last spring and touring the Lake District, we ventured into an old Anglican church in the village of Hawkshead, where I picked up a copy of a real honest-to-God parish magazine.  I've read about parish magazines in Barbara Pym novels--vicars are always composing articles for them and dutiful parishioners are always delivering them.  This  one, published monthly, is called "The Esthwaite Link," and consists five pages folded length-wise and stapled to make a spine.  

The notices and articles are varied: A Thanksgiving for Lambing and Farming service; a Soup and Cheese Lunch for Christian Aid (with plant, book, and cake stalls, plus a raffle); a Coffee Morning (more cakes and a raffle), a brass band concert;  an afternoon tea to celebrate being an "eco-congregation;" and a lengthy report on the local school and its fundraisers.  A pair of twins was baptised, and two people died.

At the front of the magazine is a letter from the Vicar,  the Reverend John Dixon,  and his topic is "quietness."  He says,

"Although the pace of life is slower here than it is in other parts of the country, we still get frustrated by delays and little inconveniences, at least I do.  Even here, we find ourselves rushing from one thing to another...It is good to stop the rushing, the constant doing, and relish a moment or two of quietness. We need silence.  We need to learn what silence is.  We need silence to make sense of the words we use and to make room for the unspoken."

Thousands of miles away, two Berkeley therapists who are close friends of mine would agree.  Sit with it, they counsel.  Be quiet.  Watch your thoughts as they move past.

Easier said than done.

Relax-O-Reads

It's August, which means you can read any old thing you want.  Say you're going to the beach or (bliss) to a rental house in Inverness or to your own personal deck or patio, and it's been a harassing day or is going to be, and you want something engaging but not a downer.  Here is my list of reliable relax-o-reads:

1. A Walk in the Woods, Bill Bryson
2. I Feel Bad About My Neck, Nora Ephron
3. My Family and Other Animals, Gerald Durrell
4. Home Cooking, Laurie Colwin
5. Notes from a Small Island, Bill Bryson
6. Farm City, Novella Carpenter

And at the trashier end, gobble, gobble:

7. One Fifth Avenue, Candace  Bushnell
8. Long Time No See, Susan Issacs

I have read all but Farm City multiple times.  If you have a bed partner, you will wake him/her up  laughing if you're reading Bryson or Durrell.

Please share your relaxing reads with me, and I will post them.  Time to kick back.

Market Drop

The stock market, as of this writing, has dropped 502 points.  People are apparently socking so much cash into banks in New York City that the banks are charging them to do so.  Which seems outrageous, but then everything about New York City and money seems outrageous.

This is the very day we girded our loins to investigate repairs to a deck that has leaks and dry rot.  This deck is part of our actual house, not stuck on the back like something we could do without.  If the deck goes, so do parts of the living room floor and the ceiling of the garage.

A pleasant man named Roman arrived with an assistant to assess the situation.  They measured and analyzed.  New things kept coming up, flashings and polyurethane coatings and railings and  re-engineered drainage.  Oh, and building permits, which in Berkeley require trained operatives to acquire on your behalf.

Always frugal, Jerry also has a que-sera-sera attitude about certain kinds of spending, such as house and car repairs.  After Roman and  his assistant left, Jerry shrugged and went off  to play golf.  I came upstairs, read the financial news online, and tried to imagine going through a depression like my parents did.  How much will we have to give up?  Will everything we have in the stock market evaporate?  Some of which was left to us by our fathers: Jerry's, who sold eggs door-to-door during the Depression, and my own, who dug ditches with the WPA to put himself through art school in the thirties.   I felt a slice of panic.

The Man's Job

Late yesterday I glanced out the window and saw the family of four who live behind us--mom, dad, and two kids--out in front of their house.  The dad was grappling to work a pole into place that would attach their van to a trailer, one of those aluminum boxes on wheels that magically pops up and becomes a tent.  The rest of the family stood with arms folded over their chests,  looking dubious. It was the prototypical "man's job."

The man's jobs around here include the basic taking-out-the-garbage, but also getting the grate off the refrigerator and cleaning it,  laying and supervising fires, changing ceiling light bulbs, and dealing with anything icky, such as raccoon barf in the water  feature. Also, overseeing car repairs, packing the car for trips, and gathering up recycling for curb pick-up.  Plus anything to do with insects.

Most of the time, the man's job scenario works out fine. With some prodding, Jerry steps up to it.  There are times, though, when it all falls apart.  When we first moved into our house, I wanted some track lighting installed, clearly the man's job.  He got as far as unpacking the components, taking down the old light, and setting up a ladder.  He tried and tried to get the ceiling wires attached to the track.  No go.  Finally, he poured himself a scotch and sat ON the ladder. 

"It can't be done," he said with authority.

I called an electrician the next day.  The track was installed within minutes. Still, Jerry insisted he could handle the next electrical project, attaching a longer stem to our dining room chandelier.  He spent hours in the basement with the chandelier, disassembling it.  Finally, he emerged carrying the chandelier, all in one piece, and installed it over the dining table.  It listed.  It lists to this day.  The reason?  There were some parts he didn't know what to do with so he left them out.  Voila!

The guy with the tent-on-wheels?  We looked out late last night, and there was the trailer, fully extended to be quite a large tent, attached to the van.  This morning the tent was knocked down to aluminum box, ready to be driven away.  He'd done it.  Now he was pushing the garbage cans out of  the street and lining them up neatly next to the garage.

Monitoring Mortality

Today, for the first time in the 32 years that Jerry's had an annual cardiac stress test,  I decided to go along.  Not being a cardiac technician, I didn't know what I could bring to the test but worry, carting it down a brightly-lit hallway into the exam room: worry and a copy of Newsweek  featuring a piece on Wendi Murdoch, who I've got to tell you is a piece of work.  The technician stuck pasties all over his chest, sorted out the wires,  dimmed the lights, and I watched Jerry run on a treadmill that got steeper and faster every three minutes. 

My immediate concern was that he'd keel over due to an abnormality that showed up in last year's test, which required a more complicated test  and a trip to Stanford for a second opinion,  but he did fine, plugging away in his Converse All-Stars, easily handling each steepening of the ramp.    A long trail of graph paper  emitted from the monitor, softly folding into pages on the floor.  The technician said cheerfully that she's done more than 10,000 treadmill stress tests,  and no one's ever collapsed.

At the end of the treadmill test, Jerry lay on a gurney, and another technician came in to do an echocardiogram.  On the screen, Jerry's  heart looked something like a conch shell, two pale folds toward a dark center, the whole works convulsing rhythmically.  Who knows what it means.   No one told him to stop taking a med that eases the stress of exercise on his heart, so the results may be meaningless.  Or we could take it as good news.  Next week's a follow-up appointment with the doctor. 

 At home, I reached for a poem by Jane Kenyon:

Otherwise

I got out of bed
On two strong legs.
It might have been
Otherwise. I ate
Cereal, sweet
Milk, ripe, flawless
Peach.  It might
Have been otherwise.
I took the dog uphill
To the birch wood.
All morning I did
The work I love.


At noon I lay down
With my mate. It might
Have been otherwise.
We ate dinner together
At a table with silver
Candlesticks. It might
Have been otherwise.
I slept in a bed
In a room with paintings
On the walls, and
Planned another day
Just like this day.
But one day, I know,
It will be otherwise."

That's the problem.