the scar

I have a tiny crescent scar just touching my upper lip. These days it's almost lost in the growing wrinkles and puckers of age but this morning while shaving I noticed it. And I think I know why. The mind is always at work, making connections between random events seemingly unrelated in content, and even in time.

Last night my youngest son called me. Out of the blue, and late for me as I'm traveling and on east coast time. I don't like to talk on the phone. I've had to do so much of it in my professional life. So, a phone ringing to me is an intrusion, and I usually end calls as quickly as possible. He knows this, but wanted to touch base with me anyway. Of course, for my children I'll always make that exception.

I tell people I have four children, when a more strictly accurate accounting would be that I have one child and three step-children. Perhaps because he's the youngest, perhaps because he is my only biological child, I have always felt a passionate attachment to Niles. For this reason, I have struggled with maintaining the proper amount of distance with him, trying to give full expression to this intense love I feel without smothering or overwhelming, disrespecting his space and differentiation. I am a teacher, after all. I have not always succeeded in finding that balance, and at times have felt him pull away to reestablish a comfortable equilibrium in which he could thrive.

So, it's a thrill when he calls and has no question or request but just wants to talk to the old man.

I have a scar on my lip. I earned it as a child when I lay down next to my dog. Bagel the beagle summed up all things admirable to me. He was fearless and adventurous, the terror of the neighborhood, and I loved him passionately. I especially loved the way he smelled, right around his ears, the utter doggyness of him. So, as I lay down next to him and put my arm over him, I pressed my face into his neck, my nose under his ear. And he, startled awake and smothered, reacted with a harsh growl and a snap, nipping my lip with his teeth.

My mind is always at work, making connections between random events seemingly unrelated in content, and even in time, sharing wisdom with me that I otherwise might have forgot, wisdom contained in a little crescent scar by my lip.

my moment of fame

As I posted on Facebook, I won a writing contest in my new home town. The Desert Sun Newspaper asked local resident and best-selling author, Joseph Wambaugh, to write the first three quarters of a murder mystery short story, then invited readers to finish it in 500 words or less. It turned out to be quite a challenge, especially the "500 words or less" part. As anyone who knows me can attest, I'm a decent writer and public speaker, but concise is not the first description of my prose that comes to mind. In fact, I have a friend with a personalized license plate "WORDY ONE" which I have often thought would have fit me even better.

But I accepted the challenge, pecking away at it in the morning on my patio, when not writing letters to old friends or musings for this blog. It was not an easy set-up to conclude -- too many characters and potential story lines to draw together in such a short amount of space. I decided to follow the great tradition of mystery writing. I chose the least likely character as my perpetrator. Since hard-working, reliable Pepe was in my opinion the most admirable of many characters with which Mr. Wambaugh had salted the field, I chose him. Then I needed to imagine a motive, and set up the conclusion by subtle suggestion. I'll let you be the judge of whether or not I succeeded by visiting www.mydesert.com. My apologies, as it's not an easy site to navigate!

coffee and Le Tour at St Honore'

I'm back from Portland, back to the reality of work and 114 degree heat, but one morning from my recent trip lingers in my memory.
My hotel didn't have Versus as a cable choice, so I only managed to watch the Tour de France once in five days. Sunday morning I made a date to meet two of my sons, Monty and Niles, at St. Honore' Bakery in northwest Portland, where I knew they showed the tour on a large screen TV.
It was THE place to be.
It seemed that every hardcore biker (in a very hardcore biker town) was there. They rode their treks and cervelos down to 25th and Thurman to gather in their spandex, campanello hats, and race jerseys to watch the most important alpine stage of this year's Tour in the company of their peeps.
So, there I was, a cup of french press (of course) and a pain au raisin, surrounded by bike people obsessing (like me) over every detail of the race, and with my boys. I don't know when I've been happier.

I can't shake this dream

I can't shake this dream.
Almost everyone I knew and cared about was already on the ferry - my sons, Portland friends, Montessori friends - and it was ready to leave. Somehow I had come to the dock without luggage. I had to make my way back to my hotel to check out, which became increasingly difficult.
Apparently I was on an island, but an urban one, a warren of alleys, canals and dense housing reminiscent of Amsterdam (a city I know well now, but in which I got seriously lost late at night on my very first visit). To make matters worse the city/island was filling up with partying young people and my cell phone kept ringing as people called me by mistake, confusing my number with that of some popular young reveler.
And then I awoke, with this sinking feeling of loss, as if many people I loved had left me behind.
Okay, self-styled Shrinks. Have a field day. I do feel isolated and alone at times in Palm Springs. These folks, nice as they are, are not my peeps, and no replacement for my Portland community. Of course I had 30 years to build my Portland community. It would be a sadder comment if I COULD replace them overnight, if at all.

the joys of home ownership

I keep my phone on "vibrate" much of the time so as not to disturb a classroom I'm visiting or interrupt a staff or parent meeting. And so I was awakened this morning at 5, not by my melodious ringtone but by the angry buzz of my cell phone trying to vibrate off the counter. Mary assumed it was simply her husband snoring louder than usual, turned over, covered her head with a pillow and went back to sleep, whereas I grabbed up the phone and stumbled out into the dark hallway, closing the door behind me.

It was my Florida realtor calling to inform me that our little condo in Florida was flooded. My sleep-shrouded brain had difficulty processing this statement. I pay attention to the "Tropical Update" on the Weather channel for just this reason, and had heard of no tropical storm threatening the "Treasure Coast" so the best response I could muster at this drowsy moment was, "Are you sure?"
"Of course I'm sure. Your tenant called me a minute ago upset because there's two inches of water on the floor. Apparently the water feed to the toilet burst. What do you want me to do about it?"
The words, "What do you want ME to do about it?" were forming in my mind, but fortunately I thought better. When you are a couple thousand miles away, have a flood and an unhappy tenant, you need allies, not enemies. I managed to squeak, "Uhhhhhhh, what do you recommend?"
So, now my realtor and her handyman are on their way, and I have an image in my mind of dollar bills floating away on the crest of a bathroom flood. Ah, the joys of home ownership.

Cabrillo

It's a week later and I'm still dreaming about it. After checking out of our hotel and before heading home from a weekend in San Diego, Mary and I took a side trip to Cabrillo National Monument. It sits atop point Loma, the bay serene and blue and far below on the one side, the Pacific serene and green and far below on the other. From that height we watched three long boarders who had anchored their sailboat off the point and paddled into the line-up at the rocky point. The swells rolled in endless lines, lifted at the point from beneath as if by a giant hand and breaking there, peeling down the line from south to north. It's this jade wall the surfers head for and, if they make it, drop down and left, staying just ahead of the collapse and working the wave gently down and up, until they must pull out or risk the deadly rocks. The whole ride only lasts a few seconds but for those few seconds he is poised right at the brink of unfolding time, a part of the elements as surely as the pelicans, or the sea, rock and sky themselves.

it's a dry heat

114 today in Palm Springs, but very dry, less than 10% humidity. So dry that when I went to the pool this evening, I was cold when I got out! Evaporative cooling. I'm trying to get the hang of this desert lifestyle. How to cope with the heat without merely staying indoors.
Mostly we coped this weekend by escaping -- yesterday taking the tram up to 8500 feet (and 85 degrees) for hiking and birdwatching, today by driving to the coast (4 foot waves and again 85 degrees).
It was strange at the beach. I paddled my body board out beyond the break, waiting for a decent set to come in, watching porpoises and pelicans, and realized that a large group of people had congregated on the shore and were clapping and hooting. I caught a wave, rolling down the jade green hillside of water, feeling it rise then break and crumble behind me, taking it all the way in as it re-formed to make a decent shore break. I weaved my way between bathers standing in the shallows and heard "Praise the Lord" and realized this was a church group conducting full-immersion baptisms in the Pacific. Of course, heathen that I am, I sing a song of praise every time I catch a wave, every time the sun rises or the moon sets. Next time I feel the ocean rising beneath me and i manage to kick and paddle hard enough that gravity takes me down that living translucent miracle, maybe I'll let out a "praise the Lord" or two, or at least, a big Thank you.