Middle Summer

Blackberry, where are you?

Have you noticed all the signs for lost pets lately? Postings started on July 4 and haven't stopped; every telephone pole in my Northeast LA neighborhood is covered with messages of the missing. I was walking this morning at the top of my hill and heard a woman calling, "Lucky, Lucky, Luuucccky?" as she looked for her dog. Right there and then, I resolved never to call a pet Lucky. Once I saw a sign for a lost parrot who was blind in one eye, had a busted wing and a nervous condition that required meds. That bird was called Lucky too. 

Talking about lucky, I feel extraordinarily lucky having my daughter home for a week before she goes back to college. 

On Thursday, I drove up to San Luis Obispo with my old friend Hudson, which got me halfway to seeing Maya who'd been away all summer. That night we stayed at the Peach Tree Inn, a throw back to the sixties, and ate at The Range in Santa Margarita (a small restaurant in the middle of nowhere that deserves an enthusiastic 5-stars!). In the morning, we explored the Mission San Luis Obispo de Tolosa, founded by Junipero Serra in 1772, the fifth California mission to bring the Catholic faith to the area's native inhabitants. 

The mission's sanctuary branches off into an "L," and as we walked around I wondered about its odd shape. Did Spanish landowners pray in one arm of the "L," and Indians, out of sight, in the other? A little museum sits off the sanctuary, with numerous Indian and Spanish artifacts, certain evidence that native peoples' mission life wasn't pretty; those that survived were forced to give up their language, their religion and their freedom. In the early 2000's, a local artist painted the sanctuary walls with an array of decorative birds and flowers, a beautiful whitewash over a cruel, earlier history.

:

The next day I said good-bye to my friend and drove to Oakland to retrieve Maya at Mills College. Here are a few highlights of the trip:

Seeing Maya for the first time in 7-wks and hearing a mellifluous, fluid French spill out of her mouth! 

Seeing Mills again, one of the most beautiful campuses in California.

Bakesale Betty's: What looks like a pop-up storefront is the wildly popular eatery in the Temescal and Telegraph Ave district of Oakland. Food constructionists whip up fried chicken sandwiches with spicy coleslaw or the vegan version with fried tofu, and strawberry shortcake, on a daily basis. The bake goods are out of this world. 

 Food constructionists at work in Bakesale Betty's

Outside, long lines waiting for Betty; notice the ironing board tables.

Telegraph Road: There's so much on this road to recommend; I was eager to go back to the Restaurante Dona Tomas, but we ended up at Lane Splitter's Pizza and Pub. Maggie, who'd come over from San Fran to spend the day with Maya, joined us for lunch. Maggie and Maya hadn't seen each other all summer and watching them giggle and chatter was half the fun. Here they are letting me take their picture:

It's wonderful having Maya home for a week, but then she goes away again. (and again...and again...) I'm used to it by now, or maybe, it's just that all my defenses have been shattered. It's still not easy to see her go. 

Bold

Bold 

Excuse my indulgence. These were the shoes I didn't buy in NY. for $350.  They were beautiful but I couldn't bring myself to spend that much money, even though they were made in Germany and comfortable as hell. The saleswoman, whose sympathies about the Nov. election won me over, told me their name was Bold. "Time for a change," she kept insisting, "I can tell you're ready for it." 

Ready, but not ready enough.

When children leave home, the first year is painful but the paradigm hasn't shifted; things are relatively the same, except, that is, for what's not the same: no crazy kids running in and out, grabbing food or money or explaining in mono syllables where they've been or where they're going, while giving you a whirlwind kiss or pat on the head. But by the second year it starts to sink in: Oh my God, this is it. They're never going to live with you again. Their lives are beginning and yours is starting to resemble daylight saving time: dark by 5. You slap yourself (gently); Okay, you say, gotta get my shit together, can't keep thinking they still need me, which of course they do, but not officially—officially they're poised to move on, to be independent. You feel lucky when they call or talk to you about anything that's not the weather. If they ask, and even when they don't, you give your opinion, which doesn't always go over especially well. 

 "How are you? Where are you? What are you doing?"

No matter how you've figured it, your life will change. You can't go back to where you were before you had kids, because, well, you're different now, and anyway, it'd be pretty silly doing some of the things you used to do. 

(photo credit: Louise Steinman)

You've got to find a way to identify yourself anew, because let's face it, there's very few tasks left you can attribute to motherhood. Oh my God, for the second time, what kept you? In your defense, you trust a late start won't be so terrible— you'll write a book or join the Peace Corp or write a book about the Peace Corp... although you like your bed and don't want to sleep on the ground for two years. But maybe that's the answer; to throw yourself to the wind and see where it takes you. You'll need some luck and a little encouragement. You'll need to be bold.

I knew I should have bought those shoes.

February blues

My friend Jeanne said it best: "I feel like I'd just gotten used to the girls NOT being here, then I got used to them being around, NOW they're gone and I miss them so much." I couldn't have said it better. If you've been through this, you know how hard it is having your kids leave— for college, to live and work elsewhere—then come home for the holidays; you get used to them messing up the place, eating you out of house and home, bringing their wonderful, rowdy friends around (you love each one of them) and then, before you know it, they up and leave again to go back to their lives.

It's awfully empty around here.

no clothes to wash

no food to buy

no room to clean

no sink to share

Maybe I'm low because it's February. I've always struggled with this cold, dark month, even when it's not cold and dark where I live. Today it's sunny and warm, and look, a sunflower came up in the front yard after the rains...

But it's not enough to dispel these February blues. It's a good thing the month is short. Here's hoping in March the economy will pick up, people will start liking Obama and the dems again, gays and lesbians will finally gain some respect and we'll have peace in the mid-east. One can always dream— especially in February.

A Look at the Rat's Nest

I'm calling this blog The Rat's Nest, defying the notion that ours is an empty nest. More, it's filled with the detritus of years of accumulated stuff that never got the attention it deserved, was for so long seen as an impervious block of junk that fit together, making sense only in relationship to other piles of junk. When the kids left that all changed. The piles no longer made sense. Nothing made sense.


But now that they're gone I don't need to keep the giant teddy bear that my father gave my daughter just because it was the ONLY toy he ever gave her. He's gone and now so is she, off to her first year of college. So, so goes the bear. I can clear away her cosmetics, the nail polishes from eighth grade sleepovers, the perfumes, hair sprays and rollers that she'll never use again. I don't need to keep my son's room intact— he's 3000 miles away, living and working in Brooklyn. I can move the Mad Magazines and the how-to-be-a-famous-cartoonist books to the garage and clear the space for an office, my own space, where I'll sit down to write about life... without them.