A Few Matters

Last night Lola came and waited for Anna and Paula. We had a good visit, about 30 minutes, but she had to leave before they arrived. Then they came, and Carol Pladsen was with them. We went to dinner, they came in afterward and stayed an hour. This story has a point. It's this: all the while, I was wearing only one earring. Here and at the restaurant, of course, and no one said a word about it. No one. This substantiates my claim that women become invisible as they age, especially white-haired women. And, no, my hair does not cover my ears. It's just that nobody really looks at me. Oh well.

Or perhaps they think I'm losing my mind and they didn't want to call attention to it. 

Naah. That's not it.

*     *     *

Troubled by my dream. Wayne was in it. So was Gary O'Keefe, but he was not the troubling part because he means nothing to me. It was Wayne, his indifference, his total okness without me. Just a dream, Carol. Funny, they both looked as they used to. Only I had white hair.

*     *     * 

My friend Joan says I should keep telling myself I'm young. I'm trying to. Last night didn't help.

Oh Well

My daughter has a new hair style and a new color. Her hair is darker, and she now has bangs.

Her 10-year-old son said, "Mom, you look like you're 20 years old."

She said, "Thank you."

He said, "It wasn't a compliment."

Watsonville. It's About My Dad

I stopped in at Whole Foods today, looking for tart cherry juice, which, says Julie, I should drink before bed time to help me sleep. Okay. I got some. I also bought some fresh strawberries, even though the price was too high. But they were from the USA--good--and from Watsonville, California--better.

Watsonville is one of this country's finest agricultural places, close up to the Pacific Ocean. Yes, I've been there, but that's not the point. The point is my dad. I can't think of Watsonville or see the name without thinking of my dad. It's a place he loved. The place he wanted to retire to after Mama died. He'd drive her big Dodge out there, buy some property--he was good at that--and live out his days as an artichoke farmer. (I've written of this before.)

I wasn't there, but I've been told that his other children, who were there, reminded him that he simply couldn't do such a thing. He was 88, weakened by his age, and handicapped by his eyes--this was before today's slick cataract surgery. They told him such a thing was out of the question. He said, "I know, but I want to." 

This small story, especially his response, breaks my heart whenever I remember it. Of course he wanted to. I may have thought I understood him when I wrote about it nearly 30 years ago. But now, I know better how he felt. I am without my husband, as he was without his wife. And what happens is a mix of things. I mean, sometimes I think I can do anything I want now, go wherever, because I have enough money, and I have a 
certain freedom I didn't have when my husband was here.

That's a hard thing to write, because . . .  just because. And hard for me to think my dad may have felt a certain freedom after my mother died. Seems wrong, disloyal, to even think it. Nevertheless, he wanted to go away and be somebody and do something he'd never done before. I know the desire.

But there's another part of the mix. We are not as free as we think. Something holds us back. Our age, our bodies, and, for me, my very aloneness.

Well, anyway, the berries are nice.

Today's local news

Dale White is here with his stump grinder, removing my tree stump. $50. The chips are flying, and I mean it. Dale had to tell his helper(?) Randy to move from where he was standing. I had tried to get Randy's attention and tell him to move, but he couldn't hear me. Anyway, he had already been hit several times, twice in the face. You would think he'd know to move.

I wonder what my lawn will look like covered with tree stump chips. Oh well, I think I know.

Rudy brought these guys over this morning. I just have to say it. Neither one looks savory, if you know what I mean. But I had a nice chat with Dale, obviously a veteran of some war, perhaps Iraq, because the VA is looking after his infected foot. 

Infected foot? you ask. Yes, he cut off a toe with his chain saw. And, yes, I still hired him. Actually, what I said was, "Ok, you've got a deal, Dale."

And I have to say this: Where is my husband when I need him? I know. That question is so unfair. It's just that I miss him anyway.

P.S. I have just paid Dale. He brought up Randy, who I am guessing is not as bright as, let's say, as Dale. He mentioned having to tell him to move when the chips were flying. "I mean," said Dale, "what does it take? Chip takes his eye out and he'd be mad at me."

Of bellies

My mother used to say, "Better a poor girl's belly burst than a bit of good food go to waste." However, I cannot always live up to that. Like today.

I make good chili, of course, but even so, I don't want to eat it for days. There's not much of anything I want to eat for days. You know what I mean.

So today I determined to have chili for lunch and chili for dinner. Then I wouldn't have to have it tomorrow or the next day.

It was difficult, actually impossible, and I simply could not eat two bowls of chili, even 3 1/2 hours apart. Not that there was anything wrong with it, just that I thought my belly might burst.

So I quit eating and had to throw out about half a bowl of the stuff. It gave me pause. I thought of my mother. I thought of people who don't have enough to eat. I am pretty sure that someone, somewhere would have been grateful for that chili. Too late.

Sorry, Mama.