Can’t Beat It!

 

Taking a detour from my usual walking course, I turn right on Clinton instead of continuing on ahead up 31^st street. Why?

            My former piano student lives in the Purple House on Clinton. So, if I turn instead of continuing on, I walk right by his house. I miss him and his family. I had to give up teaching piano for a time in the fall because of my partner, Ian’s, illness. Then when I was able to teach again, I couldn’t seem to connect with Cedar. Missed texts and voice mail tag. Emails sent out and never answered. I finally gave up. But it’s always felt strange. To at least not formally say ‘goodbye’ and ‘thank you’ and ‘hope you keep playing the piano’ before disconnecting.

            As I walk under the shade of two huge sycamore trees, I glance across the street at the Purple House. No sign of life. No mom out in the garden. No sound of Mozart floating through the open windows. It’s strange.

            But today, as I pass a large two-story shaded house, surrounded by thick bushes, tall flowers and spiky succulents, I spy a man sitting on a bench in his front yard. He’s dressed in a red tank top and black shorts, sporting a thick gold chain and nodding his head to what must be music.

            “Good morning!” I call out since he’s caught my eye. “Beautiful day!”

            “That it is!” he grins. “I got my coffee. I’m listening to my jazz. Can’t beat it!” He raises his coffee mug toward me as I march past.

            “You got that right,” I answer, smiling. He’s right. Sitting out in the yard, drinking your morning beverage, listening to your music of choice, staring up at the blue sky and puffy elephant clouds, what could be better?

            As I turn up 32^nd street, I sigh though. At the moment, all is good. I’m outside. Walking. It is a beautiful day, a little cool and breezy, but with signs that it will warm up and be a pleasant afternoon. Yet, I’ve been cooped up in the house all weekend with my poor sick Ian. He’s so frail and depressed. I wish there were something I could do to help him, but there’s not.

            Last night, as I was cleaning up the dishes, he was standing at the threshold between the kitchen and dining room looking so sad. I stopped the running water, dried my hands, and went over and gave him a big hug.

            “Ohhhh. You are so sweet,” he murmured, hugging me back, needing the touch, the sympathy that only our bodies can communicate.

            “Well, not really,” I pulled away, turning back to the pile of unfinished dishes. “But it looked like you could use a hug. I’m so sorry you’re feeling so crummy.”

            He nodded, his eyes foggy behind his thick wired rimmed glasses.

            It’s all so sad. And, I can’t get away from it. There is hope, I suppose. A surgery is being scheduled that will hopefully send him on the road to recovery. But it will be a long, arduous road. I don’t know if I’m up for it.

            At the top of 32^nd street now, I spy Mike and his big black cat who’s doing multiple roll-overs at his feet on the warm cement. “How ya doing?” he calls out to me across the street.

            “I’m fine,” I answer, deciding that I don’t have the energy to go over and chat.

            The cat is busy and round, rolling over, getting up, rubbing against his legs, then plopping down again.

            “Just hangin with the cat!” he calls out, grinning widely.

            “Nothing beats it!” I answer, heading briskly up to the corner.

            And, it’s true. Being out in the morning air, walking, talking to neighbors and cats, counting the elephant clouds in the sky. I have to live in this moment. And I can. For a little while.       

            As I turn the corner, I head down McBryde, humming the Turkish Rondo to myself. I think how I’m going to call Cedar. Find out how the Mozart is going. Maybe start working with him again.    

  Or I could just keep walking. Humming. Chatting.

            At least for the next 45 minutes….    

Yundi plays Mozart Rondo alla Turca    

  

Thievery

 

“Last night I finally got a chance to take a shower at home!” Alice announces as she lets the warm water cascade over her back.

            We’ve all just finished our swims in the Kennedy pool. Another success beating the crowds. Though on this Sunday, it wasn’t as bad as I had anticipated. Everyone left the last half hour. Maybe they had the schedule wrong and thought the pool closed at 12:00 instead of 12:30? Whatever. It was nice to have a lane to myself for 30 minutes. A rare luxury these days.

            “Why don’t you usually take a shower at home?” Violet asks.

            “I live with my 23-year-old granddaughter,” Alice rolls her eyes. “I’m afraid she’ll steal from me.”

            “WHAT?” I cry, astounded. “You really think your granddaughter would steal from you while you were in the shower?”

            Alice shrugs. “Don’t know. But I know what I did when I was her age.” She laughs, throwing her head back to rinse the shampoo out of her hair, the suds covering her worn, wrinkled skin.

            I thought about it. I did steal. But not from my grandmother. Though maybe I would have if I’d lived with her. I took small change out of the bottom of my mom’s purse. I don’t think she ever knew or if she did, it was so little that she didn’t care. Plus, I thought I was doing her a favor cleaning out the bottom of her purse.

            Then there was Alpha Beta. In Irvine. I used to steal candy bars and then run out through the automatic doors before anyone could catch me. It was thrilling and stupid. They only cost 70 cents at the time. Not like I couldn’t have bought them. But I was so bored. There was NOTHING to do in Irvine except play tennis, swim, and steal.

            Now that I think of it, I did, in a manner of speaking, steal from my Grandma Birdie. We always bought her pounds of See’s Candies for holidays, her birthday, Mother’s Day. We’d keep the wrapped boxes in the fridge until it was time to give it her. I’d sneak into the kitchen, open the fridge, pull out the box and carefully unwrap the box, being sure not to tear the paper. Then, I’d root around in the bottom of the box, stealing a prime chocolate cream or Bordeaux, move the remaining candies around so it would look like it was still a full box.

            But she always knew. One year, when I was older and didn’t do this anymore, she told me that she wasn’t fooled.

            “Why didn’t you say anything?” I’d asked her.

            She gave me her Cheshire Cat smile, “I wanted to let you have your fun.”

            She was like that.

“I remember one time,” Violet says now, “that my son stole my car.”

            “How’d he do that?” I asked. “Were you asleep?”

            “Yes. He just took my keys and drove over to his girlfriend’s house, took her to the mall out in Concord where they had a spending spree, and then brought the car back to me before I woke up.”

            “How did you find out about it?” Alice asks.

            Violet pauses, thinking hard, her thick grey hair damp around her face. “You know, I can’t remember. All I know is that he did steal the car.”

            “And got away with it!” I exclaimed, turning off the shower, wringing my hair and suit and heading out into the locker room.

            “Yes, I suppose he did,” Violet muses, grabbing her own towel off the hook and wrapping it around herself.

            “All I know is…” Alice calls out to us, “…is that my granddaughter is the type not to be trusted. She’d steal from herself if she could!”

            We all laughed. Stealing from ourselves. That is a funny idea.

            What would I steal from myself I wonder? I have nothing of value. Though I do have Aunt Lucille’s moonstone ring hidden away in one of my pasta boxes.

            It’s worth something. My mom said at least $5000 dollars.

            I’d steal that.

            Though since I’ve had it, I’ve never worn it. Too valuable. It might get lost.

            Or stolen.

            “5 MINUTES! 5 MINUTES LADIES!” One of the lifeguards hollers at us.

            Violet shakes her head. “They are off by 2 minutes. I’m going to go tell them.”

            “Go Violet!” I say as she marches out of the room, her jaw firmly set, eyes of steel. I wonder if she ever stole anything?

            I bet she did.

            And Alice?

            I know she did!

 

Good Job

 

“Okay, Ladies! The pool is closed. The locker room closes in 1 minute!” The lifeguard stalks through the locker room, announcing the closure loudly. Doesn’t make eye contact with any of the half dozen or so women still half dressed.

            No one seems in a rush. Except for me. I always try to get out on time. But it’s hard. I’m so slow.

            “You can do it, Girl!” Singing Woman encourages me, grabbing the keys to her Mercedes lying on the bench. “I have a story about my husband at Costco. He tells me, every time I wanna go to Costco, ‘I don’t wanna go with you. You’re too slow.’ And this one time, I tell him, ‘I just have to return something. I won’t be long.’ So he says, ‘Okay’. And I leave him in the car while I go in, but of course, I pick up a few other things that I needed, this hairbrush, and some real cute sandals, you know? It’s hard to resist. But still, I wasn’t gone long. When I get back to the car, I ask my husband, ‘See I wasn’t gone long, was I?’ And he just shrugs and says, ‘I guess not.’ ‘You guess not! You guess not!’ I say to him. ‘You supposed to say, GOOD JOB, TRUDY! GOOD JOB!’”

            I start laughing, trying to gather all my swim gear and toss it in my gym bag before the lifeguard comes back in and starts yelling at us. And, I think, this commendation of ‘Good Job’ is so overused that it has no meaning. I remember watching the movie, Whiplash, where the hellishly abusive drum teacher, J. K. Simmons, yelled at one of his students about how being told he’d done a ‘good job’ gave students permission to be lazy and unmotivated. “Good job!” he’d yelled, terrifying the student, “The two most useless words in the English language for a teacher to use to motivate his students. You haven’t done a ‘good job’, you haven’t even done an adequate job. You are here. You sit on your ass and pound on the drums like some sort of cartoon idiot, and you expect me to say, ‘Good job.’ Well, it ain’t gonna happen buddy. Not on my watch!”

            I’m guilty of this too when teaching piano. Especially with the little kids. They just exhaust me. They don’t listen to me. When they do anything that halfway resembles music or what I’ve been trying to get them to do, say play the melody of Mary Had a Little Lamb with both the right and left hand even though you could just play it with the right hand, well, I just shrug and say, “Good Job, Jenny.” And Jenny beams. Sometimes smiling and wriggling. She’s happy with herself. I’m happy to not yell at her. Saying ‘good job’ does the trick.

            Now, in the locker room, Singing Woman laughs along with me, “You see? You can do it! I’m outta here!” She lifts her bag onto her shoulder, gives a wave to everyone, heads out of the lockeroom.

            I yell after her, “Good job, Trudy. Good job!”

            All the women in the locker room start laughing, the sound of their mirth floating up into the cold sterile walls of the room.

            I walk over to the mirror, start to yank at my wet hair to get the tangles out, thinking, if I can get most of these tangles out, it will be a good job.

            And, I don’t even have to go to Costco to get a new brush to do it.

            Good job, Cj, Good job, I say to myself, yanking the last clump free. I toss my brush into my bag and hurry out of the locker room, the echo of "LADIES! THE LOCKER ROOM IS NOW CLOSED!" following me out into the parking lot. 

The Peace Apple?

 

“Ahhh….at least it’s cooler today!” L exclaims as we spill into the parking lot of the Kennedy Pool facility, the last three women to straggle out.

            It had been too hot the last few days, especially for the middle of March. Usually, northern California has plenty of rain in March. In fact, some years it’s even been dubbed ‘Miracle March’ when the storms sweep through in an otherwise dry year, giving the snowpack and reservoirs much needed reserves.

            But not this year. This year, the rain stopped in March. Each day clear and blue and waterless. People exclaim over how beautiful the weather is. How nice it is to be out in the warmth. Yet the warmth and sunshine at this time of year portends more drought. Don’t people get this?

            I like the warmth. I’ll admit it. But I also have a healthy does of anxiety (can anxiety ever be healthy?) about the lack of rain tied to the climate crisis and potential drought. California has been in a severe drought for more years than not in my adult life. There are stats about this, but the bottom line is, no rain in March is NOT a good thing.

            Today, when L exclaims about the relieving coolness from the previous few days of blistering heat, V, loaded down with armfuls of plastic bags, shakes her head and smiles at me, sitting at the table eating my Good For You Brownie Bar snack. “I like the warm weather,” she says to me, almost conspiratorially? Or am I just imagining this? L has trundled off to her Jeep, waving goodbye to us and the conversation. I am left to respond to V’s comment? Esp since it does seem aimed at me. Almost a dare? But again, am I imagining this?

            “Yeah,” I agree now, but can’t help but mention what the heat means, “But we need the rain. You know, climate crisis and all.”

            V stops shuffling around in her trunk with all the plastic bags. Turns toward me, taking a few steps in her tottering white high healed sandals: “We have enough water,” she hisses, staring at me long and hard. Almost a threat? Daring me to contradict her? But before I can respond, she says, “It’s the price of gas that we should be worried about! I paid $5.99 a gallon this morning! Can you believe that? $5.99!!!!”

            I nod, knowing that gas is way up because of Trump’s deadly and unnecessary war with Iran. The price of oil going up and up each day: 10%, 25%, 30%. And, yes, we drivers are paying for it with the price of gas. Yet all moral outrage aside about this war, we can live without gas. Water, on the other hand, is a resource that we can’t live without. It’s a finite resource. And with the climate crisis, with longer and more severe droughts, the issue of not having enough water is a real one.

            I decide not to get into all of this, though, with V today. She seems too agitated. A bit unhinged. I’ve always thought she was a little crazy. Spending over an hour in the locker room primping: makeup, hair drying, fancy dresses and shoes. Everyone else tries to get out of the locker room as quickly as possible. It’s not a nice place after all. Cold cement floor, freezing air temperature, screaming kids.

            V has turned back to her car now and is bending over the trunk, rifling through the plastic bags. Emerging, she turns toward me, hand outstretched, something in her palm.

            “Hey, Carol, do you want an apple?”

            What???? I start laughing. Where did this come from? Is she offering me a piece of fruit to allay the tension we’ve had about the price of gas and the lack of water?

            “Uhh…no, thank you,” I say. I don’t elaborate about how I don’t really like fruit. Sometimes, sure, I’ll eat an apple. But taking one out of someone’s trunk that’s been there for who know how long isn’t my idea of a good snack.

Instead, I just shake me head and watch as she takes a big bite out of the fruit.

            “You sure?” she says, chewing loudly. “I’ve got more.”

            “Nah, that’s okay, I have to go,” I rise, grabbing my keys and hat off the tabletop.

            “You have a good day now,” she calls after me as I head across the parking lot.

            “Thanks, you too,” I answer, inwardly thinking how strange it was that she offered me an apple after the tense exchange we had.

            But maybe it was a Peace Apple, as Ian suggested when I told him the story later. “You know, maybe she knew she was wrong and she wanted to give you a gift to say she was sorry.”

            I doubt it, I think. But maybe he’s right. Maybe it was a Peace Apple.

           

             

           

           

Sexy and Spiky

Photo by Getty Images

 

“I need to get my purple hair shampoo,” Alice announces to all of the women in the shower. In the Kennedy High pool locker room, after a surprisingly calm swim for a Sunday, I am trying to get warm, letting the hot stream of water cascade over my back.

            “Does it really turn your hair purple?” I holler after Alice as she shuffles back with the large plastic bottle, which is indeed, purple.

            “It’s not really purple,” she chuckles. “Well, you know…like it’s blue, you know what I mean?”

            I think of old ladies, their grey hair tinted blue. Have I seen this? Or is it just from the movies?

            “My hair used to turn green,” I comment to L, another swimmer to the left of me in the shower.

            “Oh, I loved it when the boys had green hair!” she exclaims. “It was all sexy and spiky.”

            I nod, laughing, thinking how my own green hair was just slimy and shiny. Sexy? I doubt it, but who thinks they’re sexy at 14? How can I even remember being 14? But I do remember the green hair. How in order to get it out, we’d have to douse our heads with tomato juice. Pouring thick red goo on to our heads. Me and my sisters giggling and laughing. “EWWWWW! It smells so bad!” “Nah!” my sister, P, would refute. “It’s like our heads are pizzas!” “Gross!” our little sister, L, would wrinkle her nose. Not having blonde hair, she didn’t have to undergo the tomato sauce regime to remove the chlorine sheen.

            Tomato juice was used for other untoward situations. I remember one of our dogs getting sprayed by a skunk. The stench was hideous. Potent and nauseating. The dog, of course, had just been chasing the skunk, but the skunk as skunks will do, hadn’t cottoned to this. Hence the spray. We’d take the dog into the shower, my mom drenching it with tomato juice, emptying cans and dumping them on the dog. Rubbing it in. Then rinsing. Repeating this several times. Then, after all the stench was removed (as best it could be), it was time for the Suave Green Apple shampoo. The dogs loved the results afterward. Prancing around the house, the odor of green apples wafting throughout the house.

       

     “Do you want to try some?” Alice asked another grey-haired woman in the shower.

            “Sure,” she said.

            “Aren’t you afraid of having purple hair?” I asked.

            She shook her head, “That’s okay.”

            My shower mate grinned, “I once tried to dye my hair, but it was too dark. We bleached it first, but still it wouldn’t take. I always wanted blue hair.”
            “Blue is my favorite color!” I exclaimed.

            “Exactly!” she said, turning off the shower, wringing her suit, gathering up her various hair product bottles, long toothed comb, and razor.

            Rinsing out the shampoo, I thought about the green hair of my youth. Swimming was an everyday activity. Green hair just went with the territory.

            Now?

            I wring out my hair, feeling the slimy wetness of it, glancing down at the ends.

            No green anymore. But maybe some blue? Or purple?

            “Hey, Alice,” I say, before leaving the shower area. “Do you bring your purple shampoo everyday? Maybe I could try some next time.”

            She laughs. Hearty and amused. “Of course! You’d look so cute with purple hair!”

Nodding, I think, she’s right. I would look cute with purple hair. I stand in the middle of the locker room, toweling off, listening to the chatter of the women. 

"Are you going to the march on Saturday?"

 "I'm thinking about it, are you?"  

"Swimming makes me so hungry. I'm ready to have me some Chinese!"

"Mmmm....you said it girl, let's ...."

Grinning,  I open my locker, pull out my clothes, and start to get dressed. 

 

 

           

           

           

Protein

 

It seems you can’t get away from it. The topic of protein. Not enough protein in your diet. Better eat more protein. Tired? You must not be getting enough protein!

            Don’t Americans devour slabs of meat every day? Loaded with protein. Not to mention cholesterol, fat and calories!

            I don’t eat red meat. I think it’s disgusting. Plus, it’s bad for the planet. And cows are so cute. So maybe I do need more protein? How much protein should I eat? 

When I researched this later, there is actually a complicated formula based on gender, age, activity level and weight. But this didn't come up in the discussion today post swim in the women’s locker room of the Kennedy High Pool. Protein Calculator

            “You need at least 50 grams of protein every day,” Protein Woman announced.

            “I know I don’t get that much,” her friend shakes her head. It’s such a problem.

            “If you don’t get enough protein, it can affect your immune system,” Protein Woman continues.

            “Really?” LS asks. “I never knew that.” I glance over at her; my naughty side wants out.

            “Do M&Ms have protein?” I interject into the conversation, thinking I was being funny.

But no. These Protein Women are serious!

            Not missing a beat, let alone crackin a smile, Protein Woman answers: “As a matter of fact, if you eat the peanut M&Ms, you get you some protein that way.”
            “Or, if you eat the peanut butter ones, you get even more!” her friend adds. “Mumm mum I love me those peanut butter M&Ms!” She shakes her head in imagined satisfaction as she pulls on her navy sweatshirt.

            “Me too!” I beam, pulling on a damp sock. “But they’re highly addictive!”

            “Oh, yeah, tell me about it!” Protein Friend agrees. “Once I get started on those, I can’t stop myself.”

            I remember a family gathering, maybe for a holiday, Christmas or Thanksgiving, when there was a bowl full of these peanut butter M&Ms on the coffee table.  My sister Laura and I were sitting on the sofa, grabbing handfuls of them. “I can’t stop eating these,” she said, munching happily.

            “I know,” I agreed, grabbing a handful myself.

            If only I’d known then that we were feeding our protein quota! We had permission to stuff our faces with candy! It was good for us!

            “I’m gonna go home and eat some right now!” I announced. “I’m feeling like I need to add more protein to my diet today!”

            “Mm mm mmmm!” Protein Woman hums. “We gonna go out to lunch today and git us some chicken tacos at Los Hermanos.”

            “That sounds delicious,” I slam my locker closed, grabbing my swim gear to follow them out, remember how when I worked at the Sylvan Learning Center in El Cerrito, the nerdy manager had a get to know you questionnaire for me. One of the questions was What is your favorite restaurant? I said the Vietnamese restaurant, Huong Tra.  He said Los Hermanos. I wonder if he knew he was helping meet his protein quota if he ate the chicken tacos?

            I’m getting hungry now writing this. I think it’s time for some 

peanut butter M&Ms! And Cheezits. Do these have protein in them too? Let me go take a look….

 

            Well, what do you know? They do! 3 grams of protein per serving. And the peanut butter M&Ms? 3 grams of protein per serving. Now I just have to eat 4 servings of each to get 48 grams of protein!

            Who needs red meat?

            “Enjoy your lunch,” LS calls out after the two women as they head out of the locker room.

            “Oh, we will!” Protein Woman chuckles as she waves goodbye.

            “You want some peanut butter M&Ms?” I ask LS. “I’ve got a bag at home.”

            “Oh, no thank you,” she declines softly.

            I know she doesn’t eat candy. But then I wonder, without peanut butter M&Ms is she getting enough protein?

           

Sound Sigh

 

 

Parking her well-traveled Toyota Corolla in the handicapped spot in front of us, Violet jumps out of the front seat. Her eyes are bright and excited behind her wire-rimmed granny glasses as she heads over toward me and LS.

            “I just had to come over and tell you guys something,” she says, breathless.

            “We can see that,” LS says, smiling.

            We had watched the Toyota drive past us and then change its mind, backing up and then pulling into the vacant spot.   We’d been chatting in our usual post swim way, talking about bats and creeps and movies. Most recently, we'd watched the film, Columbus, about an architect's son and a fan of this architect, touring the modernist buildings in Columbus Indiana. We had found the film provocative on one level, but ponderous and slow on another. "What makes a movie pretentious and ponderous?" LS was asking when Violet interrupted us. 

              “What have we got here?” I’d asked LS, as I watched Violet hurrying toward us. She had some message of great import. Or so it seemed.

              “I guess we’re gonna find out,” LS said.

            “I’ve been studying with this guru" Violet began, "and he told me how if you want to get rid of the stress and anxiety that we all hold on to, I have a lot of pain in my shoulders and neck, so this works for that too, you can try these deep breathing exercises for 15 minutes….”

            “15 minutes!” LS exclaims. “That’s a long time!”

            “Yes, well, whatever….” Violet grins at us. “But anyway, here’s the secret. When you breathe in deeply and hold it, 1…2….3…..4…..5…..6….7….and then release it, you have to sigh out loud!”

            She demonstrates for us with a dramatic lyrical sigh. “Aaaaaahhhhhh!” she spouts.  “The key is you have to make the actual sigh noise!”

            “Okay,” LS and I say. “We’ll give it a try.”   

            And we do, breathing in and then releasing with a loud, sing song sigh.

            “You know, I think that works,” LS says. “I feel better!”

            Violet beams, nodding in affirmation, her thick grey hair floating around her earnest expression in the breeze. “Right? I just thought that I had to tell you two. We were talking last week about anxiety and sleeplessness and aches and pains. We all get those! And since I’ve been practicing this out loud sighing, well, I have to tell you, I feel so much more relaxed.”

            “I had a colleague that I worked with at JFK in the library who would make these long-exasperated sighs," I said.  "The library was always dead in the afternoon between classes. The silence was thick.  I’d be in my office to the side of the library, reviewing a paper or reading an article, and all of a sudden, I’d hear this loud, and I mean, loud, sigh from K behind the desk, breaking the silence with a sudden crashing rupture.  The first time I heard her do this, I thought there was something wrong with her. ‘K! Are you okay?’ And she’d call back, ‘Yeah, I’m fine. Just bored.’ It was the funniest thing.”

            Violet laughs softly. “That sounds a little different than this practice, but it’s the same idea. The sound is key. You can’t exhale silently; you have to make the noise!”

            I try this during the week. There is so much to sigh about. All the anxiety over Ian and his treatments, the rush to make appointments, the sitting around in the infusion center while the chemo drips into his port, the state of the climate with no rain in sight and the snow drought making headlines, not to mention the hell that ICE has put the city of Minneapolis through by murdering two protesters, both US citizens, both white folks, now gone gone gone.

            I need to breathe. Sometimes I find myself forgetting. I’m driving to pick up Ian at the BART and I’m running late and sitting at the signal at San Pablo and Potrero I realize that I’m holding my breath. Damn! I need to breathe.

            And so, I’m practicing the Sound Sigh Breath that Violet showed us that day after our swim, another source of anxiety and stress since the El Cerrito pool has been closed and all of its swimmers have flooded our Kennedy High pool here in Richmond. The lanes are packed and the people are rude.

            Breathe!

            It does help. The more I practice this, the better I feel. Of course, I often forget to do this. But then I remember, when the stress gets to be too much and I’m not breathing.

            Carol. Breathe in….1….2….3….4….5…

            Breathe out. And SIGH! Noisily! Satisfyingly. A release of all that energy inside that is just making me crazy.

            Give it a try. It really works. Sure, you may feel a little silly at first. But who cares? Who’s listening?

Ready?

1…2….3….AHHHHHHHHH!