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!