Train Travel, December. 2013

Good morning!

I arrived home at nine last night after a train trip up and back to Concord, CA. to visit my son Ben for Christmas. 

I'll just record a few impressions gathered along the way.

Train travel is much less charged with anxiety than air travel.  Doesn't make much sense, given the gruesome reports we've lately had from crashes in the news...but it's the truth: as soon as that smooth roll-out begins in the station, you can just feel the spirit of pleasure spread throughout the train.  People just relax, and look around them with the happy anticipation of children.

Amtrak has improved its service, by and large, since I was last on the train fifteen years ago.  There's more communication, and more politeness. Of course, the last time I went it was on the Southwest Chief, and who knows if it's still bad on there...

This was a Pacific coast trip, and people were trying very hard to keep things efficient and happy.
The first part of my journey, toward the north, was very well managed. The shift from one train to another in LA was well managed with a cheerful Mexican people-mover driver who shuttled me rapidly to a good lounge with coffee, breakfast (if a commercial muffin is a breakfaast)...and newpapers.  And as promised he came back to get me when my train was due and whisked me to my roomette, where I spent most of the day.

I ate lunch early since I'd been up since four, and had a pleasant meal of salad and chile and blood-orange sorbet. The quality of the meal was about that of a Denney's, I'd say, but clean and quite edible.  After lunch the attendant in my car made my roomette into a bed, and I snoozed for three hours, more or less, before arising. He made the bed back into chairs for the rest of the trip, and when I decided that I didnt want to hazard the 3-car trip to the diner again, he brought me my chosen supper of a child's meal (Kosher hot dog), mashed potatoes, and string beans, plus more sorbet as they were out of the vanilla pudding.  It was dark by then and I gazed out the window till the train arrived in Martinez and Ben picked me up.

Coming home was another story, as my mother would have had it.  I chose the confused inland route because it gets one home three hours earlier than the direct one. Don't ask me why; I dont understand it. You get a morning's ride in a coach car, a one-p.m. change to a bus, with arrival at blase Union Station at four, and another train ride from there at five until eight.

When I got to Santa Fe Station in San Diego at eight, I found that my bag had preceded me.  It was inside in the waiting room already. I am still puzzled about that. How can it be?  If my bag, which was accepted onto the same train in Martinez that I rode on, how could it have eluded el bos and arrived in San Diego earlier than eight? And if it could, and it obviously did, why shouldnt I be enabled to follow the same route? Curiouser.

The only hitch in the whole works is that I was already tired by the time I was in LA. It was a pleasure to see the Union Station again, always a place of interest, but it was only by my own initiative and not waiting to be called as they told me, that I was able to grab my own people-mover and be taken to my train on time.  But carrying my ten-ton purse around is difficult, and the extra handbag though light is another preoccupation. So by the time I was on the train to SD, I was very tired.  I'd made a chicken sandwich in Concord, to bring along, and a very nice lady on the train gave me a burrito (small) that she'd made in her kitchen in Richmond, so I was adequately fed.  On the rushing stop-and-start Surfliner train from LA to SD, the attendant gave me a bag with lots of little snack packages, and my choice of water, soda, or wine. I chose water.

Upon arrival, I was told that my bag would be inside perhaps and that I would get it and the taxi afterward...I was the last person from my train to look for a taxi, and there was one man left.  He was cheerful and an efficient driver, and got me home by nine.  Thus concluded my train journey.

The only real question in all this is ME. Do I have the endurance that it takes for an all-day battle with my possessions, my physical limitations (having to go to the bathroom), my reluctance to use the train stairs or go too many cars to the food car...do I??? In general, though, I'd say that the service on Amtrak was very good, and that the people on board in general were polite, relaxed, and happier than fliers.  YAZZYBEL

Almond Chocolate Chip Cookies

Today I made chocolate chip cookies from almond flour.  The other ingredients were oil ( I used almond), chocolate chips, agave syrup, vanilla, a nip of baking soda, and a tiny nip of salt. That's all.
A very vegan dish.

They are quite tasty, and their only fault is delicacy. The second panful came out stronger because I added another 1/2 cup of almond flour to the mix. They came out of the pan better but were less sweet. It was okay , though, because most cookies nowadays are too sweet anyway.

These cookies are gluten free, wheat free, animal product free, and altogether pristine and innocent. They bake up nicely and look good.  Would I just as soon have them as regular wheaten cookies with eggs, etc, in the mix? Yes!  I am going to send some to my son and grandkids and they'll probably arrive in the form of crumbs. I'll see what I can do to protect them, but--

At church now, we are offered gluten free communion wafers at a separate little station from the glutinous throng. I always go to the gluten free station on the principle that it's there, take advantage of it. The gluten free wafers taste terrible, not that the others are any better.  But we are not supposed to be thinking of taste, at the Holy Table. Are we?       YAZZYBEL

Banh Mi

Good morning!

Last night I was a bit hungry at around four in the evening,  so I went to pursue the Banh Mi at the local Vietnamese restaurant, Pho Hiep and Grill.
This cafe is in a strip mall near my house, the same strip mall where I get my hair done, often, and where I go to the supermarket.  Theo and I used to eat at the "pho" from time to time, and would have eaten there more often had he been not so dedicated as a meat and  potatoes guy.  But now they have put the Banh Mi on the menu, which he would have appreciated.

The restaurant is pretty; as you go in the door you are confronted with a waterfall running down a tall panel of embossed glass.  There are quite a few table, neat and clean wood, with dark wood chairs. All the dishes used are white. Pho, if you get that, is served in huge half-sphere white bowls.  With nearly any meal you get a little dish of hot sauce and a little dish of sauce with carrot and jicama in it, with a sweetish water-vinegar sauce.

The Banh Mi is the "Vietnamese Sandwich," which is a pretty standard sandwich on a French baguette, using whatever kind of meat you choose (I had the ham/sausage one) plus the usual graceful Vietnamese garnish of grated carrots and herbs. There was absolutely no dressing on the sandwich of any sort, and it tasted pretty good that way.

The menu said that if I ate the sandwich in the restaurant it would come with chicken broth plus a side of chicken salad.  What more could you want? I ate the hot clear soup.  I nibbled the refreshing Vietnamese chicken salad, which is shredded chicken plus shredded cabbage and other leaves and carrots and herbs with the lightest imaginable dressing of vinegar, perhaps, and water.  It was sprinkled with sauteed green onion slices and peanuts.  Very delicious.

The Banh Mi waited in state on its white plate. It was on a narrow French baguette cut in two, with plenty of ham and so forth.  I could only eat half, and could only eat half of the salad too.  SO, when I finish this I am going to go to the refrigerator and have my lunch, which I brought home at five o'clock last night.  Oh, and I had a fresh lemonade too, with the thinnest slice of green lime in it. Everything was just perfect.  YAZZYBEL

Out of Inspiration

Sister no. 5 tells me I'm overdue to write on my blog.

I just don't seem to have much to say. I came home from my trip refreshed and looking at things with new eyes...but something has bogged me down again.

Not that I feel so sad and lost any more (except at dusk).  No, I just feel rather aimless and complacent here in my peignoir.  Not even a green parrot to keep me interested.  I want to be somewhere else but I don't know where it is.  Doing something else but I sure dont know what that is either. Drifting towards Thanksgiving and Christmakkah, as they call it on the radio.   This is not good, but we aren't supposed to judge our lives.

 So I am not judging, just noting.  "I'm just sayin'." YAZZYBEL

Oh, there's the Range!

A long number of years ago, after a very difficult and traumatic passage in my life, I mounted a plane in Brownsville, Texas.  My parents had bought my ticket, and I learned as the day went by that it included nine stops before the eventual arrival in Denver, Colorado.

It was a beautiful Texas June day, sunny and clear, and as we journeyed northward, and went down in every possible stop we could take in Texas, and a few more, it became afternoon and we were flying I guess over Kansas, and I was becoming more and more frazzled from the unfamiliarity of travel and so many landings and take-offs. I felt nervous and fatigued, and wondered if we'd ever arrive in Denver, Colorado.

In midafternoon an older lady boarded the plane and sat next to me by the window. I'd been looking out all day at oil reservoirs, square planes of fields in greens and yellow and browns, so wasn't interested in the window seat.  She was pleasant and chatty, and it turned out that she was the mother of the rector of the Episcopal Church in Colorado Springs, our next to the last stop. She was so nice that I positively began to enjoy my trip, and as we talked I began to unwind a bit, distracted.  After a time, she looked up from her knitting and remarked with pleasure, "Oh, there's the Range!"

I looked out the window and had the surprise of my life.  Up from the flat terrain  that we'd been flying over all day, sprang--the Rocky Mountains! All of a sudden, just like that!  Vistas that I'd never imagined!  Huge, spiky, rocky, jutting up into the sky in blues and greys and whites, for the afternoon had turned cloudy now...They sprang up out of nowhere, for me. I didn't know what I'd expected of Colorado, but the reality of the huge prospect was truly overwhelming.

The lady got off the plane in Colorado Springs, her family with son in clerical collar and straw hat, looking just like Robert Morley in The African Queen, teenagers standing by too...for airports were very different things in those days and greeters would wait outside by the fenced gate for the arrivers...and I never saw her again.  Off she went, leaving me with one immortal phrase of pleasure and discovery: "Oh, there's the Range!"

When I left Denver 3 days ago, I had the great pleasure of flying over the snow-covered peaks of the  Range again on a clear bright midday. And I remembered the past and the old lady.  Lesson learned: we never know what's going to turn up for us to know, to learn, to love, to wonder at. 

That was the great gift of my trip this month.  You never know.  There's a range I have not even imagined before me. There are choices to be made, but nobody is hurrying me.  I came home calm, ready to make the decisions when I have to. YAZZYBEL

Stranger in a Strange Land

Here I am, ici, (I say ici because I can get the radio in French at some place on the dial at night)...anyway, at this moment, ici in Cedar Rapids am I.

I have been a stranger ever since I left my house in Chula Vista nearly 2 weeks ago.  It's strange. I have never traveled and felt to be in a strange place, just because I wasn't at home. I think now it's different because there is no home; no person at all waiting for me or holding down the fort. I was kind of single in the eighties but I had the kids in and out to tie me to something.

Now I am eager to go home but who will be there to say HI?   The teenaged boy next door who's coming over to feed the cat and water my kale plants.  Perhaps. The cat Himself, perhaps. He'll be offended and not want to be friendly.  Perhaps. He's had about all the abandonment he can take this year.  He nearly went bonkers when Theo went to the hospital and didn't return.  I hope he's glad to see me and forgives me and lets me brush him.  The bite he gave me on my hand before I left is hardly visible. (He couldn't help it.)

Will a different person walk into the house than walked out of it? I won't know until I do.  I have passed time in two houses as different from each other as houses could possibly be. I have related to my sister, her husband, my son, my daughter in law, and my grandchildren. I am ready to take my burden upon myself again, by myself again. I hope. Lots of decisions to be made. Lots of new possibilities on the horizon. 

I am physically a bit weaker than I was when I left home: not good. That's because I have not been doing anything but loll around and watch TV or read, since I came to Cedar Rapids.  There are things out there to do perhaps but I have not done them.  Note to self: next time, rent a car whether you want to or not.  I need to stop writing for a while now so I can walk around in a circle through the LR, front hall, DR, and kitchen and back here again.  So will sign off.  Someone will sign on and write this blog after I get home.  Exciting to see who will do that!  I'll let you know. YAZZYBEL

Movies and Memories

Yesterday, Cyclo arrived in the mail. I watched it, and I need to watch it again as I was in my exhaustion phase and fell asleep during my nap. So I did not see it all, but I saw enough to know that it is the "dark" side of life as compared to the other two films in the trilogy. They are about home and family and love and relationships.  Cyclo, about a poor young man who has to drive a bicycle-taxi about the streets of Ho Chi Min City in order to support his sisters and grandfather, shows the other side: street life, gang life, prostitution, illness, and violence.  It is hard to watch and I will watch it again.  Just not today.

I love the other two films because they reminded me of so many things about my childhood, and show me again why I feel such a closeness with the older Indian films too. People live simple lives.  They make life beautiful where they can do so, with gardens, and their possessions if they are lucky enough to have any.  Old people look old, like the Aunty in Pather Panchali, so old you wonder how they can make it, creeping around from day to day trying to find something to eat. The weather is hot.  It rains, huge tropical rains with drops the size of fifty cent pieces like the ones I used to watch falling onto the canna lilies when I was little.
     In the Vietnamese movies, there are always people coming around. Coming around to sell things, to borrow things, to bring things, to take away things, knock knock knock...in our world we'd hear the sound of a little man who went in a truck to sell vegetables and fruits...toot toot on the corner and you went out to see what he had to sell.
There was the piruli man, who had a big cone of paper and stuck into it were little cones of paper-wrapped candy, sweet and soft.  We loved pirulis and I would like to have one this minute.

There were bakers who would come and knock and take you out to their cars where there were trays of breads and rolls..and how good they were.
And at night--the serenaders!! Bands of strolling musicians, usually four violins, would come around. You'd hear them softly playing in the front yard, and you'd all go out front to listen in the dark, while someone in the house grumpily scrounged around for change to give them.  If you gave them something, they'd play another tune; if not, they'd move on.

In Mexico City, there was a huge enormous music box, a beautiful and complicated machine, that used to come around in the Colonia where we lived. I'll never forget the main tune it played, and just thinking of it transports me back to those evenings. 

And in Vietnam, in the movies I saw there were so many animals in the gardens of the houses...little lizards, and different kinds of frogs and toads.  We had them too...we had Mediterranean geckos (though nobody in my family knew the name of them then) which actually sang a beautiful little musical call...they were shy sweet creatures with big eyes and soft bodies with little tubercles all over.  I was sung to sleep by them many a night when I was very small.

Nowadays nobody hears those little animals or is very aware if they are around. Perhaps children are...I am told that the geckoes are no more, finally finished off by the deep winter freezes that Global Warming has produced.  But I'll bet somebody has them still.  Lucky them.

You have to go outside and forget the air-conditioning for a while in order to find out. You have to look for the vacant lots in order to find the tortoises that we used to encounter by the dozens as kids...and the water turtles too, big lumbering creatures.  But now they all have less natural habitat to proliferate in.  People have chopped down lots of the mesquite brush to use for BBQ wood.  The resacas are tamed in the City of Brownsville, I guess totally.  It isn't raining as much lately and the winters are colder. 

But there are parrots! Lots of little green Mexican parrots took a tip from their 2-legged compatriots and came across the border illegally.  There are flocks of them all over Brownsville, Texas, or so I hear.

And there are alligators.  Really, there are.  I am just going to have to go back to visit, to see if there really are any alligators, or little geckos, or strolling musicians left in this world, outside of old movies.  YAZZYBEL

Two Beautiful Films

G'day.

The two films I am writing about are by Tran Anh Hung, and they are The Scent of Green Papaya, and The Vertical Ray of the Sun.  There is  a third in the set called Cyclo, about a person who runs a taxi-bicycle.  The two that I've seen are bittersweet, very true to life family scenes. I have the feeling that Cyclo is a darker theme, but will tell more about it when I've seen it.

In The Scent of Green Papaya, a little girl goes from her village to become a servant in a large prosperous family in Hanoi.  When I looked up Hanoi, I was shocked to see that it's indeed in North Vietnam and so foreign to our American imaginings.  The customs, household, and family are so cultured and beautiful that they are set apart from our US standards by all measures.  The large family is unhappy because they had the tragedy of losing a daughter years before, from illness. The father thinks it was all his fault because he is a man who takes the family money periodically and goes away from the house to spend it all. His wife is devoted and loving, and has three boys, an almost grown teenager, a moody pre-teen, and a little demon four or five year old.  These are all portrayed with beautiful accuracy as to their emotional reactions to what's going on with their parents.  There is an old grandma, too, traumatized by the loss of her young husband years ago and her granddaughter who would have been the age of the new maid Liu.
      We follow along with Liu as she learns from an older servant the ways of the well-off household.  It is hard to believe the sophistication amidst simplicity of their beautiful lives.  I was fascinated by the cooking lessons, of course.  I was enchanted by the beauty and order of a large household that covered the grounds of a large compound indoors and out.  But I read in Wikipedia that Hanoi has existed on the  Red River for a thousand years...that swamps our little three hundred year old country by far.  And as my hairdresser used to tell me, they were occupied by the Chinese "one thousand years...the French, three hundred years...America--(grimacing)--forty five years...!"
     Anyway,   the beauty and order of the household, its furnishings and objects, its gardens and water features (as they are now called in landscape articles), is simply astounding.  Every inch is thought about, ordered, cared for;even the many wild little creatures, ants and lizards and frogs, seem to have a role in making the whole a beautiful place to live in.
     The next film, The Vertical Ray of the Sun, is about three beautiful daughters and their brother and their husbands and lovers...very modern, in its topics...with lovely children and, again, beautiful backdrops of home, garden, and sometimes dramatic coast scenery.  How easy it is to identify with these people, simple in some ways, deeply complicated in others...and how they deal with the cards life deals them. 
     Of course, even though these lives are portrayed as they were lived in the nineteen fifties, all would be different now.  Everyone would have a cell phone device in their hands, and the children would be rude, and TV's would be blaring.  So these stories would seem a fairyland to someone born after 1960, say...but I can remember all the way back to 1929 and I can tell you that it was not fairyland here in the US or over there in unknown Vietnam.  Things were different. People were the same, but things were very different. YAZZYBEL

How to Be A Widow

The answer is: one day at a time!

And it is still difficult.

Yesterday marked exactly two months since Theodore died at Kaiser Hospital at about 10:37 p.m.  It hasn't gotten one bit easier from one day to the next.

New things happen all the time, however. Last Saturday marked my first minor wreck ,without his being around, for a long long time.  I cracked into this guy's rear end while I was craning around in an unfamiliar neighborhood looking for the Marshall's.  Of course, his was a custom-made red Mustang.  He was polite about it, however, 
but he did take down my insurance info even though neither of us could see any damage to self or vehicle.  He even pointed out the Marshall's to me at the end of our confrontation.  He was a very nice person and I did not have to cry.

And today I had a confrontation with a very young black lady in the Walmart parking lot after I whomped into a parking place when apparently she had been waiting for it (coming the other way at the corner)...she was really angry and she let me know it.  Cars were behind her honking and she wanted me to let her back up so I could back up and give her my parking place.  I said I couldnt do it because it was too late, just look at the people behind her already honking, and she just got madder and she said we SHOULD do it because it was HER place; she'd been waiting.  I said I was sorry, but I didnt move the car.  She really let me have it verbally and said I was lucky she didnt ram into me and bust my ass.  I didnt mention to her that that seems to be more my role now in the traffic scenario.  But she was mad and I wasnt as upset as I should have been--because I am exactly forty years older than she (by my guess) and I deserved something...respect, pardon, whatever.   And was already tired and it was only ten thirty a.m.

Each day presents its challenges and each day demands its solution.  I hate it that I had that heart attack last year and that I have to rest after lunch; it is a break in the day that is physically necessary but not usually really beneficial.  A friend says she has her nap from two to three after which she gets up and puts on her pajamas and is in evening mode.  I am not quite there yet, but it is now six oh three p.m. and I am more than ready to shut down the store for the night. It's crazy.

I miss my husband, and my old way of life.  I dont like being alone, and I dont like having to plan whether or not I am going to take a vacation and when and to where all by myself.  I dont like being alone at night. I dont like being alone all day either.  I am going to have to take some classes or join a crafts group (Lord, spare me!) or study the Bible or something just to put myself with other people somehow, people who know my name and either like or dislike me but at least know I am alive and around.  Well, from all this you can tell that after all this time I don't know much about How to Be a Widow. YAZZYBEL

Nice Cookbook

Good morning.

Yesterday I went to the Methodist Thrift Shop in SD, and a title caught my eye amongst the books: Mexican Light.  At first I thought it might be about geography, or weather, or photography, or home decor. No, it's about a style of cooking. But I liked the format of the book and the author, Rose Shulman, is well known--although as far as I know, she's as far removed from Mexico and things Mexican as Darth Vader.  But what do I know anyway? The book is full of good ideas.

Mexican food as I know it has undergone a huge change in the long years I've been eating it.  Our idea of Mexican food when I was a kid was of the deeply seasoned, meat-centered cuisine of the ranches of northern Mexico and South Texas.  Nowadays, with so many people pouring into the USA from the more southern and purely idigenous folk from Oaxaca and Michoacan mainly,  the idea of "Mexican food" has surely shifted.

I bet I could look through that cookbook (though I havent done it yet) , through every recipe, without finding one recipe with comino in it.  Cumin is such a staple flavor in Mexican food as I know it, but of course now I realize that it was a staple flavor in Mediterranean cooking, Arabic cooking, Sephardic cooking...and those were our folks as we came over from Spain.  The Indians of the New World knew not of the comino, and still eschew its vibrant flavor in their (rather meek to me) versions of tacos and rice.

Well, I like both types. They are just different. In the meantime, this cookbook has lots of delightful taco ideas with stirfried squashes, onions, corn, chiles, that are plenty tasty.  And having had my heart attack last year, I appreciate the "soft taco" versions that aren't fried in fat.  I do them that way now anyway...how often have you heard me say to lay the tortilla down on the open gas flame...or grill?

Anyway, it is a good read, and I advise everyone who'd like a few new-ish ideas to go onto eBay or Amazon and get a "Mexican Light" by Rose Shulman.  YAZZYBEL

And the Little Ones Chewed On---What?

You've all heard about the fox, who went out on a summer's night....he brought back a big fat chicken, and,

"You never saw such a supper in your life,
And the little ones chewed on the bones-oh!!"

Now KFC is serving all its chicken products boneless, I hear.  Why, I don't know.

And I went to the store to get me some soup bones or some tough meat with a bone on it, and no such thing could be had. This is a big supermarket here in Chula Vista. When I complained about it at the register, you'd think I'd dropped into a zombie's coven:  dull, uncomprehending expressions and no response from one and all.  Am I the one who's crazy?  WE NEED BONES.  BEEF BONES, especially.  There were no bones to be had in the meat dept., and the butcher told me when I complained back there that "all our meat" comes to them boneless. 

What 's being done with all those bones? Someone discovered a value to bones and so the bones are all sequestered, sold off to vitamin companies, pet food companies, who knows where.  The lowly public hardly gets one any more unless it's willing to buy a T-bone.  Let me tell you a tip: If you do get some T-bones, save those bones in the freezer after you've chewed all the meat off of them. They are valuable, and rare.

My husband didn't like bones.  I always have liked to chew on bones...I am like Harriet, wife of a co-worker of my husband's once, who...(we were at a company dinner)..noticing that the prime rib was being carved and served off the bone, whispered in the waiter's ear.  Shortly, a huge platter of bones arrived and she dug in, gnawing away.  I 'm with her.

I wanted the bones to make good Russian borscht, which I had at Elijah's  last Sunday.  It cured me of my malaise when nothing else has.  Here's how I made it with what I had around the house.

Russian Borscht

can of chicken stock, can of water
leftover beef of the boneless stir-fry type
onions cut up

Put that on the stove and cook it on low for quite a while.  After a time add:

cut up cabbage
cut up carrots
leftover boiled potato or cubed potato
can of beets and juice, cubed

Let that all simmer until you are hungry.  I took out three fourths of it just now, to put into the refrigerator.  I will have the other fourth for supper.  "On a hot day like this?" I hear the chorus of cries.  Yes, on a hot day like this, Russian Borscht will be just fine.  It would 've been even finer with BONES...

YAZZYBEL

Angry and Unbecoming Thoughts of the Widow

Yes, they are there. Here they are.

1. Why did you have to go off and leave me?

2.  Why didn't you get things better set up years ago?

3.  As long as you had to leave, why did you wait till I was eighty-four years alone and it was too late to know what to do?

YAZZYBEL

Brushing the Cat

I have found a new and rewarding occupation.
 Brushing the cat.

When I was going through my husband's stuff, I found a hairbrush that I'd never seen him use. It's kind of a rosewood color with black stripes, and it looks like natural bristle.  I'd have used it but that natural bristle does little to curb my unruly mane, but I took it outside and brushed the cat with it. To his surprise!!

But Freckles decided that he likes it.  It's funny that the brush is kind of like a huge mother-cat tongue, and I  employ it on him just as his long lost mother must have,  holding him in place to get to every nook and cranny that I can, and sweeping long and deep in the easy places.  Freckles placidly accepts it all, turning the other cheek and lifting his head and inclining his ears and all.  He loves it, in fact, and it's become an interesting and pleasant part of the early morning for both of us.

If you are a widow or widower or are perturbed about anything at all, I recommend brushing your cat for a little while, in the morning.  It's a good thing.             YAZZYBEL

From a Letter to a Friend

Do you remember the novel/movie Fahrenheit 451, where at the end all the book-lovers lived in the woods, where they memorized their books and walked around in the falling snow, repeating them?  I envision spending some time in a community like that where old nuts can live together but privately, getting some help if they need it but mostly just doing what they want to do. Do you know of any such place? Linda

 

 

I wrote that to a friend, and that's what I would like to find.

 

I look at elderly facilities  on the web, and I shudder.  Not a very pretty picture. I wrote a poem about it years ago, about the nice ladies I'd see at concerts at nights, in suits, their grey hair nicely coiffed, waiting to be picked up and transported back to their dormitories.

 

As a contrast, there was the other old lady I saw in Texas, she's an icon really, the one with her gray hair in a knot but waving in the breeze, in her long black dress, striding across a vacant lot on her business,  and I called the poem, "Walking to Meet".  The La Jolla ladies were Waiting to Meet...their bus, their friend, their Jesus Christ, or yet  perhaps a lover...I wanted to be the one Walking to Meet.  Walking to Meet my fate.

 

Then I realize I can hardly walk at all.  I 've gotta get it together and fast.  And not fall down and break my bones in the process.  And not be afraid to be Walking to Meet. Lord, I need your help.

 

YAZZYBEL

Timeless Time

Good morning.

The strange thing about being a widow is realizing how having your partner nearby you was conducive to all sorts of civilized behavior. Especially with regard to time.

I was out on the patio leisurely sweeping up and I was struck with the strangest feeling that there was NO TIME left.   No time to bother with.  Nothing to hurry for.  Nothing to finish the job for.  Nobody knows what I am doing.  Nobody cares. Nobody has any claim on this moment nor what is going to happen in ten minutes, or in an hour or by this evening at sunset.

It's ten fifty four a.m., a bright and beautiful morning.  I normally would be thinking, and am still thinking, that pretty soon it will be time to fix lunch.  What do I have on hand?  Then I realize, it does not matter.  If it spoils, what I have on hand and cannot use, I can sequester it away in the waste can undetected.  I had five eggs that were at least five weeks old. I remember buying that batch of eggs when the dr's told me he would be coming home right away from the hospital...I took those eggs and pushed them gently through the fence to tumble down into the deep grasses near where the fox lives.  Nobody knows but me, and now you, what happened to those eggs.  Nobody cares.

Last night I made a supper and ate it, and as I was eating it I noticed that it was four o'clock in the afternoon.  I'd forgotten to notice that it wasn't really supper time, so I ate when I felt like it.  Surprise!  It was too early.  But I ate it anyway because I was hungry.

It was a delicious supper. First I quartered a huge potato that's been around here and put it to boil; then I sliced a zucchini and some onion, sprinkled on some marjoram and a spray of olive oil, and  put them in the oven.  When the potato was done I put it onto a bowl and got a batch of kale out of the refrigerator and boiled the tender parts in the potato water.  Then I put everything on a plate, mashed up the potato, mixed everything up, and put on some salt and pepper.  Well, it was delicious and my tummy didn't know it was only four p.m., and I ate nothing else after that so I guess my tummy was right.

I have a lot of potato, kale and zucchini to eat tomorrow if I like. I may get a taco out, for lunch, if I am hungry.  Tonight I have a casserole of tuna, mushroom soup, and pasta that I made the other day.  Remember those? My husband never liked tuna fish anything. I liked the idea of having one on hand.  And there it is.  I may have it for supper, whenever that may be.  YAZZYBEL

What I didnt Write to my sister about her Choral Program

I have vowed not to voluntarily go hear any more Requiems. It truly seems to me that they are  a symbol for our Nation's "down" status...everyone is kind of sad and confused about what is gonna happen.

There's a wealth of musical choral literature besides Requiems, but now almost any serious choral presentation includes one and ignores lots of other beautiful things.  Not that the requiems are not beautiful, just that--let's cheer up, fellers.  All is NOT lost. Or is it?

The Widow's Life

It's very strange, being a widow.

It's just awful.  Awesome. Awful.

I am going around in a daze of trying to tie the loose ends together.  There are many to tie.  My husband had had a difficult two years before dying, gradually losing control of his life.

He'd never  been one to share just what was going on.  He had no yen to explain his methods.  He felt no compunction to teach me what he was doing and why. I probably wouldn't have listened anyway. Maybe he knew that....maybe.

Instead, we went on this way:  gradually I realized that things were slipping out of control, and tried on my own to start putting some order into my own finances. I did try to get him to have a weekly or even monthly consultation about what was paid and why but he wan't inclined to talk about things.

In spite of my reputation as the family grasshopper (I'd probably be happier if I were), I have been more than ready for over a year to take on the major responsibility for bill-paying, expenses, and so on.  On the other hand, I really didn't want to, as it was easier for me to go fiddling on and let him struggle with an increasingly difficult task. That he was able to keep on as well as he did is  a great tribute to his character, as well as to his stubbornness.

That is all gone now.  The ship will not founder, though it seems to be fighting the waves right now.  Good.  Gives me something to be tired about when night comes.  I remember when a Brownsville lady lost her husband years ago, and she told a friend of mine (we were very  young, and learning wisdom from the women older than we...so we listened to such talk) that afternoon was the hardest time of all, because that was when he came home, and they had the anticipation of dinner and a pleasant evening in front of them. After her husband suddenly died of a heart attack in the late years of their middle age, she'd find herself every afternoon with absolutely nothing in front of her.  Nothing...After the years of anticipation, preparation, in frustration or joy, sick or well, planning her working evening, nothing. She was right.  It's harder than waking up alone, harder than going to bed alone.  The long afternoon with nothing to do.
 
I swallow up the late evening with an early bedtime. It will be easier in a month or so when the sun sets earlier.  I take a benadryl so that I can sleep through the dark silent hours.  But there is nothing to take for having your husband not be  around for supper.

YAZZYBEL

On the Beach

Good morning.

Alex and Isabel drove off about forty five minutes ago.  May they have an enjoyable journey back across the US to Iowa.

The last of the big bouquets from Benjamin's work had begun to wither away so have dismantled it, thrown away the dead stuff and the trappings. I cut out a half dozen of the sturdiest survivors, calendulas, carnations and Peruvian lilies, and put them into a small vase.  White flowers are so lovely. 

The kitchen is adrift with opened bags of chips, many used drinking glasses, unused food...all may now be thrown away or tidied up as appropriate.

The cat gave me one desperate look..."What, left again?"....and went out to the yard to contemplate his future with an old lady.

I am left like a stranded shell on the beach. That    is not said for sympathy nor effect.  It is just true of  how I feel.  My husband's ashes are in the living room in a plastic box inside a pink plush drawstring bag.  I feel the effects of no funeral, no ceremonial; he should have had one.

My only choice right now and my only obligation is whether or not to go up to church.  Guess I will, though I don't much want to.  Don't much not want to either.  Stranded shells don't have much thinking or yearning going on.  YAZZYBEL

The Mystery of Relationships

Good afternoon.

My husband died on July 24, just twelve days ago as I count it on my fingers. I have been in a white fog since, in most respects. 

I have cried but little, but since I was exhausted by the time he died, and sick from running back and forth and sitting in bad hospital air, I have been choking and coughing instead.  I told someone, "I have been coughing out my grief....," and it seems that that's what it is.

I have had company ever since Theodore died. My sons have been so good to come and straighten old mom out.  And they have been needed.  Now the one who came first is gone, and the one who came second is still here.  His seventeen year old daughter is coming tomorrow.  Two of my sisters came as they'd planned long ago, to take some family things allocated to them, and left again within twenty four hours. 

But when I think of my husband, I wonder--who is it who died?  What happened?  Whom did I live with all those years, suffer with and from all those years, travel with, enjoy life and love with over the years..who was he?

We are born into life in these rather tidy packages, and the being within us tends to get mixed up with the package and the packaging...within our forms are these mysterious beings whom we may never know, whom we may never have understood any better than we really understand ourselves (excuses aside!).  My husband was so many people, so many different images, so many different temperaments, talents, strengths and bewilderments...Just try to write an obit for your nearest and dearest.  Who was that person?  He was so deeply aloof in a lot of  his personality...I don't think anyone could ever have got in there ever in some parts of him.  His dislikes were so firm, his likes and loves as well...but still, could he or any other person be pinpointed?  That is why we write fiction, I guess.  Reality is too difficult.
Too elusive.  Too unknowable, unfathomable.  That just must be true of every person.  Mysteries, all of us. Mysteries in our creation and our existence at all...who are we?? 
    
I must confess that I do not know....Does anybody?

 YAZZYBEL

Goodbye, Theodore

Goodbye, Theodore.

You took off on the biggest voyage of all, night before last.  The whole last day of your life, you were unable to talk at all, but the doctor told me to talk to you of happy things.

So I did. I talked--it seemed that we talked--about our whole life together.  The car trips that we both loved so much, big ones and little ones.  The beautiful parks we'd visited, and the beautiful sights we have seen together. The cold rocky seashores of California and Oregon and Washington, the walks in the Sierras and the hikes on Trail Ridge Road in the Olympics... And I told you how much you opened up my life as we lived together. You gave me more gifts than you knew, more gifts than I even realized at the time.  All the joys and all the pains were gifts and we both became stronger in them.

As I spoke, your face would shift and respond, and I felt that you were really participating in the visions I was recalling.  The talking of happy things was powerful; we seemed to be in some shared golden space that encompassed us both. By night I was talked out and you were getting tired.
I am glad we had that day together, Theodore.  Thanks for listening and sharing.  YAZZYBEL

La Vida Loca

Good morning!

What creatures of habit we are, what creatures of custom.

It has always been our custom as a couple that my husband handled the funds.  His desire was to handle them completely, everything in his hands.  Since he was so capable and so finicking in his accounting, I couldn't have left things in better hands.  He wasn't even willing to sit down for a month to month heart to heart or accounting of how things were, where the money went or should go.

Suddenly, things have changed. And it wasn't so sudden, either.  I noticed some perturbing changes last year, and for sure for the last six months I have beent trying to effect some changes in his old cash and carry methods, in which lots of money can disappear out the door without being accounted for.  But he was so good at writing things down and at knowing just how things were, always...until now....

My husband is in the hospital and has been hospitalized several times over the last few months.  In between times, he seemed fine and would want to keep control over his affairs just as usual.  Right now, it's become obvious that this hadnt been happening for some time even though his preferences were the same.

We have had notices from a collection agency! A collection agency!!  His family and my family would be rolling over in their graves to hear that. I am dealing with hospital charges and bills that I wouldnt even have been aware of if he were on top of things.

I tell you these things because it is important to realize that life can change overnight, practically. And it's not possible to be always aware of everything as it progresses. Even as I wrote the last sentence, a kidney doctor called up to tell me that my husband is not in good shape...he was more serious than anyone has ever been ever before...discussing this with me.

Even if my husband gets better and comes home, he will not be himself completely, probably.  Things change. And that's how it is, with this vida loca.  YAZZYBEL

A Price Above Rubies The Prequel

Good morning!

The title of this piece was originally to refer to the Book of Ruth, but I think that the better reference will be to the description of a good woman in the Book of Proverbs.

Who can find a virtuous woman? for her price is far above rubies.

ב

11The heart of her husband doth safely trust in her, so that he shall have no need of spoil.

ג

12She will do him good and not evil all the days of her life.

ד

13She seeketh wool, and flax, and worketh willingly with her hands.

ה

14She is like the merchants' ships; she bringeth her food from afar.

ו

15She riseth also while it is yet night, and giveth meat to her household, and a portion to her maidens.

ז

16She considereth a field, and buyeth it: with the fruit of her hands she planteth a vineyard.

ח

17She girdeth her loins with strength, and strengtheneth her arms.

ט

18She perceiveth that her merchandise is good: her candle goeth not out by night.

י

19She layeth her hands to the spindle, and her hands hold the distaff.

כ

20She stretcheth out her hand to the poor; yea, she reacheth forth her hands to the needy.

ל

21She is not afraid of the snow for her household: for all her household are clothed with scarlet.

מ

22She maketh herself coverings of tapestry; her clothing is silk and purple.

נ

23Her husband is known in the gates, when he sitteth among the elders of the land.

ס

24She maketh fine linen, and selleth it; and delivereth girdles unto the merchant.

ע

25Strength and honour are her clothing; and she shall rejoice in time to come.

פ

26She openeth her mouth with wisdom; and in her tongue is the law of kindness.

צ

27She looketh well to the ways of her household, and eateth not the bread of idleness.

ק

28Her children arise up, and call her blessed; her husband also, and he praiseth her.

ר

29Many daughters have done virtuously, but thou excellest them all.

ש

30Favour is deceitful, and beauty is vain: but a woman that feareth the LORD, she shall be praised.

ת

31Give her of the fruit of her hands; and let her own works praise her in the gates.

---

My daughter-in-law came into the house, and she wasted not her time.

She picked up a cloth and soap on her way in, and washed the countertops in the kitchen right away. Who knew they needed it?

The next day we arose and she said, "Let's begin," and we went into the back room where my papers had proliferated and reproduced themselves (seemingly) for about three or four years, and we began.

I sat down and she placed containers nearby or in my lap, and as we went on she took things for :
1. Giving to the Amvets
2. Giving to my sister
3. Keeping
4. For her to take
5. Grindables
6. Trash
And we proceeded along that line for four or five days straight, eventually moving into two or three other rooms.

Before she left, she utilized the cartons we've had out in the garage, packed up her share of things, taped, stacked boxes, cleaned the kitchen floor on her hands and knees, cleaned the bathrooms, floor and walls...she brought my husband a hundred glasses of tea with ice which he requires a number of times a day.

She only had a couple of times on her own to get out of our troubles and share some relaxation with a friend. Thank God she had that!  For, the night before she was to leave at four-thirty a.m., my husband fell. We all went to the ER but at ten she brought me home and went back to sit with my husband until he was sent home at one o'clock. As a final thoughtfulness, she called her friend to do the task I was going to do, which was to take her te air

 

Do Tragedy and Indignation go together?

Our nation is obsessed with race, and the race question, and the race problem

This week a verdict was handed down in the George Zimmerman trial. He was acquitted of Murder Two for the death of Trayvon Martin.

I consider this verdict to be a just one.

At the most basic, the prosecution did not prove its case.  The jury wisely abstained from judging on a second angle, the manslaughter one...why was that even in there,-- but for to give an "out" for those who knew that there was no Murder Two but felt that they must convict George Zimmerman of something.

At the outset of this incident, Al Sharpton and Big Ed played the indignation card right out in front.  They lined up the bereaved parents of  Trayvon Martin in front of the television camera and had us watch them grieve. Of course they grieved. And of course they had grievances.  Al Sharpton and Big Ed had indignation, and they played it for all it was worth.  Shame on them.

Poor foolish George Zimmerman trying to play cop. Poor foolish Trayvon Martin trying to play bad black boy in a hoodie, running around in the shadows of a strange neighborhood.  The elements of our nation's tragedy are right there, where one young man lost his life and the other--well, we don't yet know what he has lost, do we? Time will tell us that.

It has the elements of classical tragedy in that each young man had the strength and freedom of youth, and that each lost in the same moment and plummeted to earth.  I just don't reconcile what I see in this case with the attitude of indignation that I see played over it.  It's like being indignant with a steam roller, for rolling over things.  No, we have to stop, weep with the parents of the lost youth, pray for the future of the living one, and pray and think of our nation as we go through these incidents day by day, over and over, until we learn.  YAZZYBEL

Never Too Many Roses, or Cherries!

 

 

The pink roses had their moment and now the white rose bush has given up her beauty for us.

I like to call this spray of multiple rose blossoms "The Queen and her Handmaidens." The Queen blooms the first and is surrounded by multiple buds. This time we were lucky, and the handmaidens burst into bloom becore the Queen died. The Queen, the original bloom, is the middle one of the three in front...a huge crape-paper bloom.  The others came quickly; sometimes they dont even all make it...but they did. The rose to the right was on the same bush but was a lovely solo rose....they are all white with a creamy rosy undertone toward the center. Lovely!!!

 

And, as for the cherries, you know how you have to buy too many at the supermarket? They come in huge packages that defy easy separation. So I got a million cherries, in a household where only one person eats them.  I got creative.  I made "Cherry Cornbread."  Just use your favorite cornbread recipe, add a bunch of pitted cherries cut in half to the batter, and bake as usual.  Delicious with butter.  Just do not skimp on the salt. All this salt-skimping is ruining the taste of some dishes. The sweetness of the cherries needs the full complement of salt in the batter as a complement.  Just delicious!! Try it~ YAZZYBEL

Continuation of the Woman Above Rubies

Some how I got cut off the end of the blog.

To continue.  At five in the morning her friend Anne-Marie arrived to pick Lesa up and they left. That was a final blessing for me, not having to go down to the airport in the dark and drive home on the freeway. God Bless Lesa and Anne-Marie!

All of this does not describe the cheerfulness, the practicality, the strength, in the face of weakness and aged-ness that were shown by my daughter-in-law to us.  There is no substitute for any of it, anywhere.

I believe I wrote earlier in my blog, if not on Facebook, how gratifying it was to see my sons working together clearing out the garage and bringing order out of chaos out there....this part of it was for ME, and I will never be able to express my gratitude to a fine woman, for a gracious act of kindness and industry.  YAZZYBEL

A Good Year for Roses!!!!

 

Empty Nest Syndrome

Good morning!

Well...the kids (Alex, Ben, and Alex's son Daniel) were here for nine whole days, working like ants the whole time in the garage.

They left on Sunday, A and D driving a UHaul, Ben driving his car with Foxy in the pilot's position...and Theo went to the hospital.

So here I have been after days of hectic cooking, running, eating, planning...high and dry and alone for a couple of nights.  Theo is supposed to come home tonight but it'll be many a long day before I see any of the others again.

I seem to have caught a refreshment of my summer cold, and am sniffing away. Downer.

I am also picking up stuff.  They went through the garage, but left the house largely untouched. So the little stuff that's around is still around.  The valuables are still around.  And most of the furniture is still around. Gracious.

Still don't know what we'll do or where we'll go.
Something to think about. YAZZYBEL

Three Interesting Things

Things are interesting in the news right now.

Things are interesting at home but they're so complicated that I can't cope with anything.

So, to the three things in the world news that are of interest to me right now.

One is the crisis in the Administration which precipitated the IRS scandals or whatever they are: the investigations against the Tea Party-ers and others who, however different from ourselves as we may perceive them, are identical to us in the matter of constitutional rights.

Another is what's happening in Syria and now, Turkey, as I heard the other night. If it werent for the all-night news I'd never learn anything for the newspaper is such a rumpus that I can't find anything but nonsense.

And the third and most important thing is the immigration reform nonsense taking place in the House and Senate if they ever put it together.

Apropos of the first, I have never not thought that our very emails were being looked over daily by a crowd of long-suffering agents. At least, fellers, those of the Longoria girls are grammatical and subject-oriented, and have almost no bad words. Give us that.

Apropos of the second, I wish to state to President Barack Obama that I do not want us to go to war in Syria or Turkey.  I wish us to keep an eye on Iran and its nuclear development and work out some plan for control that does not include our going over there with boys and girls and arms...we've gotta find some other way to make money in this USA.  Repeat: if we need to make money and generate incomes, let it not be with swords but with plowshares.

And as for the third, I say, stop trying to buy the goodwill of our sometime permanent guests of the last twenty years.  There will be no good will from them no matter how hard we try.  Mexicans can be bought, but not by good will.  They just already know that we are suckers.  STOP all present talk in the H. and the S.  Bring in the troops and close the borders.  And then get serious.  I know that's not going to happen because too many groups and individuals in the USA are economically tied to and dependent on the DRUG TRAFFIC -ing  trade. It is ridiculous to view the scene without acknowledging that.  Grow up, all.

I am writing on these might issues to show you how much easier it is to deal with them than it is to deal with a husband in and out of ER's, visiting and very helpful sons who are working out in the garage to clear out fifty plus years of stuff (anybody want a collection of pristine Northern California seashells from 1958?)...and feeding all the above according to five different diets, and getting to know a fifteen year old grandson who's taking it all in.  He and I are both learners in the situation.  This is the first time he has been among the men of his family, talking amicably, working hard together, making plans.  This is the first time I have been an old lady who is going to have to make a move to somewhere she doesn't necessarily want to go to, in a condition she doesn't necessarily want to be in.
That's all for the subject on this day. YAZZYBEL

Something Delicious--and a Bonus

Good morning.

This won't be anything really new, just a couple of ideas on how you can use food in your refrigerator to make a couple of really good meals.

I had three large red tomatoes that had been sitting out in my kitchen for a few days, and knew I had to deal with them.  Numero uno was past it when I got around to it; it was well on the way to bad. So I tossed it, but the other two were still intact and looked good though too ripe to slice. So I cut them into quarters and blended them in my mini Cuisineart until they were liquid.  I poured them into a jar and had them in the refrigerator while I pondered the rest of my options.

I had a cold cooked dinosaur chicken breast in the refrigerator as well, but what with driving all over the creation and going to the hospital on the docket this week, it had been sitting there and looked mighty petrified.

So, I took that chicken breast and put it into a saucepan and added chicken broth to cover. I added onions because I love them so much and to me they add to anything.  I sprinkled in a few herbs of the oregano/rosemary/marjoram type, and set it to cook.  After it had all simmered for a time, I added the tomato puree that I'd set aside earlier in the refrigerator.  The whole broth took on the most beautiful color, a brilliant yet fresh looking yellow-red orange...and smelled heavenly.

After a time, I decided that that chicken breast had softened up for long enough, and I took it out and laid it onto a platter and with two forks I first removed the skin (for the kitty, who actually ate it) and then pulled the chicken apart into shreds.  The shreds actually covered the whole platter thickly and were a ton of good meat. There were bones because you know I don't like clones, and those I tossed. 

When lunch time came, I took out half of the meat,  put it into a bowl, cut a lot of celery, added Hellman's Mayonesa Con Limon, and put it away into the refrigerator as a salad for another meal.

The remaining chicken, as I eyed it, looked like a good five tacos' worth at least, so I took five tortillas out of the refrigerator and put them into a baking pan and sprayed them with spray olive oil and put them into the oven.  I also took several tablespoonsful of the broth and mixed it into the chicken on the platter.

I opened a can of hominy and heated it up. I opened a can of pinto beans and heated them up.
I removed the softened tortillas (they soften up quickly) and added to each one a large portion of shredded chicken, and a large pinch of lo-fat shredded cheese. I folded them and set them aside to go back into the oven in a moment.

The broth, in the meantime, was  simmering away .  Lunch was almost ready.  I looked in the refrigerator and found a bag of cut-up chard, and I shredded some of the leaves/stems/whatever.  I put the tacos back into the oven until thoroughly warm and melted.

For lunch we each  got a bowl of delicious golden red broth. Theodore got four generous tacos and I got one.  We each had a serving of frijoles and hominy on our plates. I sprinkled shredded chard over the tacos (instead of lettuce, which I also like--but the chard is more nutritious.)

It was a good and filling main meal of the day, with very little fat and lots of nutrition and flavor. Bonus was that I put the last of the hominy and beans into the last of the broth, and put it all into the refrigerator for a soup today at supper. I'll just add a bit of chicken broth from the carton in the refrigerator. (A very convenient thing to have around.)

This last soup could also have some ginger or some coconut added and it wouldn't be a bit out of line, if you wanted a slightly different cast of ethnicity to your soup.  Fusion cuisine, de veras.YAZZYBEL

June 6, 1944

Good morning!

Sixty nine years ago today, I was at Methodist Church Camp in the heart of the hill country of Texas.  It was a beautiful experience in a beautiful place.

Every morning, we went to a chapel meeting before the day began, and at that meeting, I remember, the announcement was made that the Allied Forces had commenced an invasion onto the German-held coast of Normandy.  It was a day of great patriotic pride and hope that our nation would soon lead us all into the vanquishment of the Nazi regime in Europe. I was fifteen years old, and have a snapshot that commemorates that day in my life.  And thousands of miles away, boys not much older than I were undergoing a tremendous and terrible ordeal that would end their lives or change them forever, in order to save all their fellow Americans.  We at that church camp were not unaware of their sacrifice, and in our young thoughtless way we had all of those young soldiers in our thoughts all day long.

In 1988, when I was in Paris on June 6th, we were all made aware that many many ex-servicemen from all over the world were converging upon France in memory of that invasion forty four years earlier.  I was mostly concentrating on being in the Louvre and trying to get into the Goya exhibit.  The Goya room was not to open for some forty five minutes after lunch, whether that day or every day, and while I waited in the hallway, I looked out the window at Paris (never boring) and chatted to a fellow tourist who was waiting too.  He was a tall, thin older American, and we were talking about how congested the traffic was and how many people were in the museum that day. 

"It's forty four years since I was here last," he said.  "Oh," said I blithely and unthinking, "I'll bet it was a lot more calm and quiet then."

"No," he said quietly.  "It was D-Day, and I was on the beach at Normandy."

It all bore in on me then, the reality of what he was going through as I sat under the live-oaks in the Hill Country.  The long years that had passed for each of us then, and the chance that had brought us together so much later on, to meet in a waiting area at the Louvre in Paris, waiting for the Goya rooms to open up.  YAZZYBEL

Where Are The Old Crows When You Need 'Em?

Good morning. 

For girls' eyes only!!

I have finally decided that I need a bra. Desperately.

I have been skipping blithely through life thinking that my recent conversion to teddies (cami's) is going to do it for me, and be a lot more comfortable--but a recent photo and a stray glance into the mirror have shown me otherwise.  I need a new, fitted garment, and when it fits I will get three.  But there's a catch.

When I was young I'd go up to a place like Saks in La Jolla, or Worth's on El Cajon Blvd. or even the Broadway, and in the lingerie department there would always be an Older Lady, well corseted herself, who came over and made your life miserable as you looking through the lingerie on your own. 

"You need a support garment," she would say, looking you up and down with steely eyes. It didnt matter if you said that you were plenty firm on your own and actually were not sagging at all, those eyes of steel had seen it all, and she'd seen you and found you lacking.

That's the lady I need now.  But the trouble is--I am the old crow now.  And, as far as I've found, the lingerie salons are staffed by a girl of twenty who's just horrified to be asked to contemplate your problems or to do anything to remediate what she considers a hopeless situation.
She went into the fitting room with you, and she pinched and pulled any garments you took with you, and she pointed out failings here or there, and she made suggestions based on thirty years' experience in underwear fitting rooms.  She was more knowledgeable than your gynecologist; she'd seen everything.

Well, here am I with one old worn out bra; I thoughtlessly tossed the others when I went over to cami's.  Without the old saleslady, I guess I'll have to rely for the fitting of new ones on the only old crow I have around: me!!   YAZZYBEL

Sunday

Sunday, and no ride to look around in my beautiful city.  That's because I planned to go over to Anderson's Nursery and squander some bucks...but a friend reminded me that today's the Rock and Roll Marathon and everything west of the church is swamped with running humanity.

So, I came back to CV with my tail between my legs, and went to the Goodwill where I squandered some money on a blue oxford-cloth shirt to cover my swimsuit when I go water walking, and a couple of VHS--yes I still play that archaic form of entertainment--and a brass standing lamp for when I am trying to read in bed. Its light will supplement the weak light from the bedside lamp.

It was incredibly dark and cold this morning at church.  I had thought myself silly to put on my white quilted jacket, but changed my mind when I walked up to the steps and saw M., greeting at the door, and shivering and hugging her arms in her pink tee shirt top.

Only thirty people were at early service, thanks to the Rock and Roll Marathon, which takes away our parking and scares away the wary.  I forgot about it and came anyway, which was lucky as I got a close parking space by fate.  We were all placed up on the chancel near the altar, with the clergy huddled more or less in the middle. 

 Nobody knew what to do or where to go or how to proceed, but that practice of putting us up front on slow days is increasing so soon it will be down pat.

I got an interesting view of the church from where I was, straight down the aisle (and it was pitch dark out there, remember) leading to the huge rose-window at the back.  Our stained glass windows are remarkable, and with a black surround and lighted with a cold gray outside light, they are very striking.  Chartres blue is probably the leading color.  And rose windows are just beautiful.

So that was my religious experience today, other than a short chat with friends afterward on the virtues of the Paleo diet.  Oh, I wish I could just go on it and stick to it.  My heart attack has made me squeamish as to the ingesting of fatty meats..(though I really think LDL is the result of too much carbo.) See how wishy-washy I am? I think I will make it a prayer quest, to be able to try the Paleo and stick to it.  YAZZYBEL

The Really Simplest Guacamole

Good evening!

I read a website recently entitled, The Simplest Guacamole....it then proceeded to give a recipe that included everything but the kitchen sink, including mayonesa...a big no-no.

I also read about the Mexican peasant eating his midday lunch of a taco made of one tortilla and one small chile which he broke with his fingernail and smeared across the tortilla.  I thought at the time that it was a very spartan lunch, but I am beginning to think, "the simpler the better."

I myself have often eaten a lunch of one tortilla lightly charred on the stove burner, and here is the guacamole I ate on it: one half ripe avocado, mashed up a bit, and spread across the tortilla. I love salt so I add that. Now THAT is one simple guacamole, and very conventient too.

I also loved butter tacos in those long lost days before my ataque de corazon.  Toast tortilla as above, spread hot charred tortilla with a dab of cold butter, fold and eat, preferably over the sink. Repeat as required. Nowadays I hardly eat any butter at all. Do I miss it? Sometimes. But jam is a consolation.

You can see that I am a gourmet cook.  Ha!  But I am a gourmet eater for sure, and those simple items just described can't be beat for taste and satisfaction!!!  YAZZYBEL

My City, My Beautiful City

Good Monday morning.

Yesterday, after church, I had a sneaky little vacation all by myself.

I didn't come straight home!  I went lookin'.

When we first lived in San Diego in the early sixties,  Mission Hills was practically all I knew.  We first lived in an apartment in Clairemont but every night after supper we'd go riding around in search of our future neighborhood.

The evening that we first drove up Juan Street Hill, I said to my husband, "This is it!!"  And before long we searched out a realtor, and before my second baby was born we were happily residing on Hickory Street.  After a time, with baby number three coming along, we found another, larger house on Lyndon Road, with a huge canyon in back, and we moved there.

We hadn't paid a lot of attention to the canyons before we went there, but the canyons of San Diego are worthy of much notice. They range in size from the small and sequestered to the huge and open. Our canyon, for example, was fully a mile across at the top (I'm guessing) from our street to the houses of Washington Place across the way, and there was a deep steep incline in between, filled with bushes, plantings, wildflowers (radish and mustard) in spring, and trees.  Still, it was wide and airy, and from this I began to call the canyon systems of my beautiful city, "air canals."

This canyon, as it rambled west, descended also, and came out not really very far from the Naval and Marine training bases at Point Loma.  In the mornings as we lay abed on Hickory, we could hear the mighty roars of hundreds of young male voices calling out as they greeted the raising of the flag.  Once in a while we'd find an abandoned uniform of day-wear down on the canyon where someone hoped, perhaps to return to his faraway home without detection.

There was lots of wild life in the canyon, foxes, raccoons, coyotes, who came out at night and ferretted around the houses for whatever they might find.  We loved having them and I remember in a hot summer spell, filling a metal tank with water halfway down the canyon so that the foxes might drink.

As my kids grew up, I became a night walker, taking to the complicated knots of streets to discover ever more little neighborhoods within neighborhoods.  There was a neverending display of differently designed residences and gardens. I 'd take my two chihuahuas on a leash and often I'd end up carrying them home as their little legs finally gave out on them.

To me, at that time, San Diego consisted of Mission Hills, Hillcrest, Point Loma, La Jolla and Clairemont.  But a big change came for me when I began teaching in about 1970.  Armed with the huge substitute teacher map provided by the San Diego City Schools for its subs, I went all over the area. Since I was concentrating on bi-lingual, the neighborhoods tended not to be the ones mentioned above, and I was out in the dawn looking for places I'd never even heard of.  I'd go in in the dark, practically, be handed a door key, go into a cold dank empty room smelling of sour sponges, old chalk, and kids....look for a lesson plan, and lots of times just improvise when that inevitable bell rang and a crowd of raucous, curious little kids charged in.

It's toward those unfamiliar neighborhoods that I go now to look around.  Places I'd never thought of before I saw them.  The canyons are there, the neighborhoods albeit shabbier in some cases, filled with an ill-sitting but vibrant group of immigrant families from all over the world now; inhabiting the tree-shadowed woodsy lots, planting in the canyons, pushing their children on the sidewalks.  And over all hangs the incredible San Diego weather: almost too still, almost too mild, almost too perfect.

It's amazing to me that I cannot even afford (outright is how I 'm thinking nowadays) to buy most of these derelicts.  The prices in San Diego proper are almost astronomical.  I wonder that these families can afford them. By renting them mostly, I am sure.  But there are hard workers there, and people who know how to save and put by.  If they don't own their house this year, just give them some time. It will be worth it.

So that's where I go driving, sometimes, after church of a Sunday.  I give myself the limit of an hour so I won't get home too late...but faced with the prospect of maybe or surely leaving it forever before too long, I cherish every moment and every strange new street and every beautiful new canyon hiding behind it. YAZZYBEL

One, Toast with Butter is Delicious, and, Two, there are Too Many Chickens, or are they Chickens?

Good morning.

I am eating breakfast and my mind is running upon thoughts of food.

I am regretting toast with butter, which I no longer indulge in because of my pore little old artery attack, but--toast with jelly is good too and I do allow myself that though not with dilly bread as I had this morning.

I wake up hungry, which is a good sign. If you are consistently not hungry when you wake up in the morning, check your blood sugar.  I've never eaten habitually after dinner, and the 'bedtime snack' is anathema.

Having said that, I remember some wonderful after theater Dutch apple pie with ice cream that we used to eat in Dallas after going to the summer outdoor theaters...how wonderful that pie was, especially with good Texas vanilla ice cream on top. I'm thankful I indulged in that when I was twenty or twenty-one years of age, when my body could take it!!

And I have been thinking of the wonderful fried chicken restaurant in Waco, Texas, in the early fifties.  Everyone went there after church for their Sunday dinner.  That chicken was just scrumptious.  And fried, fried, fried, glistening with richness there on the plate. (I was thinking of those dinners the other day upon eating a hard, greasy piece of supermarket fried chicken. Sigh!) And yes, I pull off the skin now, deed I do. Good girl~!!

That restaurant had one of the best banana pies I've ever eaten (though I didnt manage to get banana pie into the title up there.) It was made with a flaky baked crust, cooled and filled with sliced perfect bananas, a sprinkle or two of sugar, and whipped cream on top and served chilled.  Oh, how good it was!

But back to the chicken--remember when I wrote about Too Many Lobsters not long ago?  There are way way WAY too many chickens and especially chicken breasts out there on the market. Chicken breasts are rumoured to be pieces of CLONE, in the subterranean world in which I exist.  Clone, I tell you, manufactured meat!  Even if they are not, the number of slaughtered chickens required to put out the number of pieces of chicken meat out there on the supermarket shelves is ASTRONOMICAL.
There is astronomical suffering involved.  It just ain't right, I tell you.

Vegan is the only way.  A piece of fish stolen from the cold pristine waters of Scandinavia cannot always be amiss, but really, can't we see that, unless we grew it in our back yard and did it in ourselves, chicken as an American food just has to go? It's just too much.  YAZZYBEL