Life of Wry

I’m not a gin drinker. If I have to drink the hard stuff, my liquor of choice is vodka (straight up with two olives, please). Gin is just not a taste I’ve ever cottoned to.

(Ugh.)

Still, when my workout buddy Robin, a nurse by day, said her solution to arthritic finger and thumb joints was gin-infused raisins, I was all ears. Fruit and spirits sound way better to me than mega doses of ibuprofen. And I’m hoping the combination works better than the turmeric I tried but gave up on after three months.

Gin and golden raisins could be the ticket. I now have a raisin to drink gin!

Robin suggested pouring the contents of one box of golden raisins (has to be golden, she said) into a mason jar, cover with gin (any gin, just go for cheap), and let the raisins soak up as much gin as possible. Then she said to eat NINE raisins nightly (nighttime is better, she said; that way your gin breath won’t alarm people). She is tiny, I’m not, so I ate ten raisins (and they actually tasted pretty good). Another woman, also a workout friend from the Fitness Garage, scoffed at only nine/ten. She splurges on a big spoonful and considers it dessert.

Both said it worked for them. Robin’s been eating nine gin-soaked raisins every night for years. No arthritis. Vicki is a more recent convert. No arthritis. Both travel with their special raisins and had some tips for getting past the TSA guys.

I am totally in.

My fingers are crossed (because there is no arthritis there). Maybe soon I’ll be able to cross my hips!

So I’m sitting at the light at Poleline Road and 5th Street, listening to what had been an interesting story on NPR–can’t remember now what it was–and the Emergency Broadcast Alert comes on full blast. Not the test thing that they give you full warning for, but the real deal.

This happened to me only once before: I was driving home from an eye appointment in Elk Grove in 2011 and, HOLY WEATHER EVENT, I was caught in a dark and dangerous storm cell. It was exciting and scary and intense; you can read about it here. 

My heart is pounding because I just know it’s another weather event, and I’m sure it’s related to all the rain that California is getting right now, and I can see that this weather event is not in Davis or anywhere within eye-shot. I have a sinking feeling it’s up in the mountains and a sinkier feeling it’s going to be exactly where Peter and his friends are backpacking.

And I’m exactly right.

The weather official, broadcasting in a very scratchy, low fidelity way, describes a narrow swatch of the Sierra that includes the area around Sword Lake and continues with warnings of bowling-ball-sized hail (okay, slight exaggeration), high winds, ferocious thunder, and says, essentially, it’s going to rain lightening. He says that if you’re in the area to get yourself to shelter immediately. It sounds positively apocalyptic. Right there near Sword Lake.

Shitballs.

I know this is something that is going to move through, but I also worry that before it moves through it’s going to pummel our boys. And I just hope that they have the good sense to huddle together somewhere low and dry and keep their wits about them. I hope they’ve anticipated this, have moved their belongings into their tents (I sure hope they’ve set up both tents, and securely, because the low-fidelity guy said the winds would be FIERCE).

I drove down 5th barking commands to Siri to text Peter, Jim, and Carrie.

It’s all I could do.

Got home and followed up with some calls. Had a calming call with Marc, who’s been through far worse (times five thousand), talked to Jim (eventually… he was taking a nap) and just agitated around.  I also sent a message to my friend from First Grade, Chris, who lives up in Sonora, and asked him about the weather (it was nice, he said, though a bit dark to the east). I also, also, made a call to the Pinecrest Ranger Station and left a worried mom message… though tried not to sound too worried. Just wanted them to have a number to call… in case.  They’d gone home for the day.

By now, as of this writing, the storm’s cleared. I’m calm(er). I’m sure a story is in the making. Looking forward to hearing about it from cheerful, full-chested, storm-survivin’ guys tomorrow.

In the meantime, some tomatoes:

It’s the only picture I have (from next-door Mary’s garden).

Big, big doings today!

Peter and three friends–Reed, Daniel and Frank–headed out this morning on a solo backpacking trip. Just four seventeen year olds. On their own. Three days, two nights. Driving themselves all the way to Sword Lake (in the Carson-Iceberg Wilderness, which is kind of a long way away, as it turns out). Decided all their own menus (with some guidance), did all their own shopping, did all their own packing (with some guidance), will find and set up camp by themselves… and hike in/out, of course.

Solo.

I’m a little on pins and needles, not feeling exactly relaxed about this, but also feeling so excited for them and feel they are up to the challenges. I am sure it won’t be smooth, but I expect it will be a learning experience. And very fun. (It’s supposed to rain, with a chance of thunderstorms. They’re prepared, mostly, but that oughta be interesting.)

Three of the four went to Sword Lake two years ago with Jim, so are reasonably familiar with it. Peter chose the spot back then for its famed jumping rocks.They are returning because it’s a short hike in, has lots of places to set up camp, the aforementioned swimmability, and there will be enough people around that they shouldn’t feel too alone.

Marc helped with some of the planning; check lists are the best:

We got a text from Peter this afternoon from the Pinecrest Ranger Station… they’d run into a bureaucratic snafu: seems you have to be 18 to get a wilderness permit. Oh. After a few texts back and forth and some head scratching on the part of the rangers, they were given the go-ahead and were on their way. It’s 4:00pm as I write this and they are just now on the trail.  Should arrive in time to set up before dark (it’s only two miles in).

Yay!

Then, who knows.

This is what it looked like in the Frame-Peterson household this early Sunday morning…

Peter was gathering the last of his stuff–see how he’s kind of in a blur?

And here he is just before Jim drove him to Reed’s:

Final words before departure, “Mom, you are so annoying.” (Then he initiated a nice teenage boy hug.)

Truly, truly, I am so thrilled for him. So pleased that this is the kind of activity he seeks out, pleased that we can trust him to be responsible, pleased that he is with a group of guys I trust, pleased that he is motivated and confident enough to head into the mountains for a few days with just his buddies.

I’m also smiling about his choice of hats. He could have chosen any one of about 50 baseball caps.. but he chose that one. And he took sun screen.

See what I mean?

Nice to be home.

Very nice of Jim to have relocated my hammock. Er… our hammock. Actually, this is the hammock I gave him, back in about 2004 when he’d just finished building Peter’s huge play structure and I thought, perhaps, having finished that big project, he’d like to take a load off. Taking loads off is not Jim’s style, however, so, by default, I am the one who mostly swings in the hammock. Win win, huh?

The relocating was because, in its previous location, it got too much sun during the late afternoon part of the day… precisely the time it’s best to be hanging out in a hammock. Also, it awkwardly spanned our new flagstone path–a path that didn’t exist when we originally located the hammock.

So, for Mother’s Day this year, I requested it be moved.  As Mother’s Day gifts go, it’s a pretty good one.

Here it sits, way back in the southwest corner of the yard. It’s only 88 today… and in the shade? Perfect.

And, of course, the view from here:

Got a couple phone calls made, listened to some great music, finally prevailed in a game of Spider that has been my challenge for a couple of weeks, maybe.  Didn’t even get to my book.

There’s always tomorrow.

I know, too easy a title.

But, hey, we’re pretty excited over here about our peach tree.. considering it was a cast off from our neighbor, Anna, who is a pomology post doc, has lived next door for about five years, and who, about four or five years ago, gave us a couple of starter peach trees (“Hey, would you guys be interested in a couple of trees from our lab?”). At the time, they were about two feet long, and really just looked like fat twigs.

We planted them.

A couple years ago, Frances and I moved them a couple feet further away from the driveway (vulnerable as they were to Jim’s wide-body truck).

Moving trees always feels a little risky to me, like you’re messing with nature somehow.

But, they survived just fine.. and one of them exploded with fruit this year.

This is the first year we’ve gotten any fruit at all. In fact, the one put out so much fruit, that Frances and I removed about fifty baby peaches so that the tree wouldn’t be so burdened and traumatized when they grew and became heavier. The other tree has only a couple peaches, which is two more than it has ever had.

Must be a peach year!

We are thrilled. They taste great, too.

I just love (not) that I had to crawl around on the floor at the airport to find a power outlet for my laptop… that at LAX–a massive international airport in a modern, west coast city–there are no civilized, AC power-equipped seats to be found. The dated, rundown Southwest Terminal does have a few charging stations scattered about, but good luck scoring an outlet there.

It was funny, by contrast, as I made my way through the airport in Sacramento, teeny by comparison, I felt like I was in a new version of Tomorrowland. We Sacramento travelers–moving quickly and efficiently between the buildings of the new Terminal B on spiffy, elevated, express monorails, and between its stories on towering escalators, connected to our mobile devices through dangling earbuds–seemed like the future incarnate. I totally felt like a Jetson. Everything in Sac is upscale, functional and modern. Nobody’s sitting pathetically on a dirty floor, looking at everybody’s hairy knees and summer feet, futzing with a slow wifi connection.

C’mon, LAX. If our little airport in the Central Valley can do it, you can.

I am sorry not to be more original in my southland photos… sunsets, harbors… yeah, yeah.

Drove along the water on our way to dinner…

And, about 30 minutes later, the view from our window seat at the fish place:

It was a lovely day, like most days I spend with my mom, but it was not an easy day  These just aren’t relaxing days. They’re emotional minefields. My mom is kind of a wreck. I know–I can see–it’s hard to lose, one by one, so very many things in your life that you love and value. Friends, family members, independence, mobility, comfort, activity, a social life. Not to mention it’s hard to see, hear, eat, sleep, digest, process. And move, did I say move? I mean like from one room to another. Or, as the day goes on, from one chair to another.

Hard to be the stylin’ gal you’ve always thought yourself to be, tethered to oxygen, wobbling with a cane.

As grateful, I think, as my mom is to even be living–with a critical mass of brain cells intact, children and grandchildren more or less nearby, a great grandchild on the way, great books to read, tennis matches to watch, pleasing views out the window, and all the rest–aging is not at all something she’s handling well. It’s the shits. At least that’s my observation of my mom’s experience of it. She’s frustrated, short tempered, fearful, lonely, in a lot of discomfort and, on top of it all, so self-critical it’s just painful. Hard to recognize her as mi mama.

I vow, I really do, to not ever find aging to be anything less than a privilege. This is the miracle of life we’re talking about! It’s more than a worthwhile tradeoff. And I vow to look at aging as a challenge to be met with grace, humor, humility, and unending gratitude.

I want the same for her but she’s not having it.

She has so much to be grateful for. She is so fortunate.  And yet her frustration trumps all. Frustrated as she is, she is not willing to accept or put into place the kind of help she needs. Too proud. Too stubborn. C’mon, mom, cowboy up!!

And I know this is right out of Readers’ Digest, but I am not kidding, this is the level of conversation we have so often these days, and that we had continually over the last four days. Reminders of what’s good. A calm approach to prioritizing what’s important and evaluating all the options. A frank look at where we are and what our resources are.

I’m guessing I’m actually pretty clueless here. What do I really know about the process–the heartache, the loss, the pain. Being twenty six years younger may disqualify me. I probably have no right to lecture. To listen, yes… to be encouraging, yes…

If I’m lucky enough to make it to 86, I hope I’m a model aging senior. I hope at least one of the benefits of being my mom’s daughter is that I can learn from her experience. I’m hell bent on aging like a boss.

My mom, though? This is a work in progress. The four of us are mobilizing in new ways (well, Jay’s a bit out of the loop, but not for long). Normal keeps shifting.

Proceed with tenderness.

Today in pictures:

Mom and I went to Polly’s on the Pier for breakfast. I can wholeheartedly recommend this place for reliable breakfast fare, a lovely view, great service and traditional, perfect beachside ambiance. All you could ever want.

Because it was Bastille Day, I had this:

Definitely not my usual.

Also, nobody we talked to today knew it was Bastille Day.

After breakfast, we took a short walk on a short pier (sorry) and ended up talking to three guys–self identified recent parolees from a prison in Texas. That was a bit weird. (We did not talk to them about Bastille Day.)

We kept it short. Relocated a bit south of the pier, sat for a couple of hours, talked and watched the action down on the sand.

Mom’s re-reading Nora Ephron’s I Feel Bad About My Neck… a great title and–based on the laughing coming out of her room last night–funny. So our selfie today was about necks. At least mine.  And regarding necks? I don’t really care. I think it’s supposed to look like this right about now.

(I sure didn’t get my mom’s olive complexion.)

Today was also the annual American League versus National League All-Star game. Really fun to watch on a big screen TV… so unlike our TV watching at home (in Davis). The pre-game hoopla was dramatic in the way network sports coverage tends to be for big sporting extravaganzas–just a teeny, weeny bit over the top–but there was one part that was particularly moving–the part when Johnny Bench (67), Hank Aaron (81), Sandy Koufax (79) and Willie (Say Hey!) Mays (84) were honored.

Mom even cried during this part.

Chris came over for dinner tonight. I’ll say two things about Chris… he’s got an enormously wicked sense of humor which is very entertaining and which I love, and his experience of growing up with our parents was vastly different than my own. It’s kind of amazing how that can be.

And with that, good night.

Even though I make this Northern –> Southern California trip a lot to spend a few days with my mom, I’m still moved to photograph stuff along the way….

1) The candy colored, geometricized farmscape of the central valley…

Okay…. maybe that was a little over the top.  How about this one, not so color enhanced:

2) The insanely beautiful and oh so familiar view from the Esplanade on our walk from Avenue I to Burnout. What you don’t feel in this picture is the light, warm breeze. I say with genuine passion and reverence… this just never gets old..

3) Mom sitting on a bench taking it all in. This also moves me. This is the one and only reason she flatly rejected the idea of moving to an assisted living community in Davis, wanted to remain in her house in Palos Verdes. She could not bring herself to leave the beach, in particular this stretch of beach, in particular doing exactly this on this stretch of beach.

4) Rows and rows of palms against the blue, ocean-cooled sky. I just love this, deep down to my spleen, wherever that is. Deep.

5) Seagulls flying overhead… which, seagulls are hard to track on a bright summer day at the beach with one’s smart phone camera.. really hard… but here he is anyway…

6) And of course some food we ate. For dinner tonight, we had the usual–my mom’s signature–chicken thighs in butter, wine, lemon, broth, lemon pepper.. and did I say butter? (lots of it), baked this time with zucchini, butternut squash, onions… which I did not bother getting another picture of. But I did take a picture of some sauteed butter…with mushrooms added for texture and flavor…

No pictures of gin rummy… but there was also plenty of that.

Day one in the bag.

Walking downtown this morning on the way to breakfast, ran across this sign…

Upon closer inspection…

It’s not that I don’t appreciate a well-communicated message on a simple, handsome, well-designed, well-fonted, appropriately-located-and-displayed sign. This was all that.

And It’s certainly not that I don’t have a sense of humor. I just don’t have a sense of humor about deception. Especially obnoxious deception. Especially obnoxious deception aimed at yahoo frat boys about free beer. It’s obnoxious.

But I got over it.

Largely because just minutes later, I was enjoying this…

Same establishment, too!

Not only that, but the barista prepared this for me before I’d even had a chance to place my order…. that is a class act.

Bernardo’s. What the late night crew lacks in taste, the early morning crew makes up for in style.