A Friend to All Who Knew Him

The other evening I was happily participating in Cramcake's gratitude posts which had entertained me for several days. Writing items for which to be thankful comes pretty naturally to me. I am grateful for many, many small and larger things. I thought to type that I was thankful/grateful to have enjoyed Stepfather in my life, but I got all jumbly. I decided to go to Walgreens and distract myself awhile buying hair goo and other important items. I came home and tried to type again about my honor to have known Stepfather. I lost it. Shoulders heaving, sobbing out loud. And that's before I really got going. Clearly I could not stick this man simply on commentary somewhere, no matter how special the blog might be to me. I needed to write about him because it was clear I had some wires that were still live.

If the reader wants to split hairs, come on. Strictly speaking, technically, he was not my stepfather. There were some pieces missing in that process. But he was my mother's mate and I don't know what else I'd call him. Or consider him. I come from a family that does not fit many molds perfectly. So he was my Stepfather, OK? And a second grandpa to Amber - to my eternal gratitude. He entered my life in 1966. I was 13. He left it by death in 2001. At his death, he was watching with great anticipation as I headed for a life-changing moment to come in September of that year. He missed it, to my eternal sorrow. He'd have cheered for me.

He was born to a large Mormon family in Riverside, California, in 1914. He maintained that Riverside connection all his life, though he eventually moved many places far removed from the Inland Empire. I have never known a man of 80 who still had so many friends left from his childhood. I've met about 20 of them, ancient fellows who still thought they were young boys. He had a childhood friend who became a Cadillac dealer and provided many, many cars across the decades. One sport from his youth was one of the Graber sons, the Grabers of olive fame. Graber olives can now be purchased in many grocery stores around the country for $5-7 a can. They are a treat that will not be forgotten. Every holiday season for decades, some lucky contingent was dispatched to Graber's and hauled back cases and cases of the olives for which no money had changed hands. Little kids in my family would pop 10 of them onto fingertips and grin from ear to ear. A favorite story concerns the year Stepfather went to his 60th high school reunion. Ex and I asked him, bellowing, for he was quite deaf by this time, how he'd enjoyed himself. He had, indeed, but he was disappointed so many of the cute girls had put on weight. He said this in dead seriousness. Ex had to step outside to laugh, visions of plump 78-year-old women dancing in his head. For many years, my mother marveled at finding herself in Italy or Sweden or in some dark corner of Timbuktu and suddenly running into some group of Stepfather's dearest friends. It was uncanny.

He had an extreme case of rheumatic fever in his youth, and was troubled later by rheumatoid arthritis. When I met him, one of his legs was much shorter than the other and he wore the highest, most built-up shoe I'd ever seen. At least 6 inches. He ultimately had one of the earliest hip replacement surgeries in the nation, repeated a few times across the years. It is my sense he was probably an average-to-good student. His spelling was always, ummmm, curious. But he was a shining artist in many methods, stained glass in particular. I know family legends get a little slick, a little too smooth with the retelling, but this is approximately how it went. He was poor. There was no hope of higher education for him. I don't know if college scholarships existed at the time, but they surely were not common. So the story goes that he went to a nearby college (now a university) and connected with the right person whom he told that he had no money but had a burning desire to be an artist and teach art to others and if they would allow him to go to school, he would someday return and do something fine for the college. He graduated with the class of 1939. He did return and endow the university with the swimming pool and aquatic center that bear his name, construction beginning in 1996 with continued enhancements after his death.

By the time I met him (1966), he was a very wealthy man whose net worth would increase exponentially throughout his life. He worked hard to make that happen. No longer teaching in the classroom at L.A. City College, he'd had an exciting life and he still had 35 years to go. He had owned bars in the far southeastern stretches of California. Once he went on a circuit to collect the receipts and one of the bars was held up while he was there. The robber shot Stepfather and every time he ever told the story, he spoke not of fear or pain. He marveled for the rest of his days that the blast blew him right out of his shoes. He owned a very large rose farm in San Diego County - the flower growing capital of the world at the time. He owned vast tracts of land in Las Vegas and had already started building houses there. He piloted his own planes and he owned fine sportfishing vessels that grew in size and luxury with each new purchase. He was generous to a fault. He enjoyed feeding people, entertaining them, taking them out to sea and up into the wild blue.
Some small minded people in my mother's own family still spew poison about Stepfather bankrolling her. They are mistaken. He taught her how to make her own money and she was a good student. In the early 1970s, my mother called to say that if Ex and I wanted to own a home at a much younger age than most Californians, we might want to come over to Las Vegas for just a short time and start making money. Our cottage industry was lovely. Stepfather built houses, my mother sold them, I escrowed them, Ex was the landscape contractor. Stepfather put up a lot of houses each year. Life was pretty exciting. When Ex and I finally decided to marry, Stepfather flew his plane over, completely stuffed with yellow roses, my wedding signature flower. For these flowers, no money exchanged hands. It took multiple florists to arrange these in time for the wedding. When my mother's alcoholism made her life unmanageable, he curtailed enjoying his own cocktails and took her to AA meetings. When Las Vegas busted, following the heady boom, he told us we were right to run for the coast to get jobs. We were too young to have a big enough cushion to carry us through a bust.

Some of my fondest memories include Stepfather's many kindnesses to my Granny. He called her Mary Belle, which no other human could get by with. She detested the "Belle" part of her name. I recall the summer when he had 75 houses completed except for the toilets. There was a toilet shortage. Seriously. Stepfather secured a sizable stack of Elvis Presley tickets which he parlayed into porcelain fixtures from California and other locations. We closed the deals on our houses while others sat throneless throughout the valley. Stepfather knew about some beautiful hams, as lean as poultry, and shaped rather like a football, maybe somewhat larger. I'd like a nickel for every one of those hams I've tucked under my arm alongside him, cans of olives, too, and gallons of good liquor. We'd take holiday gifts to each and every employee of each and every subcontractor at each construction site. That's how he felt it should be. The 1980s ensued. Ex and I jumped up to our necks into union work. Mom and Stepfather languished in Las Vegas half of the time and on the coast the other half. When Las Vegas was booming, they built. For years and years and years.

Amber was born in 1990. My mother and I were in the middle of a bitter, but temporary estrangement and she did not meet her only grandchild until the little girl was 5 - about to enter kindergarten. Of course, meeting Grandma also meant meeting Step. He liked Amber and she liked him. It was as simple as that. When she was 5 and taking bowling lessons, he produced a leather bowling bag, shoes and a swirly purple ball. When she sold Girl Scout cookies, he bought so many boxes he took them all to Father Beno's soup kitchen to treat the clients. He talked with her. Why do some people not know or know how to talk to children? He contributed a shocking sum of money to her education trust fund so she could go to Harvard or Yale or the local business college, as it pleased her. But the best thing he did for her, by far, was take her out on the boat. Oh, yeah, we went, too. We'd take her out of school for a month, get special assignments designed to play on what she'd be doing on the boat (different species of fish seen, weather faxes, GPS readings, keeping the diesel engines in good order) and we were gone. She knew by the age of 8 that she wanted to spend her life in and on the water. She never considered anything else. She was a brilliant student, and will be working as either an oceanographer or a marine biologist with master's degrees in both, before she is 25. Amber, an only child, has always been just a little reserved. Not chilly or hostile. It just takes her awhile to feel secure. She also has a soft, tender voice as her father did. Stepfather was very deaf by the time she was born. We taught her to stand directly in front of him, make and keep eye contact and holler. She did it! They were grand friends.

Late in Stepfather's life, he learned about McDonald's. He did love a chocolate shake and my mother took him for a large one every Tuesday. I don't know why Tuesday. It has nothing to do with the story. Some months before he died, she pulled into the driveway between errands on a Tuesday afternoon to the shocking sight of lots and lots of police cars, fire trucks and paramedic vehicles. What the heezy? Oh, we all knew he was done. One didn't have to be clairvoyant. He was 87 and he wasn't squeezing all the good things out of life any longer. He and Mom had only realized a couple of years previously that he was 20 years older than she and their lives weren't going to end at a similar time. He was tired. He'd packed about 107 years of life into that 87 years. When she went out on errands that morning, he'd gone to his stained glass studio where the .357 magnum was secreted in his workbench. He shot himself in the chest as he had planned to do, but it did not kill him. No amount of money or fast talk would keep him out of the psych ward. "Mom, do you need me, specifically, to go with you?" "No, I think Ex would handle it better." Agreed! I couldn't go. I stayed home with my little child. When Ex came home, he sobbed. Stepfather sat in a wheelchair, doped up, head hanging. He might have been dead. My mother wrung her hands. Ex stepped up and said, "Stepfather, we love you. What were you thinking?" "Ex, I'm an old, old man. Five years ago, I wouldn't have missed." He died of natural causes, at home, fewer than 90 days later. He and I had a little fun going on. On 9-11-01, the 9-11, my life was going to change. He was rooting for me. I'm sad he did not share in my success. He died on 7-11-01, not such a lucky date for him or us.

Likely, I know (at least partially) why his children eschewed him. OK. So be it. Their experience was not mine. Mine, not theirs. Why did his grandchildren value him so little? Likely because of watching their parents' treatment of him. He was smart enough not to try to be my dad - I had one I valued tremendously, thank you very much. He was flawed. He was the best example I ever knew of a person who got up every day and went forth to do good things and to do things well.

Something that charmed me: A favored bit of videotape exists and - oh! - it charms me. It was the July 4th holiday and we were out at sea, pulling in so much fish that we'd press it on everyone we ever knew and Father Beno's soup kitchen. When we went onboard, Stepfather told Amber he had a little project for them to do to surprise everyone else aboard. She was about 5, big black eyes sparkling at the notion of a surprise project. They went off together into the galley and we all swore we weren't looking at them. Yes, the sound of the electric mixer and the eventual good smells told us they were likely baking a cake, and they were. It would be iced white with strawberries and blueberries to fashion an American flag. Captain Sean had free range on the boat. He had work to do nearly 24/7 and orders such as "don't come into the galley" did not apply to him. He grinned, watching the cooks and it is he who saw what had to be caught on videotape. It was loud on that vessel. Diesel engines roaring, excited anglers one-upping each other outside on deck, electric mixer going. Amber is a talker - one who feels compelled to communicate. Stepfather was as deaf as a post. On the tape, she stands on an ice chest next to Stepfather, the only way she could reach the countertop. The viewer can see her mouth moving and her head turning toward him. No response of any kind. She continued to crack eggs and her mouth continued to move, though she got no recognition. She figured it out for herself. Not missing a beat in her egg-cracking, she shot an elbow into Stepfather's ribs. He gave a little start and smiled at her. She engaged in her own version of sign language to get across whatever important cake-making message she felt so driven to deliver. He bobbed his head. They were having fun.

Change of Address and More

The lovely black cat, Virginia Woolf, and I do not live in the same place where we resided when I started the blog. We do, however, live in an area of the city with which we are both familiar. VW may like this community. I haven't asked her specifically. She does like to pussyfoot around outside my French doors along the tiled areas of the pool and hot tub. The wall surrounding the yard is so high that even a jungle cat could not escape, and VW now enjoys her first-ever forays into the outdoors. She likes the sun shining on her black fur. She does not like the little spray of water that disturbs her sense of all that's right as my head emerges from the water.

To my last post, esteemed blogger Erin O'Brien encouraged me to "do the 4-miler", meaning a fairly long walk, to snap a photo op. I'd spent years clocking miles and miles of walking each day of life. But I'd fallen away from it and felt very sad about that. I'm walking again. Not 10 miles, yet, on any given day, but I'm moving myself a little. There's a woman I see frequently who seems generally my age and about the same degree of fitness. I've toyed with the idea of asking her to meet up for a walk, but I haven't done so yet. I have befriended the man who passes my home every morning with two white dogs the size of lions. He is very pleasant. The dogs still make me retreat, pressing my backside into the nearest chainlink fence, which I could scale better than a block wall, should they decide to eat me. I passed a remotely familiar community one morning, its posted name ringing a bell from 33 years ago. Yes, it was the one and only section Stepfather built on the eastside all those years ago - homes a little larger and grander that ours in the far west of the city. I strode on streets named for Mom and myself, intersected with that Terrace named for Ex. A contractor could do that in those days. No streets had existed there before. It was just open desert.

I am surprised, intrigued and a little anxious about regaining my fitness. I'd been ill awhile. I'd stopped all fitness routines and my previously inspiring muscles left me so quickly and completely. I wear 2007 (smallest ever) clothes now, or - rather - they wear me, waistbands cinched up like the top of the paper bag around the neck of a wino's bottle. Last week, I went to a medical appointment where I had to be weighed and have my waist measured. I take a medication that can cause unwanted, very quick weight-gain. "Hmmm," said the nurse. "You've lost X pounds." I allowed as how that wasn't such a lot of weight, but he said, "It's about 10% of your body weight in 90 days."Oh.OK, I know what to do. I know to set a timer to remind me to eat, and I know what to eat. I am a fairly decent problem solver.

I mentioned in the last post that I might need a step ladder to do justice to any pictures I might take to show something I found remarkable and funny in my travels. On my first on-foot outing, I determined I was going to need a really big ladder. On my second visit, I realized I was going to need a cherry-picker and far more refined camera equipment than any I can access. But I am resourceful. Circling this curiosity, I spotted some words and thought maybe I could Google something. I also developed a prickly feeling that maybe some copyrights and trademarks might be at work. There were posted some signs and notices relating anger and dissent. At home, in front of the computer, I learned that this jaw-dropper place has already attracted much attention, many photographs, was once an attraction to which one paid admission, and now was the subject of numerous lawsuits and protests. What in the world made me think I was going to be the first to photograph and point to an unusual item? This is Las Vegas, for crying out loud! I'd asked a couple of photographers to make the 7-mile journey with me for years. All I wanted was a snap of the perfectly normal house on a perfectly normal street that had a full-scale roller coaster (with cars) protruding from an upstairs wall, presumably someone's bedroom. There were a few other interesting items, but the owner had not yet gone full amusement park. Should I have been more persuasive, or should the photographers have been more attentive to what I wanted to do those days when I asked for a little field trip? Not sure about that.

I have a decades-long routine for visiting the book store, carefully choreographed by me and explained to with whomever I am going into the store. This dance has been performed with Ex and Amber as my companions, girlfriends, colleagues with whom I am doing research for some presentation. We spill into the entrance of the store, scrambling like roaches spilled out of a jar. I furtively make my way to the section where are sold those kind of unsavory, unseemly, rather lowbrow books I love (I watch the same genre on TV) and fill my arms with as many as I can carry without attracting too much attention. After an agreed-upon amount of time, we meet at some common area of the store and proceed with our day. I'd just loaded up, finding a fresh pile of new offerings by two of my favorite authors. I backed up a little to make a final scan of the shelves and found I'd reversed a step too far - my rear end had pressed onto the shelves of poetry. Ha! Poetry placed cheek-by-jowl with my sneaky pleasure. I had some time before meeting up with my companion. I set down my books and my Starbucks and began to flip through some volumes. Yeah. Just as I thought: I don't care for poetry. Now, the reader should know I've suffered a little due to my lack of poetry prowess and appreciation. A woman friend asked me to tell her about my best loved poetry. Many, many favored bloggers both read and write poetry. And I'm a dud. It was not forced upon me at school and I never sought it out. This does not make me soulless or stupid, unromantic or unimaginative. Poetry is simply not what I do. So I told the girlfriend I have no best loved poems, as I also have no big cleavage or gray hairs. And I've sneaked around peeking at poetry ever since.

Who knows why the title nabbed me? It just did, and I took the volume from the shelf, flipping through the pages. Oooh. No Emily Dickinson here (although I can tolerate Emily). No. Grit here, sometimes, and deep emotion, and hard truths, accepted by the poet. This is not like me - I paid full retail for the slim volume. I have read from it and spilled coffee on it daily for awhile now. While it has not led me yet to other poets and their works, it has led me to another plane of my inner self. It reminded me, after many days, of a poem that did erupt from me once - oh, it's been a few years - that was actually good. I knew it was good. It was painful and bloody, wounded, nearly dying. But it was good and it perfectly reflected the way I felt about things at a place in time. I have begun a new poem of my own writing. It is not ready for presentation yet. I think it may be good. It may be sprung upon unsuspecting readers as it shakes out. We shall see. I'll need more muscles. I'll need more nutrition. I highly recommend "The Cinnamon Peeler" by Michael Ondaatje, probably best known as the author of "The English Patient". There, old girlfriend. I have some best-loved poems.

This afternoon, I am moderating a discussion group during some good talk to take place while the Super Bowl drones in other places. If you think me unAmerican because I detest everything about football, OK. I'll bear the shame. If you choose to participate in my tar-and-feathering, OK, but the line is long and they're getting unruly in the back there. The point is, I'm moderating this discussion and I'm a little dicey about it. For you see, I am new to the group and I don't really know all that much about the topic of discussion. I haven't made my bones there. I was selected to moderate because I speak well and I manage groups of people well. That's all. Things that both come naturally to me and which I was trained to do - kind of a no-brainer. I feel a bit fraudulent. Talking the talk before I've walked the walk. I don't want to be "Still Skating After All These Years". And I intend to say as much once I've completed my assignment.

In my ears right now: Well, not my ears, but my head, I guess. Michael Ondaatje ~

Having to put forward candidates for God,
I nominate Henri Rousseau and . . . . .

Of New Friends, Old Travels and Foreign Languages

On my desk before me, tucked between the two huge monitors I use at my state-of-the-art mission control unit stands a greeting card I received from a new friend. The way I met this new friend is at least surreal, odd, unusual and a tribute to the good nature and good taste of two good women. It may also be unusual in ways that are more negative than positive, but whatever it is, right now it just is. Likely this new friendship will be covered in a future post, but the friendship will have to last more than a few short weeks before the writing occurs. Some of the feelings are still developing. The note my friend wrote inside the card is penned with a fountain pen. Fountain pens are pleasing both to my friend and to me.

The monitors so techno and the card with such a simple, serene image seem oddly juxtaposed. The card shows a crude chair and a table set with simple, homely linen. Past an aloe vera plant, through a window set off by vivid blue shutters, one looks out upon lush greenery clinging to a wall in sunshine. The note on the back of the card says the scene is set in Puerto Vallarta, Mexico.

I've spent a minute or two in Puerto Vallarta, and that is what I shall write about today. Of course, most people of a certain age identify Puerto Vallarto as the place where The Night of the Iguana was filmed. But there is much, much more to that lovely, harborside place . . .

During the years that we bounced around on Stepfather's fine fishing vessels, we often took very long trips, flying to some major airport and then taking further transport to whichever harbor where the Linda Mia II was anchored. Often the various modes of transportation included climbing down a rickety ladder into a water taxi which delivered us to the boat. Linda Mia II was too large to pull up to the dock in some of the shallow harbors. We'd scramble up the swim step, tossing luggage, souvenirs, books, CDs and gifts for Captain Sean and Frances (Sean's girlfriend), a gourmet chef and the woman who maintained the boat like a fine, luxury spa. After we boarded, Sean would start the engines and we'd set out for up to 3 weeks at a time.

I remember Amber pressing her nose to the window as the plane descended, huge black eyes taking in everything. "There's Linda Mia, Baby, see her?" "Grandma, how do you know that's her?" "Sean said we're the biggest boat in the harbor and that one's the biggest." "OK, Grandma!" At 6, Amber had such a crush on Frances that this mother felt just a few twinges of jealousy. On the flight home from a trip I remember, the little girl sobbed as the plane took off. "What's wrong, Babe?" "I guess I'm just Frances-sick."

The turquoise Mexican waters offer the richest show of marine animals imaginable. Anyone who has never seen a sunfish on the hoof has missed one of the world's most beautiful sights. They're as big as a garage door and other-worldly looking. We once pulled a sea turtle on board because we could see it had miles of fishing line wrapped around one flipper which was grotesquely swollen. It took 10 adults working slavishly to bring that animal on board, but we did it. It took many grueling hours to remove the line, and that turtle did not appreciate one minute of it. When it was finally freed, Sean cleaned the wound, injected an antibiotic and the 10 of us put the ingrate back into the sea. The anglers in our group would sing you a hymn about the good fishing in those waters. I'm not an angler and I don't eat seafood. I go because I like to see what there is to see.

OK, so there are a million boat trips to be described and maybe someday I will, but this was meant to be about Puerto Vallarta. After 3 weeks at sea, we needed some time on land to see if we could still walk. We showered and dressed as Sean pulled us into a rental slip in the harbor. Eschewing any mode of transportation other than our feet, we walked from the dock into the plazas and shops in the streets. It was warm and picturesque, and the earth beneath our feet seemed wonderful.

Gathered around a gazebo covered with bougainvillea were some 20 teenaged boys and young men, just lounging around. One had an iguana draped across himself. "Hi, I'm your friend. Little girl want picture with iguana?" Amber was 6 and quiet, very shy. Ex, Grandma and I each asked her quietly, "What do you think, Sweet?" She studied that gigantic lizard and eventually nodded her head, "yes". My heart swelled with admiration because looking at that iguana was making me weak in the knees. Her bobbing head must have turned on a switch somewhere, because with her nod, each of those young men whipped out an iguana from beneath his shirt, up his trouser leg, or who knows where else? They began to descend upon us, each hoping we'd buy the picture with the little girl and his iguana. Amber's eyes were enormously round. Ex's fists came up. I guess he thought he was going to take them all on simultaneously. My mother blew the whistle she carries on her keyring. I, however, probably the most distressed in our group, was the one who backed them down. I zoomed back in time to Spanish class, autumn of 1967 when I went to school with Brother Badger. "Solamente uno!" I bellowed at the top of my lungs. It worked. They backed off. Although I may only look like somebody's old mom from the 'burbs, I can stand up a pack of lizard-wielding hooligans by yelling "Only one!" in their native tongue. The picture of Amber and the (one) iguana is one we treasure.

In my ears right now: Crocodile Rock ~ yes, I know it's a stretch, but I can't think of an iguana song, offhand.

Something that charmed me: Matt called me his homegirl this morning.

When Do We Move from Middle Aged to Old?

Brother Badger has been visiting Mother Badger since July 4th and it's been very quiet on e-mail during that time. "Badger," I asked, "have you heard anything from them?" "Not one word, " he replied. I sent a short e-mail a week into their visit and heard back this morning. They're enjoying one another's company, trying to beat the heat watching lots of DVDs and doing the things Brother Badger likes to do when in Arizona. He enjoys going to Cabela's and has - so far - been there three times. Mother Badger went with him once, taking a book and finding a comfy chair while Brother Badger roamed that outdoorsman's paradise. Mother Badger commented on how easy-going Brother Badger's personality is and how he is resting and feeling a release of pressure.

For Brother Badger, you see, retired in the middle of June, just before his 57th birthday on June 30. He had a very high-pressure post in Montana state government in the finance department for decades and he was done - ready to be stuck with the fork. This is an amazing concept to me, as Brother Badger and I are almost exactly the same age and I embrace working another 13 years or more before I take on my ideal retirement job at a Starbucks or a book store or a cat sanctuary. Considering that my peer is retired, work life finalized, never to work again . . . got some things stirred up inside me. I'm rather pensive.

Brother Badger and I were sophomores that fall of 1967. The Badger had graduated from IHS the preceding June and was already at El Camino College. I wouldn't meet him until months after I encountered Brother Badger in algebra class. That's the year we spent a full semester dissecting A Tale of Two Cities, which I still pull out to enjoy about once a year. Man wouldn't walk on the moon for another 2 years and Woodstock was still to come. It seems such a short time ago. I feel like the same person.

In the fall of 2006, the Badger, Brother Badger and I converged to celebrate Mother Badger's 80th birthday. For several days we enjoyed one another's company, breaking into small groups of different configuration, with all groups getting along famously. We drove to local sights, laughing like any family in the car on an outing. It intrigues me to watch Mother Badger's different style with her two very different sons. One is not very badger-like and he is treated altogether differently. Mother Badger is fair and even-handed, but definitely not the same with the two. It makes me sad that I never met the Youngest Badger who died too young. It makes me sad I never met Father Badger, for he is an elusive figure to me, even though they have all shared their memories of him. Although I easily accepted all the miles on the Badger and myself, it was surreal to meet Brother Badger for the first time in four decades. I expected him to be the same golden teen-aged god. What had happened to him? Time and life. And now he's retired!

I'm not sure why this has unsettled me so. Why am I not simply pleased for Brother Badger? While I am pleased for him, it makes me feel a little odd that my peer, someone I actually know, is a retired person. Although I am a card-carrying member of AARP and get the extra 10% discount at Ross on Tuesday because I am a girl geezer, I have not stepped up to the retirement diving board. Clearly I am not ready to take the plunge, nor even to train for it.

I used to marvel at Stepfather for all the things he did well past 80 - hard physical work in the yard and on the boat, beautiful stained glass creations, frequently organizing nice outings for large groups of us, always looking grand in his clothes. He said, "Limes, you have to keep moving. If you stop moving, the devil will notice you and grab you." I think I'm right where I am supposed to be. When I interviewed with David, I said, "In two months I'll begin to collect a nice pension. I'll give you my last 15 years of work life." I believe I'll keep that promise.

In my ears right now (well, more in my head, but you understand): Workin' in a Coal Mine, It's a 5:00 World, She Works Hard for the Money, We Can Work it Out, Whistle While You Work, I've Been Working on the Railroad, Working for a Living. Who said this is an unresolved, prickly issue for me?

Something that charmed me: Mother Badger, although nothing like Miss Piggy, refers to herself as "Moi". It's never failed to make me grin.