I Don't Cry Any More

I am a lifelong cryer. I cry over things painful and joyous. I have never seen an event of childbirth on TLC or Discovery Health that failed to force me to tears and I weep when listening to anyone's story of pain and abandonment. I keen from frustration of all manner and I sob over my feelings of inadequacy. I call the act of blubbering a steam relief valve. For me, I am certain, it is a release of chaotic energy that helps me regain balance. I'm sorry if it makes others uncomfortable and I warn people - usually - when I suspect it is about to happen. I generally apologize afterward. But I know that if I don't let off some of the pressure, I would have long ago exploded and chunks of me would require being scraped off the the walls and ceiling. Once a(n important) man asked me - do not read this "accused", he "asked" - if I used weeping as a tool. Because of his tone, I kept my own very level: "Use it? As in call upon it as needed? No, I don't think so. Rather, it has its own puissance. It must escape, like perspiration from the pores, urine from the body. It is impossible to hold it in when it is determined to come out. Consider it a protective mechanism. This prevents me from flying into the universe in pieces." He always seemed to accept this aspect of my self after we'd had the discussion. He even learned to anticipate when it would happen, or what was likely to trigger it.

The other day, I took my 6-month "chip" at AA, marking half a year of sobriety. Yes, it is an accomplishment. One I was unsure I could achieve when I set out to find a new way in life. I'd mentioned my special date just quietly during sharing at a meeting, resulting in a few head snaps and startled looks. "What? Are you sure?" Um, I was sure. One would know such things. There began a quiet chattering, discouraged except in cross-talk meetings, and this was not one. We spoke of a man in our home meeting who tells us when he achieves 4 months and 3 days, 1 week and 57 hours. He was there. We weren't talking about him without his knowledge. He tells us about each of his milestones and we cheer for him - he lets us know that is what he needs, and we give it happily. Our highest goal in AA is to help other alcoholics. But it is different for me. I am task- and goal-oriented. I want to take stuff on and finish it and move on to whatever next intrigues me. I could easily land on 6 months or 6 years and have my alcoholic brain decide, "Well, I completed that and don't have to do it any more." Wrong. Alcoholism doesn't go away. Our program has to get us through our lifetime. In the literal sense, ours is a journey without a defined destination. The more frequently I fill balloons with helium and obtain party noise-makers, the more opportunities I have to say, "There - done!" Not good. But I will continue to announce every year, perhaps every half year, because accolades are an excellent fillip to complacency.

I came out of my second meeting of the day (I'd had a challenging day) and gathered with the other AAs in the patio. "The patio" is a great watering hole - oops, bad choice of words! For here, "the meeting" continues, without restriction or rules. Here is where alliances are formed, peace and serenity expanded. For elemental to AA is that one drunk's story may hold the answers for another drunk. When one is new to the culture, hanging in the patio is excruciating. One doesn't even want people driving by in the streets to see them in that patio, much less hang out there yacking. It's different for me now. I belong there, even though it's a funny kind of place for me. On a huge club campus where sometimes hundreds of people mill about, there seems to be only one non-smoker. Literally. Me. So I remain on foot and gauge which way the wind is blowing. I can bunny-hop 360-degrees around a patio table and never lose the thread of the conversation. "Sit down, Les!" "No can do. Keep talking. I'm right there with you." I still reek of smoke when I get home, but that's the price for admission to the theatre where I need to watch the play.

"Want to pop over to the library?" I asked. She said she did, so we bought Starbucks again and headed out on the 3-block journey. My friend likes her Venti Java Chip Frap. I grin to watch her consume it. I'd do as well to just plaster the containers of that good stuff to my butt, so I sip at my freshly ground, freshly brewed Pike Place. Our reading tastes are somewhat similar, so we often point out good choices to one another, but there is also the lovely freedom of making our own way among the rows of books, knowing there is not someone toe-tapping as if one is wasting his time. (Read this: "a husband", folks. Sorry, guys!) When we encountered our first fellow AA member, we smiled. Stumbling upon the second, we grinned like loons. Number three elicited a guffaw. By the time six of us had gathered, the noise level rose and the library staff shot us evil glances. It was good to see where so many of us ran after our meeting!

An impromptu meeting began in the library grounds, numerous lightings of cigarettes and me looking for a flag to show the direction of the wind. Everyone chattered, asking questions about what everyone else took from the library. I got high marks and raised eyebrows for borrowing 11 books at one time. "Oh, she'll go right through them," said my friend. "We'll be back here in a matter of days." "So what is Bukowski?" a man asked. Oh, I was ready for that! For you see, I have a little Bukowski experience, having once located and bought for a friend a 40-year-old out-of-print-edition with colored illustrations and I'm able to recite at least a decent rendition of some of the man's works with appropriate inflection. I did just that. The drunks surrounding me get Love is a Dog From Hell. "Can I see the book after you, Les?" "Sure, homes, but I'd suggest you start with some of the volumes that are still in the library." I'd never before seen the volume now resting in my arms. Copyrighted 2009, it is called The Continual Condition and is touted as "a never-before-collected poems from America's most imitated and influential poet". I've now flipped through it several times and read a few of the poems closely. I have an opinion about these poems individually and collectively, but I will keep those to myself in case the reader is moved to examine the book.

The next day had become difficult by lunch time. I was painfully reminded of two apparently disparate things. The first is that I cannot safely and sanely juggle as many balls as I could once. I suffered a (professional) disappointment that was going off in my face like a string of firecrackers, one explosion after another. The second is that too much isolation is too much for me. I couldn't get the attention of anyone else affected by this series of explosions and I felt my back and shoulders starting to buckle in my solitary misery. I have at least the intellectual wherewithal to know instant relief is not always at hand and I needed to help myself for at least awhile. Said quite humbly: I tried everything ever recommended. I didn't pull myself too far out of the panic bucket. When I picked up my sponsor for AA, I said, "Well, I'm as close as I've come so far to thinking that a few drinks might be the answer." She was startled. "No, I'm not going to stop at the liquor store on the way home. It's more that when I looked at an array of possibilities for self-soothing, drinking was in the mix. I decided against it. I surely need this meeting." My sponsor was scheduled to lead the meeting and it got a little quiet at times, no one volunteering to share. When that happens, which is rare, the leader sometimes calls on AAs to speak. I'm usually pretty reliable for jump-starting discussion, but I shot her a look that said, "Uh-uh. Not today."

My grinning surprises came after the meeting. First, a woman who only attends our group occasionally accosted me. I suspect the perfect human metabolism in life would be the midpoint between hers and my own, as I am barely alive and she is maximum voltage. "Hey! Did you get lots of chips?" Unsure if she was speaking to me, and making no connection with her words, I looked over my shoulder. No one else was in the room. "You mentioned you were coming up on 6 months and I came back the next night, but you weren't here. I wanted to give you my 6 month chip." (The giving and sharing of chips, tokens, books and more is a generous part of the AA culture. I carry a sobriety key ring David gave me after carrying it for more than a decade.) She dug in a purse as big as a steamer truck, pulling out (I'm not making this up for comedic value) condoms, a diaper, full make-up kit, a vintage cell phone, Walkman, half a sandwich and a can of Monster. Finally, she landed on that blue 6-month chip, pressed it into my hand, yanked me into a bone-crushing embrace, and bellowed, "God love you, honey, I knew you were a keeper the first time I saw you." Well! OK. I stepped outside, bemused, and showed the chip to my sponsor who grinned.

There weren't many of us in the patio and there was no wind to speak of. I sat on a bench and half listened to a man talking to another man. The first man is a Las Vegas taxi driver and he has some tales to tell - no wonder he is an alcoholic. We are not his home group, but he comes to ours about once a week, which may have something to do with work schedule. He is well-spoken and deeply reflective. I like to hear what he has to say. When my sponsor finished her cigarette, I groaned my way up from the low bench and stood to walk away. I was immediately attacked from the rear! Oh, not in a threatening way. More like a Labrador puppy landing on a Pomeranian. The taxi driver was the Lab. "You didn't talk today. I love to hear you talk. When you share, I think 'Yes, that's how it was for me' and 'We should all be paying attention to this woman'." Oh? I know I blushed. "Well, um, thank you. The line of those who come to hear me speak is short, so you won't have long to wait for the next occurrence." We grinned at each other.

I really gave no thought of stopping on the way home, even though I passed right by Lee's Discount Liquor. When I arrived an e-mail awaited me that assured me I was not the solitary target in the professional shit-fight I've mentioned. This morning will be the difficult meeting where I can choose to be a bitch and say, "I told you so," or I can be as humble as I need to be and say, "These are the things I was concerned about and mentioned to you early on. Let's make an alternative plan now." I got over a rough patch by using new things I've learned. I didn't cry and I didn't drink. What do you know!

Something that charmed me: In the winter, they're called "Christmas Cactus", a politically incorrect appellation in my opinion, but OK. I buy them because they are a splash of color in a dark time of year. Now, Mother's Day approaches and they are called "Spring Cactus". OK, I don't care, even though I know they are exactly the same species of plant. They also cost just about twice as much in the spring as they do in the winter. Huh? I got one anyway. No crying over spilled garden soil here.

The Gift

It took me a very long time to realize how ill I had become although the signs were many. I'm not a doctor. I was a little close to the situation. I screamed out "Save me. Rescue me." My crash-and-burn were pretty dramatic, although maybe it only seems that way to me because I had a starring role in it. And if you think this Christmas-y post is a little untimely at Valentine's Day, you've missed the point.

Look, lots of people struggle at the holidays, for an infinite variety of reasons. And me, too. During my Christmas Nazi decades, I feared I wouldn't show as something enough. What? Generous enough? Creative enough? Cheery enough? Poor fudge maker? I'm not sure. Just not enough of something. Less than. Just about the year I began to think I might be OK enough, came the Christmas Eve dinner for 40 in my home when the upstairs water heater blew about the time I served the prime rib. I was unprepared to deal with ankle-deep water on my tile floors in front of guests. That house had miles of tiles.

The 2010 holidays were on target to be the worst ever. I've written elsewhere of dark December. My journey toward "better" had barely begun. To state that most everything I'd once been was now stripped away and I presented as bare bones, a skeleton, an empty shell is not an exaggeration. Some people who love me on a personal level and others who are paid to take very good care of me conspired to help me get through. And I did. Just. When the sun rose on December 26th, I grinned, very ready to pull down the Christmas tree, swing like a monkey beneath the eaves taking down lights, and move on.

I am no whiz at properly cleaning and shining hardwood floors and I spend too much time at it, never learning to perfect my methods, but simply slogging more, not better. All the Christmas decor having been placed in the garage for next year, I turned my attention to the miles of hardwood floor. I wasn't enjoying it, but the busy-ness of it was steadying. If I'd only had my hair in pincurls and a bandana tied around it, I'd have resembled my Granny on cleaning day some 50 years previously. I decided to get another cup of coffee and test the theory that one can consume enough coffee in one morning to jitter right out of one's skin. Although I am not hard of hearing at all, I hadn't heard my phone, and - with it lying next to the coffee maker - I saw there was a voicemail waiting.

"Leslie, it's Kass. I'm in Las Vegas. Call me!" Huh? Kass is here? I took that cup of coffee to my chair and sunk very low. I was depleted and dull and weak and confused - generally. All day, every day. I hadn't shaved my legs in . . . . too long. The floor still needed attention and the cat needed a good brushing and I didn't know how to do anything as simple and joyous as go meet a friend any longer. I didn't know what to wear or what to say. On the other hand, how could I not go? We'd met in the blogosphere when I sent her an official fan letter and she declared a "girl crush" on me. I've been more excited about very few dates than I was about meeting Kass. She makes my head spark and alternately soothes me and kicks me in the ass. She makes me laugh and want to misbehave. No, we're not outlaws. Just fun-loving. Quirky girls. I had to pull it together and go do this.

We connected while she was in the buffet line at the newest, latest and greatest casino. I had to ask her where it was. A little out of touch with my surroundings, I was. I could hear my own voice - cheerful, upbeat. But I still needed to borrow some time, arranging to meet her the next day, not 5 minutes after the phone call. I stewed. I bubbled. I took something for sleep. All those bloggerly associations danced through my head - those I'd dashed 6 months previously for my own sanity. And on the next morning, I got up, bathed, dressed and squared my shoulders. I had to MapQuest the location of her hotel. Oh, yes, I can see it towering above the cityscape, I just didn't know onto which major boulevard its driveway emptied. I drove there in sunny cold, parked the car, and recognized that the really cute shoes I'd worn were poor for running. Later, however, they'd make me appear a little taller than Kass, so all was not wasted! Dashing through the glass revolving door, I could see her peering out the windows, watching for me. She looked just like herself (from her pictures)!

As I charged across the lobby, she spotted me. Out went four arms, close and warm hugging to ensue. She blurted the first gift she was to present to me that day. "You're so cute!" Yes, I had the grace to blush. I told her I didn't feel that way, whatsoever. We agreed coffee, not a meal, was in order - mine was pumpkin pie latte which wouldn't be available for much longer after the holiday season. "Want some of my parfait, Les?" I didn't. And then unfolded more than 2 hours of the loveliest girlfriending I've ever experienced. We spoke of bloggers and blogging, about our children, about her mother who had recently died, about my recent fall from grace. She told me that certain things were not my fault, nor my responsibility to "fix". Nor could I fix them if it were my responsibility. When I declared I'd really like to like a particular person but it was complicated, she told me I was inherently good. She urged me to write again and to look back on other struggles and successes in my life for inspiration . . . . and to find my way. I cried a little. I'm like that. I told her my deepest secret - the one I hope to write about someday, but which is still just a little tender around the edges. She has not betrayed my confidence. We ranted about narcissists - persons we know enough about to be a little dangerous - and then it was time to part.When the camera came out of her bag, I began to snarfle. How could I have forgotten she carries the digital everywhere and aims it at everything? There were a couple of abortive self-portraits snapped ~ mostly shots up the nostrils of lovely middle aged ladies. This did not deter her, however. She shanghaied a willing accomplice from the coffee bar who did an OK-enough job of taking pictures of girlfriends united in a place in time. One needed to be filled up again. The other filled her up, despite the recent loss of her own mother. "Come to Utah, to my cabin?" "Yes, I will!"

When I left the casino, the shoes weren't so miserable. I didn't need to wear my coat any longer. I drove home rather more slowly than my usual, and I craned my neck out the window of the car, as goony as the family dog hanging her head out from the back seat. The sun was bright. Her plane would leave in a few hours. "How was; your visit with Kass?" It was lovely. It took her only 2 hours to show me her special grace and loving care. Oh, many have read it in her writings and commented on it. But I got the gift of friendship in a short-acting, in-person capsule. It was a turning point for me. Things really did begin to get better. If that wonderful woman thought I was kind of OK-enough, then obviously, it must be true.

In my head (and figuratively my ears) right now:

Do not make a reservation in my name

For I will not go. I will not attend.

And the elephant graveyard will charge your credit card.

Unfair to both of us.

Something that charmed me: I took a little road trip and snoozed in the car on the way home. After lunch, it would be my turn to drive for a couple of hours. "Want coffee and a meal, Les?" "Yeah, yeah," as I stumbled out of the car in Washington, Utah before Dorthalee's Cafe on State Street. I could see by the hand-lettered poster in the window I could have breakfast, lunch or dinner 24/7 for $2.99, $3.99 or $4.99 respectively. The hostess and waitress made me smile, some dim bulb of recognition coming on. The lovely old paw-paw in a booth with his 20-gallon hat and every hat pin ever made . . . where had I seen him before? The coffee was great, the food kind of nondescript, but hot, and everything was squeaky clean. "He's A Rebel" playing really loud on the oldies station. Finally, a bathroom break before going back out onto I-15 south. I came out of the restroom, passing a large party tucking into burgers, looked at the eclectic decor in Dorthalee's, and that's when it hit me! Kass hosts a number of blogs, including the aptly named Shooting Strangers In Restaurants. The reader must trust me about this and find the blog on my sidebar, as Blogger is being a booger at the time of this writing. This blog is where Kass keeps photos she snaps of unsuspecting patrons dining in restaurants, to the mortification of her daughter and sometimes dining companion, Mary Ann.

I dashed to my table and began to babble to my companions: "Kass", "blogger friend", "Shooting Strangers", "camera's in the car". They looked at me like I'd lost my mind. Perhaps I had. Throats were cleared. "Ummm, we probably should go." I am sorry to say I got no photos. I failed the test of big brass ones in a restaurant - just step up, grin graciously and snap. Kass taught me better. I won't miss the next opportunity. And I know the hostess, the waitress, the paw-paw and the large burger party have all been featured before on "Shooting Strangers".

Some photo credits: To Kathryn S. Feigal, with friendship and gratitude

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 . . . . .

Little Charmer ~ Not ME, the Rug!

In my last post, I told about the wool megalo-rug that nearly beat me in a dust-up. Rugs come in all shapes and sizes. Some are more charming than others.

In our small carpet cleaning business, we do things as simply and consistently as we can. It makes us efficient. It makes us credible to the customers when both the office and the technicians say the same thing about any situation. David and I are good communicators. Everyone knows everything he needs to know about any subject. Some of our touchstones include explaining pet urine damage the same way to every customer every time, quoting room prices the same to everyone who calls in, and explaining carpet repairs in precisely the same way every single time. But perhaps the most deeply ingrained piece of information we share is our minimum service charge. Each of us could tell that number in our sleep. It's a simple concept. We cannot roll a van with one or two technicians, all of the equipment, all of the cleaning solutions, the cost of the business license, liability insurance, advertising costs . . . for less than a particular dollar amount. In most cases, that minimum charge does not come into play. Most people have their entire homes cleaned at one time, and the cost exceeds the minimum service charge. I never even have to utter those words. But once in awhile, Mrs. Las Vegas only wants one room in her home cleaned and the minimum sounds a little pricey.

When the technicians arrive at a customer's house, their flexibility quotient rises dramatically. Now someone from our company can see the carpet. I've given the estimate over the phone based on the customer's own description of the carpet's condition. But one person's idea of "filthy" is another person's concept of "not too bad".The technicians might recommend a little preconditioning treatment or a rotary scrub, or pet damage restoration. They are free to price these services as they see fit (within a loose framework). David's philosophy is, "They're out there. We're not. They've assessed the carpet and the customer. We have not. Let them secure the job." Sometimes we have to work a little extra to hold the job. "Let me call the office and see if I can offer you a small discount. If the office OKs that, may I get started right away?" I sometimes ask the technician if it is even worth doing the work if the customer is asking to pay an extremely low amount. If the technician says, "No. It's not worth it. This will be trouble forever. They're cheap and demanding.", I tell him to roll up his hoses and roll on down the road.

The (wonderful) flip side of taking money away from a customer in exchange for services is that we also have the ability to give a good customer extra attention. My technicians see every kind of situation every day of life. Single parents struggling, elderly people just trying to get by, an obviously really fine individual who has been laid off three times in a year. The men are quiet when they tell me, "That poor woman, Les. She is living in hard times. I knocked out a couple of rooms of premium service and didn't say anything or ask for more money. She needs help." Or, "Les, that couple were in their 80s and have been in that house since 1965. The carpet was so clean, I don't know why they called us. Maybe they just had a reminder on the calendar they didn't question. I gave them a couple of rooms of Scotchguard for free." We've had days where a woman customer has asked a technician to walk her to her car because of a domestic dispute. Not comfortable for anyone. We help people up from the floor when they've failed to heed our warning, "Be careful stepping from the wet carpet onto the tiles." And one of the commonest "gimmes" is to clean a few small area rugs without charge. When one weighs a $500 cleaning job against 3 minutes of work on the rugs, it just makes good business sense. The kindness is remembered, and the customer will invite us to return in a year. There exists a friendly rivalry between the technicians. They watch each other closely. "How much did you sell today?" It should be no surprise that our best carpet cleaners are also our best salesmen.

A woman called to ask me about cleaning an area rug. She knew more than the average caller. She knew the dimensions of her rug and she knew it was 100% wool. I quickly calculated the square feet and applied our price per square foot. I held this up against our minimum service charge. Yikes! This was going to be an expensive rug cleaning. I started my usual presentation: "For our minimum service charge we could do another rug or perhaps a room of carpet . . . " She doesn't like people coming into her home. Um, OK, the rug could be brought to our office. She took our address and I forgot about her for a week.

Yesterday, I looked out on the deck. A small woman, probably very near my own age, struggled along the breezeway, a very appropriately named passageway here on the second floor. Windsock might also be properly descriptive. She turned the corner and aimed for my door. I greeted her and she commented that we were very hard to find. I don't agree, but then I've come here almost every day for nearly three years. "Well, yes, up on the second floor and on the back of the building," I allowed. She had something with her that she proceeded to unfold for me. It clicked immediately! This was the woman with the tiny wool rug. I inspected it and felt on solid ground, even though I don't clean carpets every day like the homes. It certainly was wool. My good eyes told me the dimenstions she had mentioned were about right. It had some pet hair on it and a few spots that gave me some concern. I quoted her our minimum service charge, knowing she'd already heard me say that dollar figure over the phone a week ago. This number so alarmed the woman she had to take a seat in my office. I let her sit. I let her ponder. "Gee, I was hoping you'd do it for about half that amount." I told her, not unpleasantly, all the reasons I had to charge her the minimum service charge. I reminded her we could come to her home and she'd get more value for her money, but that I could not charge less than the minimum. She left the rug and walked away looking pensive.

On Thursdays, David conducts staff meeting and I am second fiddle. On the other days of the week, I conduct "huddle". "Huddle" means, "at 7:00 sharp, gather in the office, have your work orders and your route sheet in your hand, have a pen, pay attention. She who must be obeyed is about to speak." In huddle, we go through the day's work, team by team, van by van. I tell the men everything I remember about each job or customer. I tell them if a job is simply unremarkable. The homes have come to appreciate huddle, because I possess an uncanny ability to call people for what they are, for reading a situation for what it is, even though I've only participated in one telephone conversation. It is a rare day that someone does not come in and say, "Les, you had that man dead-on. It made me able to work with him better, understanding what kind of person he is." In huddle, we also share our daily stories from our adventures in the big city. It's a safe place to talk, to tell, to ask, to share. Sometimes someone has a need to bite in huddle. That's OK, too. We leave huddle as friends. And better informed. Invariably, before and after huddle there is much good natured milling around, coffee being consumed, "good morning"s, bustle.

Huddle was almost over this morning when Matt noticed it. "What's that on the floor?" I'd nearly forgotten to mention the rug. I grinned. "Oh, it's a handkerchief I booked. The customer brought it in. I need it to be cleaned so she can pick it up." They all stared at it. I like to have fun, too, so I put on a little show. Got a little smarty assed. I picked the rug up and spun it on my hand like Luigi tossing pizza dough. They stared at me. "Is that all there is for this job?" "That's it homes. Just the one little hankie." It got really quiet. "Um, Les, how did you price that out?" I said I'd charged the minimum service charge. "And somebody went for that?" "Well, you're looking at the rug, homes." There was some shuffling of feet and gazing at the floor. "What? What's up?" To a man, they agreed that this rug was one of the size and type they'd clean for free on any job where the customer had been half-way pleasant. It was simply the right thing to do. "Well, let's talk about this, guys. How would it be if I let anyone walk in off the streets and give me things to clean and I gave it to them for free? I don't have the advantage you have. I'm not in their home doing lots of other work and just adding this as a little nicety. I have to insist on the minimum service charge." They averted their gaze and shuffled their feet again. I saw shoulders start to shake. I heard some snickers and someone said, "God damn. She's never cleaned a carpet in her life and she just got the highest paying job we've ever had for a rug if you consider its size." We all cackled. It was Matt who came up with the idea. "Let's put her in a war wagon, send her out ahead of us to knock on the doors of every job for the day. She can sell the jobs and we'll just follow her, cleaning carpet!" I just stuck to the script. We take minimum service charge very seriously here.

Joseph and Justin cleaned the hankie. It had issues. The spots that concerned me were curry, Joseph said. Curry doesn't come out. It's permanent. Joseph has 35 years experience at carpet cleaning. Joseph has celebrity clients in Hollywood. I don't doubt those spots are curry. I don't doubt curry is a permanent stain. How does the reader think I'll deal with the customer? The rug cleaned up beautifully except for the curry spots. What would you do? I already know what I'll do!

In my ears right now: Miss Fiona of Sunnybrook Farm. Yes, I like it!

Something that charmed me: We were driving west on a major boulevard through the city. We'd had a great afternoon together and were chatting, thinking about dinner. We stopped at a traffic light in an older section of the city. Here many small old houses have been turned into business offices - an insurance agency, a florist, etc. One of them, neutral in color (mainly) and otherwise unremarkable, caught my eye. For the upper 20% of the building was given over to a brightly colored, eye-catching promotion. Superimposed over stripes of the red, white and blue was a good likeness of the U.S. president. In large, tidy letters was proclaimed "Obama Pedicure ~ $9.99". What the heezy? I've scratched my head for days. What does the reader suppose might make that pedicure distinctly Obaman?

Some Things that Charmed Me

It's already Saturday! What a week! Ups and downs, undulations and perambulations. Charm and razzberries, sunshine and flowers.

I will run as fast and hard as anyone from dealing with problems or disputes. I'm not confrontational or aggressive until pushed very far back into a corner, when I spring out like the tigress I normally forget lives inside me. I tend to spend far too much time attempting to shoulder the responsibility for the disagreement, even when I had nothing to do with causing it. And while I do this, the pressure and negative feelings build. I'd sidestepped a time or two, including replying less than honestly to e-mails that asked, "Are you angry with me?" I was angry. And hurt. But I didn't say so immediately. And I kept brooding on it. It should be noted that I have ridden in this disagreement rodeo a time or two, yet I almost never fail to mount up the same way again in the next round. Slow learner. It's been my observation that many things between human beings begin to form blocks, and this was no exception. It was time to stick a pitchfork in this bale of hay. I did. I presented my issues with words, not tears. I presented them calmly and I don't believe I used one curse word. I didn't threaten any grave consequences. In fact I went the opposite direction from any statements like that. I was met with calm listening to my lengthy grievance, no defensive statements offered, no excuses. "I know. That's what I did and I'm so sorry." Oh. OK. An apology. For a sticky wicket with a lot of angles to it. I felt the weight lift from my shoulders and I reminded myself how long I'd let the problem trouble me. I remind myself to keep trying to learn new things. Try new ways. Trust the people one cares about to come up just as good as they are.

One morning this week, I wore a lighter jacket to work. The pea coat had had to be brought out again when March and earliest April proved fickle, but now it seemed a bit much in the morning. I wore the jacket home that evening and back in to work the following morning. That evening, I forgot the jacket on the coat tree at the office. Because I felt so warm the word "jacket" never entered my consciousness. I didn't need one. That same evening, the display on my dashboard let me know that the temperature down on the blacktop, near where the sensor resides, was 88-degrees. Tangible evidence ~ we're warming up! Quickly. Oh, to be sure, the wind still howls off and on, but I see sunshine and I feel it warm on my skin. Including the skin on my backside. Yes, that's what I said. Read on.

Joseph and Justin struggled up the stairs with a 9' x 12' foot 100% wool Oriental rug to be cleaned. I could tell by their facial expressions it was incredibly heavy. It is extremely valuable and is going to be donated to a charity to be auctioned, so we want to take very good care of this rug. The morning the rug was to be cleaned was extremely cloudy and overcast. Joseph, who has 35 years experience cleaning fine carpets and rugs, explained to me that was a good thing because we do not want direct sunlight on this monstrous piece as it dries. All the technicians began to mill around getting every van and steam cleaning machine ready - we had a couple of large commercial jobs to do and it was all hands on deck. Joseph asked if I'd pull the corners to fold the rug in half if the sun came out. The sunlight wouldn't hurt the backing, would continue to dry at least half of the rug and the men would flip it over upon their return. "Sure!"

The sun came out in its full glory and I was pretty thrilled just to have reason to get up from the desk and go outside. I duly took one corner of that rug in my hand and started to pull. I pulled my arm, I pulled my back, and I pulled that rug not one inch. Giving an ill-considered mighty tug, I lost my grip on the wet wool and landed on my caboose on the warm deck. Mortified, I sprang up like a jack-in-the-box. Had anyone seen me? Well, no. I'm up on the second floor on the back of a building, thankfully. I'm pretty dogged. I tried at each corner of that rug several times, landing right on my rump time after time. By now I was deck warmed and possibly even taking on an abrasion every time I landed. I had to approach this differently. Hmmm . . what if, instead of taking a corner and pulling with brute strength, I pulled forward just small sections of the thing, straightening everything out after each small tug? Yes. That should work. I couldn't step on the rug with my shoes, so I took them off and peeled off my tights. I yanked and tugged at small portions of that floor covering for 45 minutes. Its surface was slippery, and - yes, I did go down on my rear a time or four.

I went back into the office wet, scraped up, banged up a little, but that rug was protected, perfectly aligned, fringed end lying over fringed end. The men came in between the two large jobs. Joseph thanked me for folding the rug as asked. Cesar commented that I looked as if I had been wrestling bear. A little worse for wear and tear. I allowed as how I figured that rug weighed at least as much as I did. In his Jamaican accent, Joseph piped up, "Oh, no, Leslie. Wet wool holds an additional 30% of its dry weight. That rug weighs about 450 pounds right now. Did it give you any trouble?" Yow.

It's well known that blogger friend Kass makes me both laugh and cry. Her influence makes me want to be unruly. I'm always interested in checking out the blogs she follows. Chances are, I'll be interested in them, too. I picked something up on Kass's Redoing the Undone blog. [In this instance I am not going to print the link to Kass's blog, as that would be redundant just for this post]. Reading Kass's post, I followed a link to the blog of the very talented and funny Kim of *Numinosity* [yes, there will be links]. Of course, going to Kim's blog led me to some of her followers, and suddenly I found myself in the presence of a group of most felicitous women, mostly of a certain age. Many of them are artists or artistes. All of them are whimsical women who know how to have a grand time. And through these women, I learned about Candace. I learned that Candace wants to travel. Candace, you see, is a rather plain little rag doll who is feeling somewhat housebound. Kim's good followers have volunteered to host Candace in locations spread far and wide, to take photos of Candace's adventures, and to write in the journal that Candace will bring along. Readers, I promise you many laughs if you click on these few links and read the posts and commentary. Candace is going to have one good time in many different locations.

This morning I learned that Candace has already been having fun at her first stop - Seattle. [This is a must-read, folks!] I've been angling for days to get a chance to host Candace in Sin City, but Kass and I were each a few days behind the other good women who volunteered. This morning Kim pointed me to her follower, artymess, from the U.K. I e-mailed quickly, made a connection with Lorna, and . . . Candace will be arriving in Las Vegas after international travel from Great Britain. Oh! The plans I have for Candace. Certainly the Neon Boneyard and the Bonanza Gift Shop! Since she is a girl of the desert (at least part-time, I believe) herself, she might enjoy some hiking nearby, or even camping out in some of the wonderful places I know about. Surely, she'll want to take in a Las Vegas show, and I'll be the designated driver so she can become as lubricated as she would like. I'm sure she'll want to visit my little business and meet all the homes who are already splitting their sides at the very notion of Candace's travels and so many silly and fun loving adult women across the world. I want to take her to Massage Envy where we will enjoy the Girlfriends Massage, both tables and two therapists in one room with us. When we're tired from all of our adventures, I will embellish Candace's dress with sequins and beads. Or maybe I'll even whip up a couple of new things for her. I want Candace to meet beloved Dylan and Virginia Woolf, and I'll remember to place Candace's little bed in a locking cabinet or a closet that can be closed. Virginia Woolf likes to carry small objects in her mouth and hide them. Candace doesn't look very large to me. And - hey! - have I mentioned I'm expecting a visitor sometime in the future? Welcome, Candace. Viva Las Vegas!

In my ears right now: I am also charmed by artists who cover the material of other artists. I like hearing music I recognize, but having it contain a little twist or surprise. Like, "Hey, who knew?" Or, "I like this version as much as I liked the original." This has been in my ears all day. And may I just say that I love a woman who wears her cowboy boots with a skirt? I am such a woman.

Something that charmed me: Well, I've been charmed a lot this week already, but I have big plans for tomorrow. I need some sunshine. I need Vitamin D. In a bad way. I have an outing in the works. A day in the sunshine exploring a new place and new things. The weather is suited to shorts and a T-shirt and a baseball cap. Lots of water will need to be packed in, sunscreen and the camera tucked into the front flap of my backpack . . .

Feeling Very Simply Red ~ No, I'm Not Sunburned,It's Music

Writing about certain periods of time in my life is sometimes difficult. While I shared, with joy, about meeting an important person in my life's tapestry, much of the time leading up to that meeting and moving away from it was difficult. I've lived in the 1960s for a few days now and I've felt . . . . sometimes low. While I feel strongly compelled to tell my stories, one doesn't simply string words together and move on. Writing the words results in reliving the feelings. The good ones and the sad ones. Then some time is required to sort out those feelings. Let everything integrate. Where will that little bit of my past land after this latest reexamination? And will I ever be simply done reliving it? Will I ever be able to look at it without feeling pain?

It got even more dicey for me. When one goes to the cycling race, one is very busy. Help the cyclist find equipment and gear. Open the Clif Bar packet, but leave it on the bar, and slide it into the back jersey pocket. Put the water bottles in their cages. Figure out the start and finish lines and parking proximity to each. Watch for the photo ops and get a bead on the racing official. Eventually locate the turn-around point and hand up water, if needed. Calculate how long the race will take and when to starting watching for them to approach the finish line. There's always something to do. Not so when the race is "away". One waits for the phone calls and e-mails that always come later than one hopes for. Oh, I'm a seasoned support crew at cycling races and I know what goes on after the race. Kudos and a big drink of water, chat with the other racers, ask all the questions necessary and wait for the results to be posted. Perhaps something to eat and a trip to the bathroom. In my work world, the homes are very attuned to racing days. The BlackBerry begins to chirp a little too soon. "Les, have you heard anything yet?" "No, homes. If I'd heard anything you would have heard an all-call announcement."

I needed something to make me laugh a little and break the tension. I was noodling around on YouTube trying to locate music that was guaranteed only to make me more melancholy, when I came across something that made me sit up straighter in the chair and grin. It was an old MTV music video from the 1980s. I watched, listened and laughed right out loud. This video made me think of another from the era, and I located it. Same result: watch, listen, laugh out loud. I thought of the music and movies of the day and grinned like a loon. Clearly, remembering the 80s was going to cheer me up!

I did a little research as a memory refresher and I was reminded that the "Me Generation" manifested itself in conspicuous consumption in the 1980s. I was guilty of some of that, too. Cable television came to rival network TV in the 80s in the U.S. I remember getting a card in the mail describing how I could subscribe to Home Box Office. What? Pay for TV? I was nobody's fool. That scheme would never fly! Cheers and The Cosby Show got top TV ratings and CNN became the first 24-hour news channel. MTV came to life and when Mick Jagger said, "I want my MTV" in the advertisements, I knew I wanted my MTV, too. The AIDS epidemic was identified in the 80s and Margaret Thatcher dominated British politics. The so-called Regan Revolution introduced neo-conservatives to Washington, D.C. When I think of the clothing I wore throughout much of the 1980s, I remember industrial strength shoulder pads in my business suits and dresses. I remember power scarves, although I did not wear them. I remember enormous eyeglasses frames. There seems a theme of "too much is never enough" across the decade. On the part of just about eveyone.

On January 1, 1980, I was 27 years old, married, living in Las Vegas, working in a good career as an escrow officer. We had a nice little cottage industry: Stepfather built houses. My mother was the real estate broker who sold said houses. I escrowed them. Ex was a contractor who put in all the sprinklers and landscaping. We earned a good living, enjoying a nice home with lots of perks since we knew the contractor. We had an active social life because this young woman had learned how to entertain and pursued that avidly. We owned the first, gigantic Sony BetaMax on the block and drove good cars. We kept several much-loved cats and had houseguests constantly - everyone wants to visit Las Vegas. It was a nice, young peoples' lifestyle. And then the economy soured. It was Stepfather who taught me that Las Vegas had had the same cycle since its establishment in 1905: boom, bust, boom, bust, boom. It's still happening today in this place where I've been sentenced to serve two separate terms in my life.

We did the only thing we knew to do - run for the coast in January, 1981, and get jobs, try to cut our losses and try to keep building our capital, not dipping into it. As we drove southwest out of Las Vegas for the last time, I looked in the rearview and thought I saw my youth standing at the city limits. When I arrived at my destination 6 hours later, I felt older and mature. There followed a few years of jobs that didn't last for whatever reason, and a settling comfortably into the small city of Lemon Grove, California, a 4-square-mile speck completely surrounded by San Diego.

Ex landed a job working for the local school district. It was a good job with lots of perks and benefits and decent money. He became interested in working as a job steward for the union local. Then he became a contract negotiator and a greivance processor and then president of the local. He held the position for years and spent more time in the school district board room conducting union business than he did in the school yards working on the landscaping and sprinkler systems. We could not go to the market in our 4-square-mile city without him being tapped on the shoulder and asked for advice about three members' jobs. For years. I dubbed him the King of Lemon Grove. The state organization had a small office in San Diego and the labor reps there came to know and admire Ex as a savvy, hard working, fearless union leader. I'd met a number of them at various gatherings and when their secretary became ill, I was asked to come and run the offfice.

And so began the halcyon years. The union secretary promoted and I was hired to operate the San Diego office. I proved to be a quick study about most things concerning labor relations. Ex continued working at the local level, but the union hired him away from the school district for several long-term projects. Finally came his opportunity! Our union was willing to interview members who had spent a number of years successfully working at the local level, and hire them as labor representatives, if appropriate. The years of practical experience were accepted in lieu of a degree in labor relations, for the right person. A new department had been created and four statewide organizers were to be hired. "Statewide" meant he could be called on a Monday morning, told to report to Sacramento and expect to remain there for six months. We talked about it a long time. Because I wasn't going to move away. I saw opportunity for myself with the union if I just waited long enough and worked very hard. I've never seen a man as terrified as Ex was when he drove off to his interview 200 miles away. He didn't have to wait long for the results. By the time he pulled up in front of my field office, the message had already been left for him. He had no high school diploma. He was a man who thought of himself as one with a strong back and a weak mind. He had some trouble with dyslexia and reading was not his preferred way to obtain information. He would be expected to put on training events, and he was a man terrified of a microphone. And yet he had learned, by native intelligence, to do something so well, the union was willing to put a world of fortuitous chance at his feet.

There came the years of him apartment dwelling and hotel dwelling during the week and coming home on weekends. The union was generous about picking up the tab decently. I worked on, absorbing everything I could from every labor representative I served. Contract language, grievance processing, legal research, Unfair Labor Practice charges, representation in administrative hearings, writing post-hearing briefs from scratch (I hadn't actually attended the hearing. I was doing it from the transcript.). I was the favored child of my field director and I approached him after some years. If we hired (certain) members after they'd done union work in their locals, could an argument be made that I should be allowed to interview, based on my absorbing information from all the professionals I served? It didn't happen quickly or easily. My field director lobbied his own boss and the other field directors. I gathered (basically) a petition from my own resident labor reps and others who had worked temporarily in our office, saying what they had observed that I shouldn't have known how to do, but did know how to do. Margins annotated and illustrations. I got my interview before the 15 formidable union pros and I aced it. "Best interview the panel has ever seen, Les. You're a union rep." Unions are very careful about spending the members' dues. If one accepted the monthly car allowance, one must drive a car made in a unionized factory. One must be able to seat four passengers (read this: seat members.). I went off to buy my car. I had a letter in my hand on the gold-embossed letterhead of that union. It set out my promotion date and how much money I'd make and the fact that I would also receive the auto allowance. The car salesman's eyes popped. This was the best thing he'd ever seen! Four hours later I drove off the lot in the hottest, reddest car that could seat four members. It had a Ferrari kit. I bought it alone on the strength of my own income and credit, because I could. Ex was off in some far-flung corner of the state. It was damned heady stuff.

Lest the reader think that all sounds like a couple of smart asses, too full of themselves, that's too easy and incorrect. It's about youth and recognizing opportunity and taking calculated risks and working relentlessly while reaching for the brass ring. This was a period when neither of us thought we knew everything. To the contrary, each of us thought we knew nothing. We were sponges. We spent a few years soaking up everything we could learn about the field we worked in. We bounced ideas off of each other and we cheered the other on. We worked hard and became well regarded. But for the two human beings that we were, there was more going on. We learned, the hard way, about human beings at their best and at their worst. We learned how to work sometimes 20 hours a day and remain effective, efficient, strong, leaders. We learned to advocate for others who needed our help. We learned to lobby legislators (school employees are paid from tax dollars). We learned to do things that we never expected to know how to do. We became professionals. We were a little bit startled by that. It hadn't been in the cards.

The actress Dixie Carter passed away on Sunday and that saddened me terribly. I remembered the rare occasions in the 1980s when I got a moment to watch TV. Designing Women was a firm favorite. I wanted not to be like Julia Sugarbaker, but to be Julia Sugarbaker. I liked The Golden Girls and I liked the movies of the day: Romancing the Stone, The Jewel of the Nile, Ghostbusters . . . it's been more than 20 years.


On January 1, 1990, at age 37, I sat watching Designing Women. Charlene was going to have her baby on this episode. At the moment this TV baby was born, an ancient woman in the same hospital who had been born a slave passed away. This while Linda Ronstadt and James Ingram sang "Somewhere Out There" and the TV new daddy dipped the wing of the Air Force jet he was flying, in tribute to his new daughter. I'd sob over that today. I sobbed over it then because I was very, very pregnant. Extremely overdue. Amber was due on December 13th. It was now past December 31st. I had muddled through a terribly difficult, surprise pregnancy. After we had tried for almost 20 years without success, we'd sadly accepted there would be no children for us. I'd come home from our first trip abroad in the spring of 1989 . . . . pregnant. I'd managed to get through the holidays quietly, but now there were no more of them to look forward to. The 80s were gone and the 90s beckoned. The child was born on the 6th day of 1990. I looked back and thought I saw my mature, professional, confident self standing on the calendar page of December 31, 1989. I felt very young and immature and scared by what lay before me. Things weren't going to ever be exactly the same again. How would I deal with it? Would I do OK or even well? Could I succeed in the next chapter?

In my ears right now: It's still Simply Red. It pleases me.

Something that charmed me: I stopped avoiding what troubled me. I took it on. I lit into it. I said to the other human being, "Would you care to dance? We've got business to discuss." We wrote and wrote. We talked. We communicated. I am reminded of a couple of things. I do myself no favors by avoiding. And after two people communicate, one is reminded of the goodness that seems to fade when avoidance is operating. I'm still learning. May my life be finished when I can no longer learn new things.

April 8, 1968

If you've ever spent a moment on this blog, you're aware that I'm sentimental and maybe sappy. I'm a person who feels things deeply, and it's been said that I am very loving. I nurture and encourage and cheer for those I care about. I feed and fetch for those I treasure. I'd make a very fine Labrador Retriever. I'm known to collect and bond to some odd little signs or icons such as an image that pleases me or a date on the calendar or a tune. I internalize those things and they become an integral part of me. The date of April 8th, and specifically April 8th, 1968, is such a thing. Why that date? Why not September 14th or some other target on the calendar? I wonder. Were the stars aligned in some way on the day of my birth that portended April 8th would be an important day for me some 15 years later and for the remainder of my time? I don't know. I'm not that brilliant. But I know about April 8th.

Because the date is special to me, I went searching to see what had happened on it in history. Oh. Ponce de Leon claimed Florida for Spain in 1513 and the U.S. House of Representatives met for the first time in 1789. In 1879, milk was sold in glass bottles for the first time, and on April 8, 1912, two steam ships collided in the middle of the Nile, killing 200. In 1935, Congress approved the Works Progress Administration (WPA) and on 4/8/1939, King Zog of Albania fled the country (for reasons I did not further research). On April 8, 1946, the League of Nations met for the last time and on the same date in 1952, the year of my birth, President Truman seized the steel mills in order to avert a strike. The Supreme Court later ruled Truman had overstepped his authority, which pleases the union representative in my soul. In 1963, Lawrence of Arabia was named the movie of the year at the Academy Awards and in 1974, Hank Aaron slammed that 715th career home run to break Babe Ruth's record of 714. Chicago was the first rock group to play at Carnegie Hall on April 8, 1971 and on this date in 1986, Clint Eastwood was elected mayor of Carmel, California. In 1992, on April 8th, Arthur Ashe disclosed he had contracted AIDS.

Some notable persons claim April 8th birthdays, including Ponce de Leon (Looks like he claimed Florida for his own birthday gift!), the American actress Mary Pickford, ice skater/actress Sonja Henie, U.S. First Lady Betty Ford, the comedan Shecky Greene, TV host John Bartholomew Tucker, Peggy Lennon of the Lennon Sisters singing quartet, conservative Republican U.S. Representative Tom DeLay [sorry, Badger!], Dukes of Hazzard actor John Schneider, John Lennon's son Julian Lennon, and the actress Robin Wright Penn. Whew! The world has also lost a few notables on April the 8th, including the actress Claire Trevor, singer Laura Nyro in 1997, Kurt Cobain of Nirvana fame, U.S. contralto singer Marian Anderson, rock producer Phil Ochs, the artist Pablo Picasso, and the Roman Emperor Marcus Antonilius. Yikes.

But what about my April 8th? The one in 1968? It was a Monday, the first day of what we called Easter vacation, now known as spring break. It was sunny and warm in southern California. Dr. Martin Luther King had been assassinated three days previously. Both the 40th annual Academy Awards and the opening day of National League Baseball were postponed from April 8th to allow the country to mourn. The new socialist constitution of East Germany took effect and WKPI TV Channel 22 (PBS) in Pikeville, Kentucky, began broadcasting. It was a busy day! Number one on the charts in the U.S. was Otis Redding's posthumously released (Sitting On) The Dock of the Bay. In the U.K., the Beatles would earn another gold record on 4/8/1968 for Lady Madonna.


Let's leave the world behind and go to Inglewood, California. It was a lovely Los Angeles suburb at the time. Truly a nice place to live, with good schools, a large shopping area, tree-lined streets, tidy middle class homes with flowers in the gardens. My Granny always wanted to live in Inglewood rather than L.A.-proper, because it was such a nice place. I was stretched out on the living room carpet, transcribing lyrics from one of the tunes on Bob Dylan's Highway 61 Revisited album. The 33 rpm record spun on the Heathkit stereo turntable my father had built. I'd scribble some words and then lift the turntable arm, just to gently put it back on the vinyl to catch the next phrase or two. Bob Dylan is not easy to transcribe. I was killing some time. I tend to be (still today) prepunctual. I'd dressed, applied makeup and fixed my hair, leaving way too much dead time to deal with before 10:00 a.m. He was punctual. I didn't have to wait until 10:02 a.m.
Across my threshold that morning, with the sun shining over his left shoulder, stepped a young man. We'd only talked on the phone, and had specifically set up our first meeting to take place right at the beginning of spring break. I didn't know at the time that the really good looking youngblood would be a person who would become and remain important in my life. I just knew that I liked him. A lot. Immediately. This man and I have been many things to one another across the decades. And - oh, yeah - there was that 30-year stretch when we didn't know if the other still existed. I've written about the relationship before, with probably the best rendition being this one. However, an interested reader could go to my posts with the label 1968 and read from the oldest going forward if the story of two insignificant people allures.

No, the purpose of this post was to simply celebrate the fact that sometimes in life we meet another human being and something in the cosmos begins to whir. Sometimes we're fortunate enough to be able to recognize that something just clicked and this fellow human being is one we want to spend time with. Get to know better. Keep. It has been stated that when he and I are in the same room, the light bulbs spin in their sockets. I think that is a good analogy. That is the kind of energy produced when these two elements are placed in close proximity. I think about the John Lennon lyrics, " . . life is what happens while you're busy making plans . . ". It hasn't gone the way we'd have predicted. It hasn't gone the way we sometimes wanted it to. It hasn't gone according to Hoyle and it hasn't gone by the rules. It hasn't gone by the book and it hasn't gone the way anyone else might have designed it. And it hasn't gone.

Here are the photos, taken by our respective mothers. They were taken within a couple of years of 1968, at most, so this really is the way we looked. Blogger friend Kass had asked me in comments once if I had pictures of us at the time. I confessed that I did have some, but I was reluctant to show mine. Oh, I know what I look like, so that's not the deal. And I remember that white eyeshadow was outlawed the very next year after the picture was taken. I love my John Lennon glasses that had real glass lenses, and I remember that watch with the wide blue band. But I am troubled by the look on my face. I remember the morning well. It was my birthday. My mother insisted on taking the photograph over my objection. My mother and I were engaged in mortal wrangle at all times. So the face you see belongs to a very angry young woman at whom a camera could be aimed, but who could not be forced to smile. In fact, I believe I see a little jut to the jaw that says, "If I snap my neck from all the muscle tension, that's OK. But I will not smile."












Who knows where the time goes? I don't feel very differently. And what will happen next? I don't know. I'm not that brilliant. And I'm reminded that when people are put together, watching the chemical reaction is rather like looking into the kaleidoscope, all the little colored pieces moving into another configuration and then, yet another. One can't predict that.













I may not be brilliant, but I know the good goods when I see them. It's good to have connected with the Badger. Now I think I'll go learn some new things. Those are my most frequently used labels. That's what I do. Connect with others and learn new things. It's good to have you in my life, Badge.

In my ears right now:


Something that charmed me: I've been talking up April 8th for awhile now. Home dudes like me, of course, and they like the Badger. They also like to hear my stories of the days when I was young and dinosaurs roamed the earth. I was welcomed this morning with a flower on my desk and a cup of Starbucks. "Happy April 8th! Truly, 42 years, Les?" As some of the homes were checking out, Matt commented he was going to meet his new girlfriend's mother tonight. It is the good woman's birthday. Then Cesar said, "Hey, it's Thursday! It's my mom's anniversary." Oh. April 8th, huh, homes?

Photo credits for the final four shots respectively: Mother Badger, Mother Now, Limes Now, The Badger