100 Day Challenge #43: Easy Does It

In January 2020, I wrote this to describe what I saw in this work of art by printmaker Daniel Chiaccio. We met at a wonderful Artists’ Residency in Petaluma. I was very inspired by his etchings. This particular one is entitled Easy Does It. The story thus takes the same title. I had the pleasure of using this piece for a reading in 2020 on Zoom with a print of Easy Does It on Screen Share. I hope you enjoy it!

Easy Does It by Daniel Chiaccio

Easy Does It

The old man closed the heavy oak door behind him to the chill wind and winter.

 Inside was another season altogether. He bolted the door shut, locking out the toil and conflict of the outside world, put down his knapsack, and hung his coat and hat on a peg beside the door.

 Inside the cottage was a warm, soothing breeze, like fingers through one’s hair, and yet there was no fan. The lamps glowed golden. Defying any logic, leaves of yellow and orange, red, brown and green moved gently in the air, floating below the ceiling around the lights and circling the live tree in the middle of the room that rose from the floor through the kitchen countertop through the sleeping loft all the way to branches that stretched out in all directions just below the roof beams. Two small birds fluttered in and out of a birdhouse on the side of the tree twittering away as they carried bits of straw from the floor into a hole in their house to make a nest. Where they had come from and exactly when they arrived, the old man did not know.

He grinned, rubbing the whiskers on his chin. The autumn was his favorite. Although, they were all pretty, even when it turned winter inside and the lanterns shown blue and icicles gleamed from the rafters and he had to wear an extra coat. Luckily, those days were seldom. When it was spring, butterflies fluttered all around the room and everything was pastel, and fresh flowers sprouted right out of the kitchen counter. On especially prolific spring evenings, he had a hard time finding enough surface for the cutting board to slice his evening bread and cheese amongst the tulips and the primrose. When summer came to the cottage, the lamps shone brightly and soft sand covered the floor and from the walls themselves, he heard the sound of a distant surf, waves gentle and inviting, not like those of the rough stormy seas outside that swallowed the fishing boats with men inside them and threw seaweed upon the boardwalk that he spent his days cleaning. During summer days in the cottage, he would sit in his undershirt on the sand floor and breathe in the warm air, closing his eyes and traveling far away in his mind, to a moment in his childhood, with sunshine and squeals of glee and sand flying, a red metal pail and shovel his trusty tools.

But today, he looked at the golden leaves in the branches overhead wondering. It had been the fall season for many, many days in a row now. 

“Are we going to stay in the autumn, then?” He asked.

As he grabbed the knapsack from the floor and hoisted it onto the counter to unload a new loaf of bread and some ale, he noticed the pack had been patched with a swath of cloth, red with a yellow sunflower on it. The patch had been stitched neatly over the hole in the corner. He hadn’t even noticed it in the morning when he left before dawn, so tired, as he tended to be these days, from the daily grind of life and his creaky bones.

The only time he felt truly energized was here in the cottage with its changing seasons, it’s beauty and comfort and his allusive roommate.

He sat down at the little table with his cheese and cold meat, bread and ale, and for a treat, a shiny red apple, admiring the cushions on the bench as he did so. They each contained a hand-sewn autumn scene featuring trees with warm, multi-color leaves. It was some time ago, but not at the beginning, when he realized if he stared at one long enough, a leaf would fall from a branch. That magic lit him up inside. It kept him company. It filled the room and him. 

It was already late as he chewed his meal. He let out several loud sighs and found, with his limbs limp and eyes heavy, he could not finish it. 

Once tidied up, his teeth brushed, and in his nightshirt, he shuffled to the ladder, passing her little door beneath the counter. A light flickered from within. He hesitated.

“Won’t you come out and say hello?”

He waited, but there was no reply, even though he thought he saw a shadow move inside. How many times had he asked? It had been, what? Thirty years since she appeared without explanation and settled in, just months after his Martha had died of fever and at first, he thought the heavy, gray weight of grief must be driving him mad. But in a few years, he had become accustom to the presence of the tiny being in his cottage. Then the tree sprouted and the seasons, subtle at first, became more pronounced. He didn’t know what to call her. A fairy, an elf, a dryad, a gnome. An angel. He sufficed to call her Little One. 

“Little One, thank you for patching my bag yet again. It is stronger and more beautiful than ever.”

Slowly, carefully he climbed the ladder to the loft, each step a struggle these days. He gripped the sides tightly, not wanting to admit to himself his fear of falling.

Recovering his breath, he tucked himself into his bed. As if on cue, the lamps downstairs dimmed. He pulled the blanket up to his chin and lay thinking. 

“You have been a great comfort to me, Little One,” he said. “You brought light to counter my darkness and enchantment to cure a drab existence. I don’t know why you chose me, my Little One. But I am grateful.” He let tears fall down his temples onto his pillow. “I am so grateful. And so very fond of you, though I have never set eyes on you. Did I ever tell you that? Well, now you know.”

He closed his eyes and pictured the Little One as he always did in his mind, a beautiful woman in miniature with long flowing hair, a smile that could light the day, her entire being glowing with joy. He knew this image was his own. But even if she was a shriveled, warted thing, he knew he would find her beautiful.

“Good night, Little One,” he whispered.

Several hours later, the old man awoke to a terrible pain in his chest. He felt panic as he found no breath to take. 

“Shhh,” came a small voice in his ear. A tiny figure sat by his head, smoothing his hair. “Easy does it.” The voice sounded like a summer breeze, like a gurgling brook, like a lofting, perfect note on a violin. The old man looked at her in wonder as the Little One leaned and kissed his cheek. With that kiss, he felt no more pain. His body relaxed. He smiled.

Before long, he lay pale in his bed, perfectly still, no longer even a rise and fall in his chest. A small tear fell onto his nightshirt. “Sleep well, my sweet man. I will always love you,” it said before the lights in the cottage turned winter blue.

100 Day Challenge #42: A Six-Year Old Detective

           I’ve told my story based on this photo in many presentations, but as the years have passed, the story has changed. It’s become more—truthful.

           I was six-years old. My mother, a 5.0 player, athletic and competitive—but not admittedly so—had a voracious tennis habit and had several regular weekly games. She loved it and she was good. One game took place at the courts at Los Lomas High School in Walnut Creek with a group that called themselves the Crazy-Eights. It being summertime, I was told I was going along for the ride. I didn’t protest. It never occurred to me to. That was just the way it was as a six-year old girl in my household.

            Fortunately, a couple of the other ladies had brought their daughters. While our moms rallied in anticipation of their doubles match, we went off to explore in the wooded creek bed behind the school. In my imagination, I traveled far away. In the dappled shade of the trees, with the babble of the brook and our footsteps crunching on fallen leaves and branches, suburbia disappeared. We searched the “forest” for anything of interest. We saw scurrying squirrels and screeching jays and rocks to throw and sticks to break. 

            I don’t remember who saw them first. I’d like to think it was me. 

            “Look at this!” One of us yelled.

            There on the bank of the creek was a scattered pile of paper of different colors.

            “Bills!” we exclaimed. They were all of about the same small rectangular shape. We scooped them into our arms and ran back to our mothers to show them our discovery.

            “Bills, Mommy, look at the bills!” I said, rushing onto the court. The ladies had just started their game, so showed only mild curiosity. My mother volunteered to take the “bills” home and examine them. We stuffed them all into her tennis bag, the women resumed their play, and we resumed ours. 

            That evening after my brother and I had gone to bed, my mother showed the booty in her tennis bag to my father. They were checks, all made out to Safeway or cash, totaling about $12,000.

            The next morning, my dad phoned the local sheriff’s office. Sure enough. We learned that the manager of the Safeway store in Walnut Creek had been taking his usual afternoon walk to the bank with the day’s deposits (It was a more trusting world 50 years ago!), when he was robbed at gunpoint mid-way. My parents explained all this to me and added that a detective was coming to the house to ask us questions. 

            A real-life detective! At our house!

           I was beside-myself excited. I found a magnifying glass and took two baseball hats, put one on backwards over the other forward-facing cap, and la voila! I was Linda Sherlock Holmes. (One of the hats kept falling off and I finally had to settle for one to create my “uniform.”)

           Not only did I meet a tall, friendly detective with five o’clock shadow, the man asked my dad and me if he could accompany us back to the scene of the crime to have a look around. 

           Down in the creek bed, I scrambled ahead of the men, pointing to where we found the flung checks. Not far from that spot, my father spotted the missing piece of evidence that the detective needed, the manila envelope that had contained the checks. The thief must have discarded these worthless checks once he looked through the envelope. The detective was pleased, and several weeks later, the culprit was apprehended.

           It was a great day!

           The icing on the cake was when a local reporter and photographer arrived at the house to get the scoop and take my picture. I was featured as a “hero” in the local newspaper, “Honest Lindy” and the “Little Detective.” My dad gave me the credit for finding the manila folder (but I distinctly remember him finding it).

           A week or so later, an executive from Safeway called the house. The company was so relieved to recover the checks and impressed with my six-year-old “detective work,” they wanted to present me with a reward. 

           On the way to one of my brother’s tennis tournaments—like my mom, he was obsessed with the sport and winning every tournament in California and Nevada in the USTA Under-ten division—we stopped into the Walnut Creek Safeway at the designated time. 

           Men in suits greeted us and on the floor of the store between the shelved goods and the check-out stands, they had a formal, photographed ceremony and presented me with 10 shares of Safeway stock. I didn’t know what that was but figured it was worth something. 

           Much better than some piece of paper, they wheeled out a brand new, bright yellow bicycle with shiny plastic tassels hanging from the handlebars, a banana seat and training wheels. Grinning ear-to-ear, I may have asked if I could ride it. It was a thrill riding down the aisles of the grocery store, almost running into an old lady in front of the orange bin in the produce section. 

           I used to tell this story as an “origin” story, one of my early inspirations for loving stories, mysteries, sleuthing, for being observant. And this is true. It was at six-years old that I first proclaimed I wanted to be a writer. It was a demonstration of my imagination and enthusiasm.

           But as I encouraged other budding memoirists not to shy away from raw honesty, I began telling more of the story, the internal story, the tough stuff to share. 

           Though I loved that event in my life, for years afterwards, I felt not only the glee of the moment but also guilt and shame. I had been with two other little girls when we found the bills. I never mentioned them to the press. I never reached out to them to see if they wanted to participate in the glory. That was the guilt part. I don’t think I even really knew the other girls well. I don’t remember their names. We were thrown together by our mothers’ association, but still, wouldn’t trying to include them have been the “right” thing to do?

           My shame was that I enjoyed that limelight. Very, very much. And I enjoyed not sharing it. In my household, I was lowest on the totem pole. I had no choice but to accompany my mother to all my brother’s tennis matches all over the Bay Area while he was in competition. While my mother kept a point-by-point record, her eyes fixed on his match, I was left to wander around with my Snoopy doll, my Noah’s ark full of plastic animals—acquired in pairs with every full tank of gas at Aarco—and my wildly active imagination. At a match in San Francisco, I wandered into adjacent Golden Gate Park on my own to find a miniature fairground, where Snoopy and I rode the swing ride. A six-year old girl.

           By gender tradition, I was brought up subservient to the rest of my family and ashamed of my “big girl” body (more on that another time). I was “too big for my britches” if I expressed an opposing opinion or really any opinion at all. I was supposed to smile, be agreeable, be cheerful all the time, like everything my family liked, and do what I was told. 

           (Yeah, that f***ed me up for a while.)

           Don’t get me wrong. My parents loved their daughter. I never wanted for any material thing or basic material needs. Ever! They just didn’t know. They presented me with a beautiful lifestyle, social graces and educational opportunities, for which I’m truly grateful. 

           But it has taken two decades of therapy to unwrap the shame and give it a name, and then let it go. And even now, with very little shame and regret left, I can still go to that default belief-system of my childhood very easily, the one I didn’t even know I had, of not being good enough, not pleasing enough, not being “right” somehow, of being bad for feeling anything but joy. 

           They say that “synapsis that fire together, wire together.” I’m still trying to change and re-circuit the electrical system within myself. It’s a mindful practice. Staying loving and caring of myself has to be a conscious act. Every day. But it’s one I’m hugely grateful for!  

           So, that is the full story of finding the checks in the woods. I am Honest Linda—as long as I’m honest with myself—I was inspired by that childhood episode. I LOVE making up stories, using my imagination, approaching life with wonder, being observant of the world around me, and sleuthing, researching for hidden facts and untold stories. And the guilt and shame, that was true too.

           My only regret left is that, after the Safeway stock doubled while I was in college and, not knowing how to manage my money and badly in need of more, I sold it. I think I made a thousand bucks, maybe two, enough to buy a working used car. It would’ve been worth a lot more today! Oh well! Live and learn!

100 Day Challenge #41: Anytime Writer

“A writer who waits for ideal conditions under which to work will die without putting a word on paper.” - E.B. White

            One of the beauties of this 100 Day Challenge is that I’ve learned I CAN write at night. I CAN write when I’m tired. I CAN write under time pressure. I CAN write when I’m hungry or full. In the afternoon. Between work projects. In the car while waiting to pick up my son. When I’m not sure what I’m going to write. 

            It may not all be stellar writing, but ideas appear on paper. The work has started. And anytime you start the work, there’s going to be a gem in the muck somewhere. That’s just the odds.

            This challenge has shown me I have greater flexibility around my writing conditions than I previously thought. 

Like a pro baseball player that wears the same pair of stinky socks for a month if on a winning streak, writers can form superstitions. The stories we tell ourselves. Usually because we’ve heard them from other writers. Like the best time to write is in the morning before your inner critic is awake. Other writers swear by writing after midnight. I’m a morning person. But I’ve learned: why limit myself to this? 

            Some writers work in a certain place in their house. With fresh flowers. With a mandatory cup of coffee. Or if you’re William Faulkner, with whiskey. "You see, I usually write at night. I always keep my whiskey within reach," he once said to a reporter.

           Some writers swear by creating first drafts by hand, pen to paper. Some writers always listen to music while writing. Or never. Haruki Murakami says, “When I’m in writing mode for a novel, I get up at four a.m. and work for five to six hours. In the afternoon, I run for ten kilometers or swim for fifteen hundred meters (or do both), then I read a bit and listen to some music. I go to bed at nine p.m.” That is a guy who loves his routine! And has the context and ability to stick to it. Admirable. But not my cup of tea!

           One of Henry Miller’s writing “commandments” was to “Work on one thing at a time until finished.” Yeah, well, Miller probably didn’t have to juggle parenting, earning through client writing, keeping up with elderly parents, trying to maintain some intimacy with your spouse, and deciding which project to work on with writing a dream deferred. (That’s me!) 

           I do love many of his commandments though, like “Don’t be nervous. Work calmly, joyously, recklessly on whatever is in hand.” It’s true that my best work comes when I can find a place of love rather than anxiety. But like he also said, “When you can’t create you can work.”

         Khaled Hosseini counters Miller by saying, “You have to write whether you feel like it or not.” And I have to do this (at 10:30 at night after a long day) to keep my 100-Day streak.

         In all this lies the issue. We are all looking for sound suggestions on the pathway to publishing. And there are a ton of them out there, authors writing about writing or just sharing their habits in interviews. BECAUSE WE ASK THEM! We want to know. 

         Ultimately, we try some of them—I’d avoid the whiskey—and it can be hard to stay aware so we can keep what works, discard what doesn’t and find our own methods of churning out stories. 

         I think we just have to remember, I have to remember, that I can always change the story. The one I’m writing and the one I tell myself. For example, I’m not just a morning writer. I’m an anytime writer.

Photo by Thom Milkovic on Unsplash

100 Day Challenge #40: Please Don't Bring Me Flowers (continued from Challenge #35)

Continued from Challenge #35…

The next day Flora got up early and sat on the window seat wrapped in her comforter watching and waiting. She had done this habitually throughout her confined life. She knew all the comings and goings of the neighborhood. For example, she knew that Mr. Greenwood left the house for work at 7:35 every weekday except Friday, sipping a metal to-go cup. He wore suits on Tuesdays. His wife, who worked at home, went grocery shopping on Wednesdays and Saturdays. A girl named Tenesha with black ringlets and a very “in” wardrobe who lived down the street out of Flora’s view arrived at Maddy Fischer’s house around 8:20, and the two of them walked, chittering loudly about fourth grade boys toward Kennedy Elementary School. The garage door opened at Maddy’s house at 9am, when Mrs. And Mr. Fischer pulled out in their Subaru.

Flora knew who was punctual and who was always scrambling to get somewhere. She saw neighbors pick their noses, scratch their crotches, walk by windows naked, fart, the stuff humans all naturally do that we’re supposed to stupidly hide.

This morning Flora’s spying felt more invasive than usual as she watched Jake’s house. She couldn’t deny the reason. It was her heart-squashing, soul-yanking, painfully impossible crush on him. Nothing could ever come of it. She knew that. But how do you control these things? She saw herself withering away, a modern-day Jane Eyre. 

“No.”

She slapped herself lightly on the cheek, a reminder. Given all of her ailments, she had decided long ago there was no place for self-pity in her life. And she wasn’t about to do it now. She’d just have to get over him. 

And this was one way. If she could catch Jake DiMeola farting or scratching his crotch or throwing a rock at a squirrel, anything unbecoming, she’d see he wasn’t her Kouros, her Pygmalion-esque dream, her Darcy. 

Tenesha appeared, today in a short plaid, pleaded skirt. Maddy came out to meet her and the two plodded down the sidewalk. 

The minutes ticked away. At 8:30, a blue Chevy Spark pulled into Jake’s driveway. The woman was late again. She pulled an oversized purse from the backseat onto the pavement, tied up her hair, and hurried to the front door. Flora couldn’t see Jake greet the care worker at the door, blocked by an overhang. 

Five minutes later, there he was. He wore jeans and a white t-shirt with whales on it. She liked whales and wondered if it was an interest of his or just a random shirt. In front of his driveway he stopped to pull on the second strap of his backpack. Then he did something he’d never done before. He just stood there. For a long time. What was he doing? Flora found it hard to breathe with anticipation. 

Then he looked up. Directly at her.

Her heart raced, but this time, she didn’t hit the floor and hide. She stared back at him. Jake grinned. Flora bit her lip and smiled back. Jake’s grin turned into an all-out smile. Then he waved and strode down the sidewalk towards Garfield High, in the opposite direction of the elementary school, turning to meet Flora’s eyes one more time before he was out of sight. 

Flora leaned her head back against the wall and closed her eyes, still smiling, reeling in the sensations of—what exactly? Hope, excitement, desire, giddiness, happiness. It was entirely new, except for second-hand empathy of book and movie antagonists. And she was determined to take it all in, pleasurable and overwhelming at the same time. Even if it didn’t last, even if it was futile in the end, she would have this moment. 

100 Day Challenge #39: the Poetry Professor

The Poetry Professor

The Poetry Professor, puffy white,

Tenured and right,

Bifocals perched and pinching her nose, 

Squints over the page with the words I chose

And declares,

“This    is    not    poetry.”

She thrusts outward my creation 

Now seared with a large scarlet C.

I don’t second-glance

Only rub the smooth paper between finger and thumb 

And mud-like move 

Into the darkness of a random hall,

Above a garbage can, let it fall

Lifeless down among wrappers and bags

And half-eaten sandwiches,

And I walk away.

Twenty-six years later

With the gift of age,

I dare use words to paint that day

Shaking, share it on this page

And proclaim in defiance that still feels twenty,

“This     IS     poetry.

It         is         MY     poetry.”

Photo by Trust "Tru" Katsande on Unsplash

100 Day Challenge #38: Autumn or Fall

Trees shed the old, the gold for renewal

Leaves fall like tears.

Fog like a mystery blankets the bay

Eerie mist blocks my view.

The breeze through the branches is a backing percussion

Please stop that frightening howl!

The symphonic trill of the crickets play

Night noises threaten unknown.

The moon glows romantic to silhouette lovers

Werewolves prey under such skies.

Small ghouls in packs laugh, hugging bags of candy

Keep the front lights off.

Autumn days shorten with promise of sweaters and snow

Cold is coming.

Perception is truth, Thoreau discerned at the Pond, 

And we choose our reality.

It's not what you look at that matters at all 

It's all in what you see.

Photo by Neven Krcmarek on Unsplash

100 Day Challenge #37: In Pursuit of Pregnancy

I originally wrote this in 2007 and never shared it, so it now sees the light of day. It describes an experience when my husband and I were trying to get pregnant in 2003. My sons are now almost 18 and 16. I’m appreciating this challenge and the self-created requirement of having to share what I write.

Photo by Huha Inc. on Unsplash

In Pursuit of Pregnancy #2: Down for the Count

Two advantages to having a baby in later years are readiness and awareness.

I had been hyper-aware of my body since starting our attempts to get pregnant. The slightest change in mood or stomach rumblings and I was off to Walgreen’s for a pregnancy test. I asked our Godson’s mom if she knew it for sure when she was pregnant. She paused a moment and nodded with conviction but didn’t elaborate.

Frustrated, I awaited the sure sign, whatever it was, different than anything I had ever felt. I read about all the symptoms in What To Expect When You’re Expecting. I still didn’t get it so I called the Advice Nurse at Kaiser for more certain insights from the experts.

“Hmm,” said Nurse Anita.

“Yes?”

“Hold on a minute. I’m looking it up in What to Expect When You’re Expecting.”

This really happened.

That month, instead of a period, I only spot-bled a couple days. A week later, my breasts felt unusually tender. A few days later my abdomen felt heavy, lower in the gut than the discomfort of indigestion. Something was happening in my body that had never happened before. The feeling though mild was, indeed, entirely new.

Six AM on a Sunday I sat on the edge of the tub looking alternately at my watch and the home pregnancy test sitting on the sink. The cat mewed for her breakfast outside the door.  I blinked at the indicator. There was a faint line in the plastic window. I read the directions that came in the box for the third time: “A faint line—is also positive.”

Nudging my husband awake, I asked him to look at the test in the bathroom. I lay back down in bed waiting for him to tell me it was my imagination and fuzzy morning vision. But the line WAS there.

In disbelief, I took the test again the next morning. The advice nurse recommended a blood test since the line was so slight. It could be an early pregnancy, she explained, or it could be a tubal one (Also called an Ectopic pregnancy, when the egg implants in a fallopian tube or somewhere else in the belly). That sounded scary. But I comforted myself that I wasn’t having the severe cramps she said usually accompanied this condition. The other possibility was an “unhealthy pregnancy,” vague and ominous.

Though I promised my husband I wouldn’t tell anyone about testing possibly-positive, my girlfriend at work asked me directly while on our noontime jog, well two girlfriends. So, what could I do? I was relieved to share the news. Though Doug and I both were careful not to commit totally to the idea that we might be pregnant, we fantasized about telling our parents that they would finally have grandchildren. It was a long 24-hours awaiting the results of the blood test.

Since we started this process, I have spent a lot of time in the basement laboratory giving blood. Sometimes I come out with a cotton ball taped in the crook of my arm with no mark beneath. Sometimes I look like a junkie for a week, the skin of failed attempts gray-blue around the vein. I started to see the same bloodletters on shift at my usual seven a.m. ritual, learn their personalities and who was best with the needle. I never watched the needle hit skin. It’s always the visual that kills me.

There was the old, Eastern European woman with platinum-died hair who always had some wisdom to impart. Despite her seeming lack of attention and squinting over bifocals, she was great with the needle. The young handsome man working part-time left a lingering bruise every time, but crooned adorably, “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to hurt you.” The African man built like a big bear with the huge smile and a lilting accent liked to make fun of the Eastern lady. He always left a clean mark. The serious Chinese-American woman who said nothing after confirming your name, even when you tried to make conversation sometimes hit the vein, sometimes not.

Each time, the results were available the next day after two p.m.. Though I was dying to know about this particular blood test, I made myself wait until three o’clock to call. I don’t really know why, masochism, fear of failure or success. Doug was waiting for my call.

I was pregnant. But the nurse explained that though the pregnancy hormone (Human chorionic gonadotropin hormone or hCG, present only during pregnancy) was in my body, the count was low. There were only a few hundred. A healthy pregnancy would mean at least a thousand. 

I marveled at this: a whole new hormone in my body. As if the ones I had weren’t enough. (hCG is made by cells formed in the placenta, which nourishes the egg after it has been fertilized and becomes attached to the uterine wall. It’s also the most likely cause of morning sickness. Hard to tell with the simultaneous rise of other hormones already in the body: progesterone, estrogen, and Thyroid-stimulating hormone, or TSH). 

I was told to come in to test again the next day to see if the numbers increased or dropped. 

I had two long hours to kill between the second blood test and my appointment with Nurse Patty to find out the results. So, I did what any nervous, possibly expectant mother would do, I went for a walk in a cemetery. It was near the hospital, and I had heard it was a good place to walk. Trekking up the hill among the vast lawns and tombstones, I read the inscriptions dating back to the early 1800s. Many graves were for babies.

No running that day. I was paranoid about jarring the poor thing inside me. The night before I read about foods that have particular vitamins and nutrients a baby would need. I made sure I slept. Suddenly taking care of myself, eating right seemed easy. It was a priority. No more chocolates from co-workers in the afternoon or over-filling lunches. I would get enough sleep each night. My habits of living had all improved, even just for one day so far. I laughed aloud at the thought: if only I took this sort of responsibility for my body when it was just for me.

But I had felt another change to my body that day, not a good one. Hard to describe. My abdomen had a dull ache. There was spot bleeding. I didn’t know what to think about this, but it instinctively felt bad. The long strides comforted me, as well as the thought that I would know definitively in under two hours what my body had decided. My body is well-designed, I cheered myself, it’ll do its best. It’s a lean, mean, baby-making machine.

Here lies Charles McRoy, beloved son of Molly and James, 1872-1873.

With a knock on the examining room door, Nurse Patty entered. “I have bad news,” she said, not wasting words or allowing hope.

My numbers had diminished. The pregnancy didn’t take, she said. I suspected as much. But the disappointment still dried my mouth. She examined me, purely for my own peace of mind. At one point, she mentioned the word “miscarry.”

Yes, my God. I had a miscarriage. It sounded much worse that way, labeled with that whispered word. “She had a hard time with it.” “She doesn’t want to talk about it.” That’s the way I had always heard miscarriages talked about before. “She has miscarried five times, the last after three months, poor thing.” I knew I got off easy with only three days of knowing, six weeks of a fertilized egg in my body. I was determined to talk about it, not hide it away like some shame or horrible secret or untouchable memory. But later when it came time to share the news, some people I told quite naturally, others I didn’t feel like mentioning it to at all.

We had dinner guests that night, conversation on the couch, games on the floor with their two children, take-out Chinese at the dining room table. I ate too much Mu Shu Pork and tried hard to listen. Since I hadn’t okayed telling people with Doug, I resisted sharing the news. I said nothing. It just about killed me. After they left, Doug revealed that he had told them during a tour of our new and improved backyard, so they knew the entire time anyway. On the same wavelength after that, he encouraged me to talk about it with anyone I wanted as much as I needed.

Piling laptop, gym bag, purse, lunch into the passenger seat of my car the next morning, I suddenly doubled over with sharp cramps. The sensible thing would’ve been to return to the house, call in sick and camp out in the bathroom. But I started the engine and directed the car through freeway traffic, through the toll plaza and across the bridge. The whole way, the cramps intensified. I leaned forward, moaning aloud, weeping involuntarily in my speeding Toyota fishbowl. 

In the parking lot outside my office, I left everything but my keys and scampered hunched toward the first-floor restroom, past the CEO and men in suits smoking cigarettes and chatting in German on the patio. It was the day of the annual board meeting. These guys visited only once a year.

The downstairs bathroom had been retiled too brightly, but hardly anyone used it, which was a relief. It became my home for a while. I sat in amazement through continued contractions, a mini-preview of childbirth, that I told myself I must remember, “’cause Baby, you ain’t seen nothin’ yet!” At one point, I ran upstairs to tell the two girlfriends who knew my plight where I was. “So, you know,” I said, “and also for your support.”

As I rushed back down, tears welling up—at work, great!—I realized that was why I kept stubbornly driving my usual route to the office. I needed to be around people.

Trying a stroll around the parking lot, which didn’t help at all, a kind co-worker with her office dog honed in on me, sat me down outside the café, and got me a drink and an Advil. I must’ve looked as bad as I felt. Running my hand over the dark, soft fur of her dog, Dillon, felt like a miracle. I didn’t feel like telling Joan what was going on, but when my carpool buddy Dan happened outside for a mid-morning snack, I had no trouble telling him I miscarried. A tender soul, who had just seen his girlfriend through ovarian cancer, he opened his arms automatically to pull me to him, hugged me close and whispered, “It’s alright.” That was all it took. Tears gushed.

“Breath with me,” he said. Inside the tinted window, the directors of the company were filing into the boardroom with their donuts. I tried not to think about them.

“Call Doug,” he said, “Do you have a friend who could come stay with you? Go home.”

My husband was between classes at the high school where he taught and in answer to my cell phone alert, came out to sit with me in the car. The cascade of tears had continued the entire way back across the San Mateo Bridge and now soaked his shoulder as I clung to him. Several students glanced into the car windows on their way to class. I was oblivious until Doug suggested I drive to the end of the parking lot by the gym. It was humorous in a way, but I couldn’t tell him so through the sobs.

And the strange thing was that I actually felt fine about it, even with streaks of salty tears and a stuffed nose “I even see the humor in the whole thing,” I choked out. But I kept crying anyway.

Ahh, the power of hormones. All I could figure was this pregnancy hormone was a powerful presence and was not happy that my body had rejected it. Once at home, I stroked my cat, yanked weeds from the jungle of our new rose garden with the sun warming my back. Tears subsided into melancholy. Later in the evening, I lay immobile in front of the TV. My mood had lowered to near depression. The whole thing fascinated me and I felt lucky to have this at least partial understanding of post-partum depression. No wonder some women suffer so much while their bodies readjust with the retreat of powerful hormones.

The next day, I was exhausted, but the sea change had passed. And I’m now one of the many women in America who have miscarried. (One in eight pregnancies end in miscarriage.)

My husband and I take a positive spin on the whole thing though. My body wasn’t quite ready. But, we found out we COULD get pregnant! The machinery worked after all. We felt a new confidence and hopeful for the next month. And while waiting for a successful pregnancy, well, the practice wasn’t torture!

100 Day Challenge #36: Pursued by Bears (A Winter's Tale)

Tonight, my husband and I saw A Winter’s Tale by William Shakespeare at the California Shakespeare Festival. I was very excited about going. I love the theatre and I love Shakespeare. But this was a play that I did not know much about, if anything at all. I read the synopsis in preparation of the outing. 

I was surprised to learn that the first act of the play is essentially a tragedy while the second act is light, has a possible magical element—depending on interpretation—and is deemed a comic romance. Indeed, the second act balances on the edge of absurdity. And it felt to me while watching it, incomplete.

This is also the play containing Shakespeare’s most famous stage direction, “He exits, pursued by a bear.”

First to explain the bear, some of this information coming from the well-spoken Dramaturg at CalShakes, whom we heard speak before the production. 

There were limited forms of entertainment in the late 1500s and early 1600s in England compared to today (but of course we live in the Entertainment Age). Besides theatre and music, there were some sports, cock fights, and one of the most popular spectator experiences: bear baiting. 

A barbaric event even by today’s standards, a bear was tied to a pole. Dogs would be let lose to taunt the bear. The “sport” ended either with the bear exhausting itself or killing one of the dogs. Men made wagers on the outcome. 

So, there were bears to be had in London. I’d like to think that the bear in Shakespeare’s play was “saved” from bear baiting by its role on the stage, that it perhaps received a bit more humane treatment, even if still held captive and leashed, in service of men. But that’s wishful thinking, from my admiration of Shakespeare’s plays. It’s as likely that the bear was ill-treated. There’s no way of knowing. No one’s perfect. Expecting them to be so is to live with perpetual disappointment. Shakespeare disinherited a daughter. But that’s another story!

Now to the play. Shakespeare wrote it towards the end of his life, and the Dramaturg—who declared she has read every biography of Shakespeare in existence—theorizes that Shakespeare suffered from Parkinson’s Disease at the end of his life. Indeed, his signature in later years looks like it came from a shaky hand. It might explain why the ending of A Winter’s Tale felt rushed to a conclusion, not quite coherent. 

In the next Challenge, I’ll share the synopsis and some revelations through watching and learning about this play. I’m out of time today, and it’s late. And I owe myself two Challenge pieces tomorrow anyway! 

But as a teaser, I will mention that in both acts, especially the first, when prejudice and power blind the character King Laertes to the truth so clear to everyone else around him, and he acts on his own perception, regardless of evidence to the contrary, the parallel between the play and recent and current politics in our country is undeniable. It led to a philosophical discussion between my husband and I about perception, how it is the driving force and the reality of every human and what that means. 

So much to muse over later! 

But for now…Exit, pursued by bear (or sleep!).

Photo by Marc-Olivier Jodoin on Unsplash

100 Day Challenge #35: Please Don’t Bring Me Flowers (continued from Challenge #27)

The last time we saw Flora (in Challenge #27), she had asked her mother what she knew about the DiMeolas across the street.

 ***

“Well, they were already here when your dad and I moved in. Angela DiMeola brought over a plate of cookies and introduced herself. She was very energetic, late 20s maybe. Looked really young. I remember being surprised by that. And then, it’s weird.”

“What is?”

“They lived across the street, and we were both pregnant for the first time, but we only hung out together once. A barbecue. That’s when we met Marco, her husband. He was about a few years older than her, I think. I never asked, a little shy but very nice, originally from Argentina. Angela was very excited about all the parallels between us: both expecting, both of mixed-race marriages.”

She stopped, contemplating something.

“What is it?” asked Flora, “Go on.”

“Well, honestly there was something off-putting about her. She never stopped moving, like a bouncing ball. Hyper. And in conversation too. It was a little strange. She was hard to follow, you know what I mean? Anyway, they had the baby, several months before you were born. I saw her pushing a stroller once. And then—she just disappeared. We didn’t know for a while if she was gone or ill or what. We heard the baby crying a few times. We assumed it was colicky. Marco must’ve taken time off to help out. Their car was there a lot.

“Then one day, I saw Mrs. Johnson at the grocery store. By then, I knew to leave you home with dad. We didn’t know what was wrong yet, just that you cried non-stop when we took you out.”

“Sorry,” said Flora, sunken for a moment with that familiar free-falling emptiness. 

“No Honey, I didn’t mean—it was just challenging. That’s all.”

“What did Mrs. Johnson say?”

“Right. By the way, that was brave of you yesterday.”

She squeezed Flora’s hand and smiled. Flora grinned back. She knew her mother was trying.

“Thanks. Go on.”

“Mrs. Johnson was shopping for the DiMeolas. Evidently, Angela had some sort of postpartum break down. Really severe. The weird thing was though, she never seemed to recover. We realized she was in the house but never came out.”

“But Mr. DiMeola. He had to work, right?”

“Yeah. We saw help arrive, what looked like a nurse. They’ve been through a bunch. I think they’re still coming.”

“Yeah, they are,” said Flora, realizing who the people were who went in as Jake left for school and out when he came home. But that left Jake to take care of his mother every afternoon and night. Every weekend when his dad was away.

“Do you know what he does? Marco?”

“Well, back then it was import-export from South America. I assume it’s the same.”

Flora thought about Jake, how, as popular as he seemed to be, he always came home alone. To take care of his sick mother instead of her taking care of him. She wondered what was really wrong with her. She wondered how Jake could still smile. 

100 Day Challenge #34: The Hospital in San Quentin Prison (continued from Challenge #29)

 Humanitarian Treatment of Humans?

Photo by camilo jimenez on Unsplash

From Hansel-Phelps website, designers and builders of the remodel

Everyone on the tour of San Quentin was touched by the personal stories of the inmates we heard in the chapel. Emotional, we thanked them and wished them the best as Sam ushered us out for the next part of our tour.

Our next stop was the hospital. Though its establishment date of 1885 was carved above the entrance, it was a new and impressive building, the kind that made me feel good about the use of my tax dollars. 

From Hansel-Phelps

Completed in 2009, the hospital’s façade remained reminiscent of the original, which was listed on the National Registry of Historic Places. But inside, it was modern and well-organized.

We felt an immediate pride at seeing it, since it was a treasured family friend who helped get it built and supplied with both equipment and professional practitioners. 

From Hansel-Phelps

My father-in-law’s college classmate, U.S. District Judge Thelton Henderson found in 2001 that the level of healthcare provided within California’s prisons was in violation of the Eighth Amendment of the U.S. Constitution. In 2005, he formalized the order to improve the system by naming a trustee to take over the California Department of Corrections and Rehabilitation's (CDCR) health care program. He succeeded in making a lot of humanitarian changes. But the receivership has ended and with the blame and vigilante mentality that has scarred our country of late, I worry about continuing such progress. 

But Thelton remains positive. He was quoted in a 2018 article saying, “At this point, the arc of criminal justice is bent toward better conditions in our prisons—more humane sentences, more realistic treatment of people in our state prison system,” he said. “You can quote me as being optimistic in the long run.”

According to the article, “The judge visited San Quentin one last time, in 2015, to give a talk in the prison chapel. As he entered the room, the prisoners rose to their feet and cheered.”

Inside the hospital, we saw the state-of-the-art medical, dental, and mental health care services. Some of the patients were very old and frail. They didn’t look like predators anymore. 

There were rooms for group therapy sessions. These reminded us of the men’s status as criminals. Arranged in a semi-circle were cages that the men sat in, locked, when working with a therapist. Along with a seat inside each was a built in metal desk for writing.

A few men waited for a session in a locked room with a thick glass door. One of the men stared at me, a stony, objectifying stare. It was the only time during my four-hour tour inside San Quentin that I felt a sense of personal violation. 

Leaving the impressive facility, we made our way to the Dungeons.

(Continued in 100 Day Challenge #46)

Group therapy in San Quentin Hospital

100 Day Challenge #33: The Rise and Power of the Memoir

I’m doing a presentation Tuesday evening 7:30-9:30 sponsored by the San Mateo Public Libraries that I’m rather excited about.

It is a two-part presentation/discussion. The first part is about the history of the Memoir and how and why it is such a popular genre today.

The second part is about actually creating one, whether for yourself or encouraging a loved one, perhaps a parent or grandparent, to share their story before it’s too late.

As a preview, I thought I’d write a little about the Memoir.

First of all, a memoir is different from an autobiography, but the two genres definitely overlap. People ask me the distinction all the time.

An autobiography generally tells the story of the author’s life chronologically. The person shares the “facts” of their lives in their own words. It is written generally in first person (I, me). The purpose of an autobiography is to portray the life experiences and achievements of the author.

A memoir dives deep into the author’s most intimate memories, exploring emotional truths and the way these make them feel. It is usually in service of a larger theme or idea. It may focus on one particular part or aspect of their life. It is also almost always written in first person (I, me).

A memoir can be chronological, a coming of age story, like an autobiography. And a good autobiography often includes the kinds of reflections and emotions that characterize a memoir.

But a memoir offers some very special experiences for readers that might help explain its rise to one of the most popular and best-selling genres in literature in the 21st Century.

As it as existed for the last thirty years, the memoir is, in a way, an entirely new form. But it does have ancestors, with scattered examples through the ages.

The first “memoirs” date back to ancient China and to the 4th Century in Europe. An early example is The Confessions by St. Augustine, written in Latin between AD 397 and 400. In it, Augustine outlines his sinful youth and conversion to Christianity. He makes the pragmatic plea to God: “Grant me chastity and continence—but not yet!’’ Scandalous stuff.

My favorite line is: “For I was afraid lest thou shouldst hear me too soon [God], and too soon cure me of my disease of lust which I desired to have satisfied rather than extinguished.”

That is an honest portrayal of the sexuality of young adulthood. You go, Augustine!

Up until the 20th century, most memoirs were spiritual confessions ending in redemption, the leading occupational category of American memoirists, according to library studies, being clergy/religious; the second was criminal/deviant.

There were exceptions. There were war memoirs from the British and American Civil War and others.

The French were well into the memoir genre in the 17th and 18th centuries, especially popular were accounts my members of King Louie’s court (several of the King Louies!). Rousseau’s Confessions stands out as one of the most personal and emotional of the age.

Henry David Thoreau’s On Walden Pond opened the pathway for more personal and reflective works in the United States.

Then you had the rise of the newspaper and print media, the telegraph, the telephone, vinyl records leading into radio, movies and television.

Photo by Nicolas Hoizey on Unsplash

Along the way, came Sigmund Freud (and others) and the study of modern psychology. Psychotherapy. We became more aware of our internal lives. We started to have a vocabulary to articulate our feelings. There was a process for us of self-examination and change.

With the wide popularity of Roots by Alex Haley (1976), the study of genealogy took on new popularity.

Put together these elements (and many others) with the civil rights movement, the world getting smaller, other cultures seen and read about and experienced through the all-mighty internet, the sharing of stories (often very surface) through social media. We developed a greater need to be understood and valued in an ever-growing population with fewer community outlets, less family structure. Then add other technology—the advent of what was then called “desktop publishing,” in the 1990s, with design tools at your fingertips and digital publishing, and the memoir revolution took hold. (Frank McCourt’s Angela’s Ashes and Mary Karr’s The Liar’s Club and more!)

Now, thousands pour off the world's presses every year.

The total sales in the categories of Personal Memoirs, Childhood Memoirs, and Parental Memoirs increased more than 400 percent between 2004 and 2008.

In 2007, more memoirs were accepted by publishers than debut novels.

Currently, memoir is the top non-fiction genre sold in the U.S. and U.K. 31 percent of Americans said biographies and memoir was their preferred type of book.

In 2019, the sales of memoirs in the UK surged 42% to 2.5 million, according to Nielsen Book Research.

Photo by Marc-Olivier Jodoin on Unsplash

Why do we love them?

The best ones live in raw honesty, emotional truth. They don’t have to be about famous people at all. It turns out that a memoir is by far the best way to find out what it’s like to be someone else. A memoir can take us beyond our own experiences, far beyond our comfort zones.

We read as people discover themselves, leave dysfunctional relationships, become sober, fix their broken lives, find true love, learn to live with a disability, overcome illness, deal with death of a loved one, become their true selves, fight for change, invent new ways of living, function in a new culture, survive war, go to space, govern a country.

Memoirs allow us to get first-hand perspectives. They give a voice to people who are often overlooked. They connect us to each other. We find someone to relate to, which makes us feel less crazy, less alone, more okay in our own less-than-perfect lives. We can better understand our own humanity and the humanity of others. We can practice compassion and gratitude, learn new perspectives. Open our hearts and minds. We are often inspired. Gotta love dem MEMOIRS!

100 Day Challenge #32: MONEY!!!

“People do some crazy things with money. But no one is crazy.

Here’s the thing: People from different generations, raised by different parents who earned different incomes and held different values, in different parts of the world, born into different economies, experiencing different job markets with different incentives and different degrees of luck, learn very different lessons.

Everyone has their own unique experience with how the world works. And what you’ve experienced is more compelling than what you learn second-hand. So all of us—you, me, everyone—go through life anchored to a set of views about how money works that vary wildly from person to person. What seems crazy to you might make sense to me.”

― Morgan Housel, The Psychology of Money: Timeless lessons on wealth, greed, and happiness

Photo by Sahand Hoseini on Unsplash

It seems I’m continually working on my relationship with money. 

Issues around finances have often been—tricky. 

Reflecting on my background seems a good way to start in the unraveling of this relationship. I hope in this very personal reflection, there is something helpful to others. I admit, I feel quite vulnerable sharing it. But that’s a huge part of this 100 Day Challenge exercise for me, sharing such intimate reflections. So, here goes…

 ***

In my memory (and emotional truth), money was sometimes a tool of manipulation in my house growing up. Once, as a child, I asked for an advance on my monthly allowance (A sum of two dollars, I believe).  In my emotional memory, ever after that, my father would say, “Didn’t I give you an advance last month?”

I stopped asking for it. The allowance faded away.

Though I looked forward with tongue-dripping anticipation to back-to-school shopping every August, I paid a price, coming home sweaty with guilt every time as my mother said, “Oh, I hope your father won’t be mad. That’s more than we were going to spend.”

Whatever budget they had in mind for this spree wasn’t communicated to me, making it impossible to meet.

I had no formal training in how to manage money that I recall. I was supposed to learn from modeling. But money matters weren’t discussed in front of me much. I categorized us as “upper-middle class,” but knew almost nothing about the family finances. It felt like such talk was deemed inappropriate for me, a girl who was supposed to remain innocent, friendly, cheerful and not ask too many questions. 

I knew my parents had money, but they didn’t like to spend it. There were values implied with spending (rarely stated): education was valued (that was clear; but I had to work to pay half the cost of college living, including some of my rent, as I recall), dinners out were occasional and had to be chosen by my parents if they were going to pay. Though we would have a more expensive meal now and then, Burger King every Friday night was a ritual in the late 1970s and early 1980s. Pizza with my friends—any meal out of my choosing—was my expense. I did service through Job’s Daughters, but I’m not aware of my parents ever giving to charity. They were taught the old “pick yourself up by your bootstraps” mentality.

Though my parents moved us into a country club community for their love of tennis when I was ten, they didn’t spend much on landscape maintenance. The fruit trees in the backyard didn’t survive the first year. They spent only what they had to on home maintenance. There was a florescent light in the indoor garden area that flickered annoyingly for years. The living room remained unfurnished for nearly eight years. They didn’t heat the downstairs area, an open area that included the family room and a billiard room—only used by my brother and me and our friends for the most part—that my father said was too expensive to heat. I generally had to wear a sweater in the house and a couple times was scolded when I snuck to the thermostat and turned it up.

 Though neighbors had Mercedes, my parents seemed proud of their ten-year old Hondas. Rather than become a part of the community—other than their tennis crew—there was an unstated view of the neighborhood as pretentious. 

I was pigeon-holed very early as NOT being good with money. The “old story” was that my brother was good at saving it, and I was good at spending it and giving it away. His Easter basket still contained a few pieces of stale candy the following Easter. Mine was eaten and shared with friends and gone in two weeks. When my mother offered us cookies, according to her, I asked for two. At five years old, I gave away some of my brother’s baseball cards to kids at the bus stop. It was fun. It made people so happy. It was my lesson in possession, that the cards were not mine to give. 

To this day, I just assume that I need more practice and acquaintance with financial systems than my brother in order to be comfortable with them and understand them. Because it feels like I was treated like I didn’t know what to do. And then with head-hanging disappointment came self-fulfilling prophecy. I assumed I was incapable.

It didn’t help that we were brought up in what was then traditional gender roles. My brother was expected to make money. I was to be taken care of. Someday I would marry, and the man would take care of me. But this flew in the face of the hard-work ethic that my dad emphasized. I started working when I was 12 years old—and never stopped. My brother, on the other hand, though very hard-working, had jobs intermittently. Maybe I was always trying to prove my worth. 

My first job—working with my brother—was cleaning chinchilla cages on Saturdays. It was a get-rich-quick scheme of the 70s, and friends of my parents had a huge basement space that was wall-to-wall with the gray, furry rodents in cages. We were paid $12.50 for several hours of work, scrubbing the metal trays under each cage, trying to avoid aggressive females who sprayed their urine when agitated. When my brother had moved on to other things, I continued the work, making $15 a day and was given a breeding pair of chinchillas as pets.

I babysat for multiple families, housecleaned for one neighbor, and ironed clothing for another. I was terrible at the last two! Given the makeup of my country club neighborhood, it made me feel a little like Cinderella. There was some kind of self-pitying romance to the situation.

I didn’t mind working. It was a point of pride. I liked making my own money. But it felt strange in contrast to my peers who generally didn’t work. Many were given cars for their 16th birthday. I spent my savings to buy my dad’s Honda Civic when I was 17. I understood it. My dad wanted to teach us the value of money. That seemed good and reasonable.

But there was a context to it. My parents spent a lot more on their “get-away-from-the-kid” vacations than on family trips. The rules about what they would pay for and what they wouldn’t were rarely stated. We sometimes had to guess. Asking for money often meant receiving some sort of remark or quip. The house was theirs, not ours. And roiling beneath it all—I understand looking back—was a girl constantly looking for approval, for emotional support, and ultimately love, for being who I was.

I worked even more after I turned sixteen, applying for a job as a county in-house caregiver. I kept company with an old woman who had a major stroke and helped her go to the bathroom and get into her bath. Honestly, it creeped me out, but I took the job for the purpose of becoming more accustomed to being around people with such issues. I’m still a little squeamish, but I can overcome it.

I also started working that year after school and weekends at a donut shop in town. The summer after my senior year in high school, I worked four jobs: ushering at a movie theater, delivering singing telegrams, manning the donut shop, and writing a column for a local newspaper about outstanding teenagers. I worked all throughout college, not just summers but when in session. 

When I was graduating from college, and my dad announced, “Okay, you need to be financially independent now.” It came as a shock. That sounds silly, I know. But I didn’t know what to do, it was very sudden, and it was in contrast to my upbringing in many ways. Plus, what I wanted to do was not what I thought they wanted me to do. My mother encouraged me into teaching, which hardly makes a lot of money.

My parents were Depression-era babies. My dad grew up poor in the Bronx. I respected them for being careful with their spending, for saving money, for creating a better life for themselves than their parents had. I never wanted for material things, for food and shelter. Ever. I was lucky. I just wish we had talked about money more, that I had been taught about credit and balancing a checkbook, about investments. I wish I had been empowered more. 

Sometimes I’d still like a parent-figure to sit me down and go over with me how to save, to budget, to enjoy living within my means, and to invest so I’m not only working hard for my money; my money is working for me. I’ve sought that kind of help in adulthood and still do. I know it’s not rocket science. I’ve come a long way with increased earnings, budgets, retirement accounts and a 501K. I guess you could say, I am managing my money much more efficiently and effectively than in the past.

But sometimes it’s still hard. 

There’s still childhood shame wrapped up in it all. I think more than anything else, I need my “inner-parent” to speak up and say, “You are good with money. Don’t be so hard on yourself. You don’t deserve that judgment. You know what to do!” 

Perhaps reading my own words will help that sink in.

Photo by Visual Stories || Micheile on Unsplash

100 Day Challenge #31: A Dog Named Donut

It’s Friday evening. The week has been a struggle with work. Too long of a list, too many projects to move forward. So, I’m a little weary. I started writing the third San Quentin piece. Then I started writing about the history of the memoir, then change to a piece I wrote about Native American shell mounds in the Bay Area. All will be written on other days. Tonight, I needed a topic that is happy and light. 

On the couch beside me is my adorable dog, Donut. I love having her in my life. That’s who I want to write about tonight. I’ll just see where this takes me…

A Dog Lover Finds Her Hound

In my elementary school library as a kid, I had a favorite book. My name was written on the checkout label inside the front so many times, the librarian had to adhere a new one. It was a book about dogs. It described different breeds and dog characteristics, like their sensitive hearing. It was well-illustrated. My favorite discovery reading the book was that when dogs urinate in public, they are actually communicating, leaving messages for each other. “To the dog who smells this, I am Rex. I’m a strong, healthy male dog that loves playing tug-a-war and eating my kibble. How are you?”

That’s actually the bit I remember most, maybe because I had a Dr. Doolittle fantasy. I wanted the ability to talk to animals. I’d always gotten along well with animals. 

I had a recurring dream during childhood, one I always hoped I would have again and again, that I was Super Girl. My version of the superhero was dressed in cowboy garb and sometimes I could fly. Other times, I rode a beautiful white horse with wings whose constant companion was a black horse with wings waiting to be ridden by my “Prince Charming,” my knight, the perfect companion that would someday arrive. In the meantime, I would fly up on my Pegasus to my headquarters in the clouds where there was a long row of Army-green tents, each housing different animals that helped me stop crime. And, of course, we could talk to each other.

My favorite cartoon dog was Snoopy from the Peanuts comic strip. I loved Snoopy! At six years old, I asked for a stuffed Snoopy, wanting it above all other things, and when I opened a gift on at Christmas and saw the fluffy white dog-doll, I burst into happy tears. 

That Snoopy went everywhere with me, my companion during family travels, trips to the grocery store, outings of any kind. When I got a camera, all my first photos were of Snoopy in various places, sometimes accompanied by other stuffed animals. One time at a small carnival, I paid an extra ticket so Snoopy could have his own seat on the swing ride. After a while, I had a collection of plastic and stuffed Snoopys of all sizes and pretended they were a family. My mother gave me a different Hallmark Snoopy ornament to hang on the Christmas tree every year.

I drew Snoopy and other dogs constantly. I made entire family trees of dogs, cities of dogs. I had PD Eastman’s book Go Dog Go memorized and drew those dogs.

I also developed my own illustration of a dog. It had out-turned front paws—because I didn’t know how to draw them any other way—and was bow-legged. It had floppy ears and was scruffy and had a black nose and a friendly dog smile and sparkling eyes. I drew that dog over and over.

Until I was twelve, my best friend—other than my stuffed Snoopy—was a Shetland sheepdog named Ginger. She was my other frequent companion. When we moved to a new house in a new neighborhood, away from kids and everything I knew, Ginger got me through it. We went exploring in the foothills around the house. She would sniff as I rubbed wild sage between my fingers. We looked for good climbing trees. Once, we spotted a red-colored fox.

After Ginger died and my parents tried taking in another Shetland sheepdog who didn’t work out (I don’t remember why), we didn’t get another dog. I went a long time without a dog in my life. 

The first summer that I was dating my husband-to-be, I found a puppy abandoned in Redwood Park in the Oakland hills. I stopped and bought flea bath and food at a pet store and brought the puppy home and named it Sequoia. She was really cute. But my apartment building didn’t allow pets. And my new boyfriend wasn’t so happy about it either, looking at the animal as an impediment to travel and free movement. After two weeks, I found a new family for the puppy, who was renamed it Patches. 

Four years later, we got married. Three years after that, we had our first child. Eighteen months later, we had our second child. We got a cat. My husband had a pet snake. He still wasn’t big on getting a dog. I also didn’t think I could be the kind of dog-owner that I wanted to be, working part-time and looking after the kids. 

Finally, thirteen years after our last child was born, I was more than ready to have a dog in my life again. The kids were too, and we talked my husband into it (though reluctant to get a dog, he’s great with her, by the way). 

We searched for a puppy to adopt and found Donut. 

She’s the perfect dog for me. And honestly, she looks a lot like that dog I used to draw over and over as a kid. She is almost always by my side and feels like a dream come true. That sound corny as can be, I know, but it’s true. Having her in my life makes me so happy. And we do understand each other most of the time, even if it’s not in Dr. Doolittle-style!

100 Day Challenge #30: The Magic Guitar

I once again asked my husband for a subject, any, to write about. His first response was “squid.”

Try again, I smirked.

“Okay,” he said, “electric guitar.”

Here is what my imagination and a half hour of time did with that suggestion!

Photo by Vishal Das on Unsplash

The Magic Guitar

My mood was dusk

And the sky was too

The gray of the sidewalk

The clicks of my shoes

It all sounded lonely 

As I walked past closed shops

When a light up ahead

Caused me to stop

From a store front window

Came a golden glare

I approached with wonder

To see what was there

The rays of light glimmered 

Like a shimmering star 

And bathed in the glitter

Was an electric guitar

It was red and white

And it stood on a stand

I wanted that instrument 

Here in my hand

There was magic around it

In the neck and the strings

That guitar was meant

To bellow and sing

My playing was simple

Nothing off the charts

But the guitar wanted ME

I knew it in my heart

A sign said “Closed”

But I knocked on the door

I’m rarely that bold

Haven’t done that before

An old man peeked out

He looked in my eyes

He glanced in the window 

And to my surprise

He carefully lifted 

The guitar from its place

He opened the door

With a grin on his face

“I think this is yours,”

Is all that he said.

He handed it to me

And nodded his head

Then he locked up the door 

And the man disappeared

I hugged that guitar 

And shed a warm tear

As I walked the way home

No longer afraid

With my magic guitar

That longed to be played

And I knew in my hands

That glorious wood

Would sing to the people

Who would feel understood

And I wouldn’t be lonely

Forever from this day

As long as there is love 

In the notes that I play.

100 Day Challenge #29: A Day in San Quentin (continued from Day #28)

San Quentin

A Place Where Men Live, All Kinds of Men

Part II

Even though we would not be seeing the inside of the Adjustment Center—and I was glad for it—Sam told us plenty. When an inmate from the Center needs to go to the hospital or elsewhere on the grounds, they are accompanied by no fewer than two officers. Before they can go anywhere outside of their individual cells, the prisoners have to strip down for a search then dress again. Officers then handcuff them, both wrists and ankles with enough chain between the shackles to allow them to walk. These fellows wear a distinctive color of clothing to distinguish them from the general population, who wear blue and gray. New inmates wear orange. We saw a few cuffed men from the Center and their guards later in the day.

Though strict regulations keep the inmates in the Adjustment Center from being physically tortured, some people feel that the solitary confinement in itself is inhumane, no matter the situation. I can see that. But I also came to believe from seeing the circumstances on the prison grounds firsthand that there are inmates too dangerous to have them circulating among the rest of the men. The question is where should they be and how?

Sam told us the stories of how some of the guards represented on the plaques between us and the Center were killed. During the 1971 escape attempt of George Jackson, a dozen inmates tortured and killed three correction officers and two other prisoners. There was a foreman stabbed while trying to break up a fight in the Wood Factory in 1980. He was 65 years old. A sergeant stabbed with a handcrafted shank by three prisoners in 1985 was memorialized there too. We learned how, when Sam was head of the floor in the Adjustment Center, inmates took to collecting their feces and urine and throwing it in officer’s faces. The officers took to wearing riot protection helmets. Then the prisoners targeted the guards’ legs and feet. This led to the installation of solid doors with one barred window instead of barred doors. 

Across the courtyard from the Adjustment Center was a line of portables and one large permanent meeting hall offering spiritual healing to inmates. The large permanent building was the Christian chapel. Lined up perpendicular to the chapel, were a Jewish temple, Bhuddist temple, Islamic temple, and rooms for other kinds of religious expression as well as classes. Lieutenant Robinson told us there were more varied places of worship side-by-side in that courtyard in San Quentin than you could find just about anywhere.

When I asked who the people were walking by us, I learned they were hospital workers, some of the 1,800 employees at San Quentin, along with some of the hundreds of volunteers that ran programs there. 

Officers never carried guns on the grounds. The only guns were in the guard towers. I was surprised how many female correction officers I saw. Sam told me that it is important in the prison to have these women on their staff. They provide a sense of nurturing and an important perspective to the men. Even hearing a higher-pitched voice helps calm inmates, in general, and helps to keep the peace.

All during this lecture and discussion, I noticed men in blue leaning up against the fountain, chatting, waiting. Were these inmates, unguarded there in the courtyard with us? Then Sam led us towards them. They were waiting for us. They were prisoners, assigned to assist in visitations. They were lifers, and they were going to tell us their stories. 

Inside the church, the prisoners took seats on the altar/stage. We sat in the pews. They introduced themselves: Clay, Charles, Clifford, Miguel, Wallstreet, and a couple other men, whose names I’ve forgotten. All of them were serving life sentences. Most of them—now in their thirties, forties and even fifties—had entered the prison system when they were nineteen or twenty years old. My notes aren’t thorough enough to accurately relate all of their stories, but without written reminders, I vividly remember a lot about Clay, Wallstreet, Miguel, and Clifford.

Clay, six-foot-five at least and wide-shouldered with dark chocolate skin was in for assault and manslaughter. Inside the prison, he had worked on anger management, spirituality, achieved his GED, and fell in love with taekwondo. He had earned his black belt and taught other inmates. He hoped to find a dojo where he could teach once he was released. He stayed with our group, a volunteer guide and guard, all day. 

With his strong build and stature, he looked intimidating, but the more I got to know him, the more I started to care about him. I realized how naïve he was about the world outside the prison. Inside for three decades, he was a leader here, a man who had grown. And yet, despite his record, the crimes that brought him to this place, he felt like an innocent. He was hopeful. 

I worried for him, for what he would be able to do in reality when he was finally released. Our kids were in taekwondo at that time. I couldn’t imagine a dojo full of children and their parents willing to hire an ex-inmate. That was six years ago. I wonder often what has become of Clay.  

San Quentin, at that time, had over 4,000 prisoners in residence. The capacity of the prison was supposed to be just over 1,500. That’s changed. I’m not sure what’s going on and have to do more research, but public statistics show that since March 2020, the total number of inmates has steadily decreased. As of March 2021, the population was down to 2,460. I don’t know if that means transfers to other prisons or releases. Or both. 

I do know that Clay and the others told us that if you were a lifer in California, you wanted to be at San Quentin. Because of its location in the vibrant Bay Area, it had more volunteer programs than any other prison in the system. You could learn Yoga. Write for a widely circulated newspaper. Run marathons. You could even get a four-year college degree.

I hope I’m remembering this correctly, six years later. Next came Wallstreet.

Wallstreet had known violence and fear on the streets. He was in for aiding in a murder as part of a gang just after he had turned nineteen. He didn’t pull the trigger, but he was there and refused to testify against the other gang members charged with the crime. Therefore, he was complicit. Wallstreet had grown up in the same neighborhood as Lieutenant Sam Robinson. They had known some of the same people. They were both at San Quentin, for very different reasons, one in prison 30 years to life, the other a respected career officer of 24 years with the CDCR (California Department of Corrections and Rehabilitation). Sam treated all the men with respect. And it was mutual.

Wallstreet had brains. His fellow inmates looked at him admirably telling us this fact. He had earned his AA while at San Quentin and had become interested in the stock market. He was a sure-hand at investment, had made a few himself and helped other inmates earn money in the market. In his thirties, he still had youthful charm and good looks. I couldn’t help but think where else he might have been had he grown up somewhere else or in different circumstances. He was looking at parole soon, hoping his appeal would be accepted.

Miguel was in for murder. He too had been involved in gang violence in the central valley and entered the prison system at 19. An introvert, he spoke quietly but with conviction about how he wanted to start his life again, a better man, outside of prison. He had received his GED, AA and was going for a BA while at San Quentin. He had been in the system over 20 years.

Clifford was a short, skinny white man with thinning hair. He was the only one of the men who had never committed a violent crime. He was in for Three Strikes of possession and theft. Though Clifford had served his sentence, over 30 years, he still owed $10,000 in restitution and, earning a dollar a day for working in prison and having no family to help him outside of prison, he was nowhere close to paying it off for his release. The others said it wasn’t fair that Clifford was there. Protected by them, he appeared frail. He spent much of his time in San Quentin taking care of the grounds, tending what garden they had, which wasn’t much.   

As I sat there rapt listening to their stories, shyly asking questions, I realized my perspective had widened. I had changed. San Quentin and other prisons aren’t full of just “criminals,” a term that dehumanizes them (like “troops,” “enemies,” “collateral damage,” “consumers,” and so many other ugly labels). These were men. People. 

Many of them were people paying for a mistake they made when they were not much older than my teenage sons. When, neurologically-speaking, they weren’t fully mature. As young people, they lived in situations in which violence seemed a viable choice. They acted on the circumstances they were in. The men who spoke to us that day all regretted the crimes they had committed. Who of us has never done anything looking back that we regret? That their crimes were egregious enough to earn them punishment, I’m not arguing against. Although, I’ve never found “punishment” to be effective for changing behavior. Natural consequences are more likely to lead to enlightenment. In parenting, you look for and respond to “teachable moments.” I think there’s a much better way to treat perpetrators of crime than having them sit in prison cells. It seems to me that the consequence could involve work (realizing they can be productive), skill-building (building esteem), education (to make better choices), therapy (for self-awareness and true change), and service to others, so people who are of sound mind and make violent mistakes can make up for it by being productive, by helping others. THAT is a long-term solution that helps everyone. AND is less expensive than feeding, clothing and housing a human in a cell for years.

But that’s just me.

These men represented the majority of inmates at San Quentin. But then there were the death row inmates, the serial killers in the Adjustment Center. It did seem GOOD to keep them away from the general population, but what was the best treatment of them? And I wondered about another type of person that I assumed must be in the prison, the mentally-ill. What about them? 

I was about to get a glimpse of a few. 

(Continued in 100 Day Challenge #34)

Photo by NotMe on Unsplash

San Quentin T.R.U.S.T graduation 2019 (in the chapel where the panel of inmates told us about their lives)

100 Day Challenge #28: A Day in San Quentin (Part 1)

In 2015, I toured San Quentin prison. It wasn’t a distant, point-things-out-from-the-safety-of-a-tour-bus type of experience. We spent four hours amongst the men with no bars or walls between us, talking to some of them, seeing just about every part of the facility. Except the Adjustment Center, a haunting place with a haunting historical name that houses damaged human beings dangerous to the other inmates. 

It was a life-changing experience.

I wrote about that day right after we went but—old story—have never shared that writing. Here is the first part of it now, newly edited. The continuations (on other days), is new writing.

San Quentin Prison

A Day in San Quentin

A Place Where Men Live, All Kinds of Men

The day after visiting San Quentin Prison, nothing seemed real. My life was a Disney backdrop in contrast to what I had seen.

San Quentin Handicraft Shop by Jesstess87 (Wikimedia)

My father-in-law Bob had arranged the tour. One day while out in Marin County for business, he had stopped to check out the San Quentin Prison Gift Shop, something he had heard about from an associate. You can buy crafts there made by the inmates, clocks, paper weights, music boxes, along with the fare of any souvenir shop, t-shirts, coffee mugs and shot glasses featuring illustrations of the notorious bayside prison or humorous sayings about being in the slammer. According to the Atlas Obscura website, “roughly half of the 750 people currently on death row at San Quentin participate in the prison’s Hobby Program.”

The revenue pays for their art supplies or sundry items or can be sent home to family. “A portion of their sales go into the General Inmate Fund, which pays for things like movies and other forms of entertainment for the general population.” It can also help prisoners pay their restitution, a debt that can take decades to pay. 

While there, Bob saw a group of people gathered, listening as someone described San Quentin’s history. Inquiring, he found out that, with security clearance, he and others could take a guided tour inside the prison. He booked a tour for himself, my husband, my sister-in-law and me.

When the day rolled around, I was absolutely committed and beyond curious, but nervous. There was an intense dress code sent to us ahead of time: no denim, no blue, no gray, no orange, no white, no sweatpants or sweatshirts; essentially you could wear no colors or materials that made you resemble a prisoner. No open-toed shoes, no tank tops, no revealing clothing, no skirts above the knee, no cell phone, no purse. I took great pains to dress appropriately, reviewing the list multiple times.

Honestly, I was scared. My perception was that I was about to knowingly walk into a cage full of predators. As a woman growing up long before the Me-Too movement, I knew predatory stares, words and actions. I had been a victim, like so many women, feeling like I deserved some of the blame, that it was just “how things were,” and all I could do was survive it, learn from it, protect myself, move on. But as a writer, I was not about to pass up the opportunity to see the “world behind bars” first hand. 

How many times had I crossed the Richmond-San Rafael Bridge and wondered at that foreboding cement fortress, at what and who was within. Some of the country’s most notorious criminals had cells there, serial killers, rapists, murderers. Ironically, San Quentin sits on waterfront property that any developer would drool over, surrounded by one of the wealthiest areas in the nation. 

The morning of the tour, when I told a couple other parents on my children’s school blacktop about the adventure I was about to take, they just asked, “Why? Why would you do that?” This became the most common question even after returning from the tour too. “Why?”

I couldn’t blame them. Think of how prison is portrayed in movies, in the news, and how crime and criminals fill our imagination and trigger fear in our society. Fear sells. I was right there with them wondering, in Hollywood terms: what horrors would I see within? I imagined being in a hostage situation. Would I have to endure threats, lude remarks, lingering predatory glances that I’d replay in my head for weeks, months or years? I’m susceptible to such things, having a vivid imagination. After I saw the movie Jaws at 10 years old, swimming felt perilous. I distrusted even swimming pools for years. 

As we drove toward the prison that morning, I felt tremendously vulnerable. But my curiosity won out. I wanted to see San Quentin for myself.  Besides, they must keep the visitors safe. We actually didn’t expect to see that much or get that near to the inmates. We figured the tour, with tight security, would last an hour or so and involve mostly hearing facts in some office somewhere. We had no idea how much more it would be.

San Quentin's East Gate, the primary entrance for visitors and volunteers. By Jesstess87 (Wikimedia)

Once in the parking lot, the prison a short walk away, a grounds guard asked if we had a picture ID. We would not be allowed inside without one. I had been so anxious, so focused on the dress code that I had left my purse at home. Luckily, we had arrived early. I drove all the way home to Oakland—the traffic in my favor—returning just as my group was entering the prison. 

The gate guardsman seemed glad I made it back. He got on the phone. “They just went inside. Go!”

I walked quickly past the large employee parking lot, the lapping bay on my left and several small, old buildings on my right. At the entrance, standing by myself, I showed a guard my ID, signed in, had my hand stamped with UV light-activated invisible ink—“Your ticket out of here,” I was told—and pushed open a thick metal door per instructions. I had to close it behind me before the guard would buzz me through another. I entered a courtyard, and I was inside San Quentin Prison. 

At first glance it could have been anywhere. The courtyard was bathed in sunlight. There were a few small areas of landscaping with mature plants and trees, a lawn responsibly browned from the drought but well-tended, a raised circular pond with a fountain, currently empty and shut off. People were strolling alone or in pairs chatting, moving from one building to another, men and women, a few in uniform, most not. It could have been a corporate campus. Except for the bars on the windows. The impenetrable walls that surrounded us.

I joined the group. My husband and his sister had purposefully asked lots of questions in the Q&A to stall for me, and we listened in the heat of the sun as Information Officer, Lieutenant Sam Robinson, a longtime San Quentin employee, having served ten years as a sergeant of the guards on death row, described where we stood. A short brick pathway on the lawn to our left memorialized officers and employees killed by inmates with plaques bearing the names of the fallen. The location of this memorial garden was no coincidence. Behind it was a three-story beige building with barred windows known as the Adjustment Center. “In there,” said Sam, “are the worst of the worst.” 

The Adjustment Center housed about 100 inmates on death row and prisoners too dangerous, too disruptive to mix with the other 3,000 inmates. David Carpenter, the Trailside Killer, serial killer Charles Ng, and Scott Peterson were among the residents held there, separated at all times from other prisoners. They could talk through their cell doors across the hallway, but they ate, exercised, slept and lived alone. Leaders of the prison system’s powerful gangs lived there too, bosses of the Black Guerrilla Family, the Aryan Brotherhood—both started at San Quentin in the 1960s, and the Mexican Mafia, which also took its stronghold at San Quentin in the early ’60’s and has a complicated history with splitting factions and rival groups.

When I first arrived for the tour, there were shouts in the distance, rising and falling as if at a sports match. Sam explained that what we heard were members of the Mexican Mafia. Each isolated in a separate exercise pen, 10 feet by 10 feet, they were doing synchronized pushups, burpees and jumping jacks, counting in unison to show their solidarity and intimidate other inmates.

Even well-maintained, it was a creepy building. The name, The Adjustment Center, was painted in a pretty roman script over the caged entrance. The name seems a reminder of a past when guards could attempt to “adjust” prisoners with beatings, confinement, anything that might subdue a “hardened criminal.” This sort of torture was deemed as a “tool” up through the 1930s and though beatings are no longer tolerated, the confinement remains. However, the Adjustment Center was built in 1960. 

Anyone entering the Adjustment Center requires advanced security clearance. Sam told us this was the one building we would not enter on the tour. 

100 Day Challenge #27- Please Don’t Bring Me Flowers! (Continued from Day #25)

Flora took another deep intake of her inhaler before letting it fall on the rug beside the bathtub. The oatmeal solution in the water eased the pain a little, but she knew discomfort would be her companion the rest of the day and night. She couldn’t take the serious meds two days in a row, not unless it was an emergency.

         She put her head back and sighed. Would life always be like this? Every potentially great moment interrupted, every conversation halted before it could go anywhere? They had connected. Over Mrs. Johnson, over their absent fathers. Even though she knew nothing more about Jake’s relationship with either of them, she knew that. She could feel it. Wasn’t that the changing point in the growth of every novel heroine, learning to trust her feelings above the prejudice of impression, the words of other people, the expectations of society? Elizabeth in Pride and Prejudice, Katniss in Hunger Games, Jo in Little Women, even Scout in To Kill a Mockingbird. Flora didn’t have much “real world” experience. But you can learn a lot from books. If you have to.

Photo by Emily Powers on Unsplash

         She thought of Jake’s father, at least the man she supposed was his father, the stoic looking man with the suitcase and briefcase. She’d have to pay more attention to how often he was there, but it couldn’t be more than a couple days every week or two weeks or more. If that frail woman was his mother. She couldn’t be. Because is she was, who took care of Jake?

         That night at dinner across from her mother, Flora looked into her mashed potatoes, steamed carrots and simple chicken, absently scratching a rash on her forearm. She was trying to hide her obvious exposure to the elements—the second day in a row—under a long-sleeve shirt. She knew her mother meant well, was just trying to protect her, but lectures about her limitations, “Honey you know you can’t spend that much time outside,” were wearing thin these days.

Photo by Quang Nguyen on Unsplash

Her mother had little on her plate. She always had a little something with Flora, to be polite, Flora knew, along with a glass of red wine but she usually ate before leaving work in order to have more apetizing foods. Her mom expressed pretty openly the differences she had with Flora’s father and his busy-body family, “but I have to admit,” she’d say, “the food was great. Oh, the saffron rice, the spices. But marriages need flavor from more than food.” 

Currently, she was moving a small mound of mashed potatoes around with her fork.

         “Mom, do you know anything about the DeMeolas across the street?” 

         “What do you mean?” She took a sip of her wine.

         “About the family? Were they here when you and Dad moved in?”

100 Day Challenge #26: The Most Private Thing

I wrote this in 2018 as a response to a writing prompt which became the title of the piece.

The Most Private Thing

John’s feet hit the pavement too hard in his stiff, new Oxfords, but he ran anyway. She wasn’t going to wait. 

 Past the glinting glass of office buildings and parked cars he sprinted, past a frowning meter man in a blue uniform putting a ticket on the window of a Tesla, past the ageless homeless woman in her nest of blankets and plastic bags in the shadows between the bank headquarters and the hospital administration building. His tie flew over his shoulder. His beginnings-of-a-beer-belly jiggled and itched under his button-down, but still he ran, replaying her phone call in his head. 

He had just returned to his cubical, burping his curry lunch, when he had seen her name on his cell. Just her first name, Rebecca. He had never added her last name into his contacts. He didn’t know what it was that Volunteer Day when she approached him about painting new four-square lines on the playground at their kids’ elementary school. Now the omission felt clandestine.

“Hey John. Can you meet me by the lake? I only have fifteen minutes. By the Roman arches. Okay?”

“I can be there in five,” he had heard himself say, wondering if that sounded over-anxious rather than playful.

Popping a stray mint from his drawer into his mouth, he had left the office, avoiding the photo of Jan and the kids on his desk in the popsicle-stick frame that declared “Dabby” in rainbow foam letters. 

In the elevator, he had examined the inside of his tie with feigned interest as two young men in jeans entered on another floor, mid-conversation about computer parts. His heart, he was aware, was pounding in a very pleasant way. He could almost feel the blood surging in and out, cleaned, oxygenated, endorphin-driven. He bounced on his toes. Through the revolving doors, he had convinced himself that he didn’t need to review his presentation notes for the big sales meeting at three o’clock that afternoon. Well, half-convinced himself. 

And now he was running, in his business ware, down the sidewalk towards Rebecca, towards those enticing brown eyes, towards the laughter, towards—he didn’t know what else. He didn’t know exactly what he hoped for. Or what he was doing. 

Weaving between women and men, also in business casual, chatting in pairs or talking into headsets on their way back to their offices, he wondered if any of them were secretly attracted to each other or maybe even having an affair. It was just the curry, he told himself, that suddenly gave his side a stitch. He slowed to a quick walk. 

Around the corner of the faded copper-color building full of law and accounting offices, he saw the city lake shimmering under midday sun. 

Waiting at the crosswalk, cars streaming by in both directions, he dug into his pocket to check the time, discovering he had left his cell phone on his desk. Its absence created immediate vulnerability—per design of the thing—and before John could stop it, that one chink of anxiety suddenly cracked open a stream of undesirable feelings, doubt, guilt, uncertainty, polluting his excitement. He would not examine the deluge, focusing instead on the glowing red letters spelling “STOP.” Other people stood near him waiting, young professionals swinging brown lunch sacks, a girl all in black with pink hair, a man jogging in place in spandex and ear buds, a whispering homeless man holding up pants three sizes too big, encrusted in city debris.

It was fifteen seconds. Less. But the waiting was too long. He pictured the friendly-pedestrian icon in the crosswalk LED sitting on one of his shoulders like a cartoon devil from the Saturday shows of his childhood. The glowing “STOP” on the other shoulder sat an unlikely angel.

“You shouldn’t be doing this,” said the glowing letters.

“You’re not doing anything wrong. You’re just meeting her,” replied the pedestrian.

“Not yet, you’re not. But you know what you want to do.”

“Do you really? Besides, wanting is not acting.”

“It could be. It could be a lot of things.”

“Oh, shut up!” he said under his breath. 

 “Excuse me?” A large-set woman with molded-golden hair around a dark face glared at him, hands on her hips.

“Sorry,” John waved as he ran across the street, red numbers flashing their count down warning before he reached the other side. 

He sped to a jog again, down a grassy slope, picnic-worthy if it weren’t for the prominent goose droppings, and onto the paved path around the lake. The white columns in the distance reflected on the water. Shit. They were farther away than he realized. She would wait, wouldn’t she? They had never met here, in their lives away from family.

He listened to his own exerted breathing as he thought about the last time he had seen Rebecca. At the Harpers’ crowded Super Bowl party. He had scanned the room for her upon entering and had seen her, her head resting against her palm, at the end of one of the couches. She had straightened and smiled when she saw him. His boys ran off without a word. Jan patted his arm and went to chat with Ellie Harper in the kitchen. After a round of man hugs and a tour of the kegs of home-brewed beer, John had taken his red plastic cup out on the deck, wishing, wondering if she might follow. The sun massaged his face in the cool February air. Kids were swarming and scattering on the sport court below. His older son, Jordan, long and lean and growing in front of him, was shooting a basketball. On the other end, his younger son, Mikey, was swinging a hockey stick towards a floor puck, shoved gleefully by other pre-pubescent boys. 

“Hey.” Rebecca had closed the sliding door behind her and tapped her wine glass against his cup. They chatted, aimlessly, about the lousy math teacher their oldest kids both had, about family trips planned for the summer. They laughed. They always laughed, and each time, she squeezed his arm or nudged his side, and he anticipated the next touch. Their eyes met for long stretches, until one or the other looked over the railing or glanced though the glass door, a chorus of “oh’s” rising occasionally from the group gathered around the big flat screen inside. He registered and named his feelings then with awe, awakened, aroused, strong, free, emboldened. He couldn’t remember ever feeling like this before, not quite, not with Jan, probably not ever. After all, he and Jan had started dating in high school.  

Others had joined them then, John Harper, offering an IPA he had brewed in his garage, Sue Johnson from the PTA and Whatshername that ran marathons. Rebecca took a step away, breaking the connection.

John picked up speed again as the path curved and thick-branched shrubs temporarily blocked the view of the city lake. An old Chinese man on a bench tossed bird seed to squawking seagulls and one stately blue heron. John’s imagination flashed now to a bedroom somewhere, not a hotel room necessarily and certainly not his bedroom at home, but a nice, clean space, dimly lit. He was undressing Rebecca, moving his hands over different parts of her body. Then together they rolled smoothly onto the bed in a tangle and began making love. It was not the first time he’d imagined this. Several times now he had awoken from this scene in a half-sleep, his mouth open and dry, his boxers slightly damp and bulging, as if he was fourteen again.

The path curved around to an open view once more.

And there she was, just ahead, in brown boots and a black dress that showed off her curves, her long brown hair flowing over one shoulder. She was framed against one of the white columns of the pergola. For an instant as he approached her, he wondered if he was still in his imagination. 

Finally halting in front of her, he realized he was so out of breath, he couldn’t speak. He put a finger up and bent over to catch his breath, embarrassed. Rebecca laughed.

“You ran here?”

He nodded, feeling foolish and becoming aware of the sweat under his arms, undoubtedly visible. “You…said…you…only had…fifteen…minutes.”

 “Oh, I’m so sorry. You didn’t have to run but thank you.”

“God, I shouldn’t have had…that curry for lunch.”

She laughed again, and he grinned at her as he straightened up. “Okay. Hi.”

 “Hi,” she said, “How’s your day so far?”

 Maybe she was there to talk about barbecue supplies for the spring carnival. Maybe the attraction was just him overreacting to her friendliness, her warm eyes. 

 “It’s good. Yours?”

 “Yeah, all right so far. Deadlines.”

 “Yeah. Sooo, what’s up?” he asked.

 She bit her lip, tilting her head and took a deep breath. 

“Okay. Every time I’m with you, John, I can’t help it. I flirt shamelessly. You’re so huggable.”

“Thanks,” he said, not knowing what to say next, and berating himself for it.

She continued, bravely, he thought. “We just, it seems like, we have this amazing chemistry, don’t you think?”

The pounding of his heart was not subsiding, and he wondered if it ever would and perhaps he was about to have a heart attack and ruin everything. 

“We do,” he said, “It’s, it’s really something. You’re really something.”

 She raised her eyebrows. “Well, thank you, I think.” 

“No, I mean, oh god, I’m sorry. I’m an idiot. You are…so amazing, it’s just that, I wasn’t sure if you felt it too. The…chemistry.”

“Oh yeah,” she grinned. They let their eyes linger on each other before she moved into him, and instinctively John enveloped her in his arms. They fit into each other, warm and grooved, electric. For a moment, there was just sensation. Then thought kicked in. The next logical move would be to kiss her. But what would that mean? Portraits of Jan and the boys flickered in his head. 

She pulled away. “I needed to make sure this was real for you too, our attraction. It is really something.”

He nodded and smiled dumbly.

“And I’ve imagined kissing you, John. I think it would probably be amazing.”

He felt confused. It wasn’t a cue, not the way she said it, not at the distance she now stood. 

“I’ve imagined it too,” he said, and no lightning struck him as he said it, not yet at least. 

“I’m glad,” she smiled, then sighed, “You may already be ahead of me on this, but hugs are as far as we can go. I’ve thought about it. A lot. I think this is healthy, you know, this chemistry we share. It makes us both feel alive, sexy. At least it does me. There’s nothing wrong with that. It’s natural. But acting on it would be different. I have a beautiful family and so do you. I mean, Brad is, we’re not. It’s not what it used to be, but there’s the kids.”

It was all surreal, her standing there, the sunlight through the arches above the columns, the strange dance of disappointment and relief twisting inside him.

“We can’t jeopardize that.”

“No, of course not,” he said with exaggerated enthusiasm, “I love my family. I wouldn’t want to hurt anyone,” he said. 

 “I thought maybe if we talked about it, we could enjoy our connection without worrying about repercussions, knowing it wasn’t going to go any farther. Friends hug. And even flirt. We can still do that. But without guilt or worry. But I was afraid…I don’t want it to go away or for it to be weird between us now. I hope I haven’t done that.”

“No, not at all. Like you said, it’s natural. We’ll just both know. It’ll be a thing we share.”

“Between two people who are attracted to one another. Supportive friends.”

 “Right. Absolutely,” he nodded.

“A private thing.”

“The most private thing.”

He was suddenly aware of the squawking of birds, the chatter of passing people, an impatient honking of a car nearby. And the time. He had to get back to prepare for the meeting and leave time after work to pick up an iTunes gift card for Jordan’s birthday dinner that evening. 

He and Rebecca hugged one more time, still sparklers and warmth but with a question mark now and a tinge of something else, grief maybe, and wished each other a good rest of the day. 

 He wondered as he started the long walk back, passing the old man with his bird seed, if, without the fantasies, without the possibility of more, if the chemistry would remain. Perhaps that had been a necessary ingredient, and now that it had been removed, transparency added, the feeling would dissipate. Over time. He didn’t know. 

 Joggers and walkers passed by singly and in clusters, chatting women in skirts and tennis shoes nodding at him. Before long, he had crossed the street again, the pedestrian lights simply lights. The old homeless lady was still in her space between the buildings, curled up asleep. His heart and belly felt lower in his body. It was as if someone told him an upcoming Hawaiian vacation was canceled, and he’d have to work instead and would receive no refund. 

 At his desk, he found his cell phone under the folder that contained the papers for the afternoon meeting. Jan had texted, reminding him to stop and get the iTunes card. Since he remembered already, he found this irritating, but the message was followed by hearts and a kiss emoji. Most of her messages were. 

Finding a small sports towel in his briefcase, he wiped his forehead, sent a kiss emoji back, and opened the folder to study for his presentation. The words were a-jumble on the page as he wondered if a co-worker could lend him a clean shirt.  

Photo by Nathan McBride on Unsplash

100 Day Challenge #25: Please Don’t Bring Me Flowers! (continued from Day #17)

She looked up at Jake. He was smiling at her but with just the curve of his mouth and with his eyes, which literally sparkled as the sky brightened, the sun breaking free of a cloud. He wasn’t teasing or making fun of her. 

“I’ve honestly never looked at it that way,” she said, “Just as a major limitation. I miss out on a lot.”

Expressing that much truth to another human being made Flora feel suddenly very vulnerable. She hadn’t meant to say it. 

“But thank you,” she continued quickly. 

“You’re Indian?”

“Half,” she said, surprised by the question. “My dad.”

“That’s cool,” said Jake. 

“I guess.” She shrugged. “I don’t see him much these days. My parents are divorced and he travels for business.”

Why was she telling him all this? Bearing her soul to Jake. She barely knew him, the boy outside her window, living in a world she couldn’t be a part of.

“My dad travels for business too. He’s not around much,” said Jake.

His eyes dulled ever so slightly as he said this. 

“That’s gotta be hard.”

Jake looked into the sky and took a deep breath. 

“You don’t know the half of it.”

She wanted to know. The half, the whole of it. Flora could have stayed in that moment forever. But her skin was prickling, her throat starting to contract. She could feel her face and limbs blossoming and swelling as her body responded to the simple elements of nature, enjoyed by most people, potentially lethal to her. It wasn’t fair. She was like a friggin’ time bomb. 

“I gotta go. Thanks for telling me about Mrs. Johnson.”

She didn’t have a choice. She turned and walked back home, as slowly as she could manage, given the price she knew she’d pay for those few minutes outside. 

“I’ll see you around!” called Jake. 

100 Day Challenge #24: Defensive Forgetting

“Oh, I was supposed to take out the trash. I completely forgot.”

“The anniversary party! I missed it. I didn’t really want to go, but I can’t believe I forgot!”

“I swear I knew I had that assignment due, but today it didn’t even enter my mind.”

Has this sort of thing ever happened to you? You were supposed to make an uncomfortable phone call, go to an event you would rather miss, have an obligation or task you needed to do—and you forgot completely. I mean, you intended to do it. You said to yourself I’ll do it tomorrow. I’ll do it this evening. You were confident in this declaration. 

And then, only after the time you had allotted for that activity has passed, you realize you didn’t even think of it at the time.

I call this reluctance forgetting. And it definitely happens to me. But these days I use this type of forgetting as a clue. “Wow,” I say to myself, “I have more reluctance around this task than I realized. How am I truly feeling about it?”

I try to take time to assess and feel whatever emotions are being triggered. Because the only way through feelings is to FEEL them. If you suppress or ignore them, feelings don’t go away. They accumulate into emotional callouses that can make it hard to know what you are really feeling, what you want, what is the truth. And this can make you feel as if you can’t trust yourself or like you’re crazy. It can eat away self-confidence. 

I tried to research reluctance forgetting and had a hard time finding an exact psychological definition for the phenomenon. But on a Dartmouth College site, I found a definition that fit. Here, the sensation was called “Defensive Forgetting.”

“Psychological reasons: defensive forgetting

Generally, unpleasant things are remembered better than pleasant things (especially by pessimists), and both pleasant and unpleasant things are remembered better than materials we are indifferent to.”

The concept seems simple, really. The task was unpleasant or we felt indifferent to it, so we forgot it. At the same time, it’s complex. 

Forgetting helps us live with the pains and traumas of life.

And memory is designed to be selective. (Psychology Today)

We often judge the phenomenon, the forgetting to be negative. Indeed, it often has undesired consequences. But really, it just is. It’s more useful to look at the reasons for Defensive Forgetting in the first place. And perhaps creating a system of reminders and motivators to help us complete and survive these unwanted tasks.

Photo by Irina on Unsplash