POOKIE’S ADVENTURES: In Sunny Mendocino and Stumbling Towards February. (Late January 2022)

 

“The past isn’t made of facts, not really, just stories people tell to make themselves feel better.

Abercrombie, Joe. The Wisdom of Crowds: 3 (The Age of Madness) (p. 411). Orbit. 

 

 

It was Sunday evening the 49ers had won their first playoff game against the Dallas Cowboys. It was an exciting game that was not decided until the last play of the game which was no play at all since time ran out before the Cowboys could launch their final play that, if successful, would have given them a one point victory. After the game had ended, Naida walked the dog while I read awhile. After she returned, we watched some silent movies on TCM. I do not know why I am writing this now other than because the silent move we watched was extremely boring. It was about a man with a split personality running for mayor of a city. I thought having a split personality was a requirement for running for office. Naida says the piano accompanist was very good. I couldn’t tell. I thought there was going to be a Douglas Fairbanks silent movie festival. There was not. So we went to bed. While it was not the least interesting day of my life, it still rattled there around the bottom. I had hoped the football game would raise it above “Meh.” It did not. I will try again tomorrow.

 

Well, Monday was pretty “Meh” also. However, that night my mouth and throat maladies that I thought were easing returned and seemed quite angry. Naida, who looked into my mouth said I had at least two large red pustules similar to those I had on my back and have now mostly disappeared. The next morning, she called her dentist who had prescribed a mouthwash for her when she had suffered similar problems. They ordered the prescription mouthwash. Now, we will see if that works where so much has already failed. I guess that would raise the day from out of the “Meh” class to… I do not know what to call it… perhaps the “Hmm” class day.* 

 

*Pookie’s classifications of the subjective quality of his days. In ascending order — “Shit,”(Sometimes, “Porca Miseria”) “Meh,” (I am not impressed), “Nothing” (nothing) “Eh”[maybe good maybe not so good], “Hmm,”(Get back to me later), “Not Bad” (But not too good either),”OK” (Good, not great but good), “Good” (Not bad at all), “Great” (Great!)

 

By Wednesday, I was stir crazy. So, the weather being nice and sunny, I was feeling somewhat better than I had been for the past few weeks and wanting to put off the minor packing for tomorrow’s trip to The Big Endive by the Bay and Mendocino as long as I could, I set off to the Golden Hills and a late lunch with HRM. I had not seen him for a while and missed our little get togethers. 

 

When I met HRM in front of his house, he said, “I have stories.” This interested me because our lunches usually consisted or typical teenage/adult conversations. You know the adult asks something like, “Anything interesting happen in your life since we last saw each other.” The teenager thinks for a moment and then responds, “No.” And so it goes, strained questions from the adult and monosyllabic responses from the teenager. I would be annoyed, but for my recollection of myself at that time in my life. 

 

Anyway at the restaurant he told me the Krista his girlfriend has an agent and has gotten a modeling and TV contract.

Hayden and Krista

He also told me he would like to own a business with a lot of employees. He explained that he is becoming quite a capable welder and would like to become a master welder before proceeding with higher education so that he would always have a high paying job to fall back on. He said he would like to enroll at a university in Thailand (He speaks the language fluently) and get a business masters and perhaps open a business there. I was happy to learn he was spending so much time thinking about his future.

 

After arriving home, we washed the dog in preparation for tomorrows departure. Speaking of the dog, I am becoming an admirer of his intelligence. When either Naida or I tell him to find the other he, Lassie like, runs off and finds us and barks us back to the other. He also seems to be able to understand a surprisingly lot of words. He has not, however, learned to recognize, “Stop that fucking barking.” Well, he probably recognizes it, but chooses to ignore it.

 

Thursday, we drove into SF (The Big Endive by the Bay) to spend the night with Peter and Barrie before proceeding to Mendocino. It is getting more exhausting each time we take the trip. After, arriving and getting settled, I left Naida and Boo-boo with Peter and Barrie and drove over to my sons house to drop off some birthday and Christmas presents and eat dinner.

 

 

My son Jason (on the left) holds up a framed print of a Japanese scene photographed by my good and dear friend Richard Diran (Richard, also know as “Burma Richard,” is a modern Renaissance man, artist, ethnographer, adventurer, smuggler, restauranteur, gemologist, explorer, photographer and favorite of certain writers in the Bangkok ex-pat literary establishment who insist in including him as a character in some of their novels. He is also my favorite lunch companion ever), On the right is my granddaughter, Amanda, holding up a print of a Burmese tribe in her native costume taken by Burma Richard and featured on the cover of his great ethnographical work “The Vanishing Tribes of Burma.” I am the hunched old guy in the middle with the funny hat.

returned to Peter’s house. We had a fabulous dinner prepared by Barrie that featured a tasty soft cheese and dried tomatoes. During dinner, we had our usual insightful conversation on politics, history, literature and other folderol. Actually, Peter an I had. We dominated the conversation as men do leaving the women chip in now and then with a comment or two. Being modern sensitive males, however, we would listen quietly and attentively whenever they spoke and then go back to our bloviating ignoring whatever they said. It has ever been thus with men. It is time for women to rise up and stamp us out or at the very least laugh at us.

 

     The next morning we set off for Mendocino to spend a few days at my sister’s house. We choose to do a two day trip in order to avoid some of the strain of long distance travel now that Naida and I are in our dotage. It did not quite work. After the more than three hour drive, I, at least, arrived exhausted and beset with my numerous petty maladies. Following a walk with the dog we ate a dinner that featured a marvelous soup of peas, zucchini, and and piquant granulated cheese. We watched a few episodes of Ted Lasso on television and then went to bed.

 

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lockwise from upper left: 1. A scene of the Mendocino Headlands coastline at dusk. 2, Finn the wonder dog. 3. Naida, Maryann and I at dinner. 4. The Mendocino coastline looking north.

As we prepared for bed we discovered we had managed to attract some ticks. One each. Terrorized, we each hastily ripped the clothes off our bodies, stripped naked, and closely examined each others bodies. Had someone been fortunate enough to look through the window at that time they would have seen two alters staring at each others orifices and folds very very closely. They probably would have believed they were observing a novel form of sex between geriatrics to whom normal sexual congress was either no longer possible or too boring after a lifetime of the more traditional orifice stimulation. 

 

     I went to bed terrorized by the stories I had read about people who suffered tick bites. This was my first time. I was a virgin it the world of people who had been bitten by ticks. Was there something wrong with me? Why did it take so long? I wondered if this were not an unrecognized item on my bucket list (No. 105 – Get bitten by a tick). That thought, surprisingly, may me feel better and I slept reasonably well for the rest of the night.

 

     The next morning, Maryann, George, Naida and the dogs (Finn and Booboo) went for a long walk around Mendocino Headlands. I demurred, still suffering from last nights trauma, I ate breakfast alone and stared out as the ocean, a deep blue under the sunny skies. When they returned, Maryann went to weed her backyard flower garden and Naida sat on the sofa and read.

 

Maryann at work in her garden with Fin the Wonder Dog assisting.

Mary always keeps herself busy moving from task to task with determination and efficiency. Not like me. I am rarely either efficient or determined. I am a dreamer, a reader and a napper. I have always been so. When I was a child, I was so sluggish and mopey my mother thought there was something wrong with me. She would drag me from doctor to doctor convinced it was a defect in my metabolism. Even my playmates noticed it and started calling me Mopey Joe. It all used to annoy me a lot. No more now. I am Mopey Joe.

 

    Then off we all went to one of my favorite places in the world, Pacific Star Winery. I have travelled to many places in the world. I know a lot of people have traveled to more and most to less but nevertheless I consider this place among the best I have visited. It is located about 15 miles north of of Ft. Bragg. It is the only winery, certainly in North America and perhaps the world, located on the coast. It is owned by a beautiful woman named Sally. Sally comes with a secret past. It was rumored by the Mendocino gossip mongers that she was a very high class courtesan in Europe in her younger days. She also almost single handedly brought back my favorite red wine Charbono, a wine that was popular in California 40 years or so but went out of cultivation and seemed lost to the world when Francis Ford Coppola, in order to expand his winery buildings unknowingly bulldozed what was thought of as the last remaining stand of that particular strain of vines.

 

    Anyway, we had a great picnic lunch of cheese, Italian salami, olives, humus, and good loaf of Italian bread. Later we talked with Sally for a while and Maryann bought a hat to wear in the sun.

 

Clockwise from upper left: 1. Naida and George standing in front of Pacific Coast Winery. 2. A view south from the winery’s picnic area. 3. The old man (me) and the sea. Maryann and George at the picnic table.

Clockwise from upper left: 1. View of the coast from Pacific Coast Winery. 2. Naida sitting in front of the winery with some interesting statues to the left. 3, Maryann and George taking in the sun. 4. Another view of the coast.

We left and returned to Maryann’s house for me to try to stream the niners game or failing that as I am sure I will, to follow it on ESPN. 

 

    Well, I followed the game on ESPN – no video or commentary only a graphic and the description of whatever play has just been run. At the end of the first half, I turned it off to watch a few episodes of Ted Lasso. I turned it back on when there was only about four minutes left. I came in just when the Ninres had blocked a punt and returned it for a touchdown. What a surprise. The Niners went on to win with a field goal when time expired. I went to bed feeling happy. I fell asleep contemplating why it was that little things of no account can offer contentment to some and misery to others.

 

    The next day broke as another beautiful day in paradise, Naida, the dog, and I went for a walk along the Mendocino Headlands. It was spectacularly beautiful.

 

 

Naida and I posing. Shortly after the picture was taken, I stumbled, fell and felt embarrassed.

As we started back, I began to feel dizzy, lost my balance and fell down. Although I was not injured and immediately began walking again, I soon felt winded. It took us a long time to get back to the house, stopping every two hundred feet or so to catch my breath. When we got back, I quickly checked my computer to see what malady my symptoms signified. It told me I was either having or about to have a heart attack. Although I was convinced of my imminent and probably sudden death, Maryann, George and Naida were ready to go out to lunch and not wanting to spoil their plans, I joined them.

 

     We went to Cafe Beaujolais for a New York style Margherita Pizza and a Black Mushroom and Sausage Pizza. The Cafe Beaujolais is another of my favorite places. The Cafe had been purchased by a wealthy Tech mogul a few years ago for his son who had been trained as a chef. Slowly, bit by bit, they seem to be buying up most of the town.

 

 

 Naida, Maryann (in her new hat) and George having pizza at Cafe Beaujolais.

After lunch, we stopped off at a gallery featuring an exhibit of books as art. (My brother Jim at one point in his career as an artist had a small publishing house, Rebis Press, that printed similar books as art.) After that, we returned home. I am not yet dead. 

 

     That evening, we watched more episodes of Ted Lasso. I am addicted. After being satiated with the humorous doings of a misplaced American football coach in England, his zany soccer team, and it’s beautiful but sexually frustrated owner, I went to bed.  Later, while lying in bed trying to fall asleep, I wrestled with the problems of existence, soccer, and horny women.

 

     The following morning was also sunny and warm. I am making a big deal about this because this is Mendocino known for its fog shrouded, chilly and windy days. That is why its foliage Is so lush, its trees so twisted, and its natives dress like campers after a week in the woods..

 

     After breakfast Naida, George and I walked downtown. This time I did not fall down or collapse with fatigue. We stopped at my two favorite stores, the great Mendocino book store, and Out of This World, a shop selling telescopes, spotting scopes, cameras and fascinating science toys. I bought magnifying glasses that rest on the head and sport a light so that Naida can better read in bed at night. After this, we ate lunch at Trillium, a nice restaurant with an excellent but limited menu.

 

 

Naida, George and Finn the Wonder Dog

ack at the tower, we rested for most of the afternoon. 

 

     The next morning, Tuesday, the day we planned to leave for home the weather was more Mendocino-like, cloudy skies and cool temperature. While sitting in the house before breakfast Naida wrote a poem. 

 

Triangle

 

A seagull sweeps in from the sea.

Lands on a branch of a cypress tree.

In the house my dog seems like a stone statue frieze

focused so long at that fine-feathered she.

 

So sure in her species

So better than thou

So far from me,

my dog’s mistress

well fed but not free.

 

     After breakfast we left. We took route 128 rather than going through Lake County like we usually do because I thought passing through the Napa Valley wine country would be more interesting and restful. I enjoyed the drive but it took over 5 hours and I arrived home exhausted as usual.

 

     Wednesday was a busy day. At least for me it was. I spent the day running around on various errands. They included visits to several pharmacies to pick up prescriptions; to pick up my new glasses; and to the dermatologist to get the results of a recent biopsy. As for the last, the doctor told me that although there was not trace of cancer in the analysis of the skin pustules, I suffered from sub epidermal bullous dermatitis with many eosinophils. He explained it was an auto-immunine disease requiring some additional treatment and monitoring. It’s always something.

 

     Following that news I stopped at HRM’s house to give him my favorite walking stick, the one that he was so fond of when we lived in Thailand. We could not have lunch because he was not feeling well that day. I hope it is not COVID. He had been vaccinated.

 

 

Hayden, at eight, with the treasured walking stick.

 This post has gone on far longer than usual. I think it is a combination of not wanting to finish it before the month ends and the usual long periods of doing nothing but sitting before the TV and playing on my computer.

 

    Wow! After skipping Thursday which was a “nothing” day, Friday surprised me. I actually wanted to do something, felt compelled to do something. I obsessively organized my medicines and personal items in the bathroom and then on the night stand near my desk feeling driven, not to make them neat, but organized in my own strange sense of organization, reasonable perhaps, but not particularly logical. What drove me to do this? I felt better this morning then I have in a while. Perhaps it is my new medicines. Perhaps it is just another point in the waves of depression and euphoria I am subject to. Whatever, it sure feels good. I think I will go for a walk.

 

    And so I did. I set off to the Nepenthe Club House to see is the exercise room were open. Along the way, while my mind ruminated on the ephemera that I am so fond of, I noticed my shadow that was preceding me on the sidewalk. I stopped to contemplate it. I cast a long shadow, alas only on the sidewalk.

 

I got to the club house and confirmed the exercise room was opened but did not use it. That’s for another day. On my way back home I noticed the hot-tubs were working. Back at home we watched a Vincent Price marathon. Sigh! A day that begun looking like a good day seems to be heading toward only a not too bad one.

 

     Later, we watched the documentary “Burden of Dreams” Werner Hertzog’s disastrous making of the film “Fitzcorraldo.” The directory the documentary, Les Blank, had this to say about his months in the remote Amazon jungle filming the chaotic production:

 

“I’m tired of it all and I couldn’t care less if they move the stupid ship – or finish the fucking film”

 

      It was followed by the film “Andrei Rublev” a magnificent Russian three hour movie set in Russia in the 15th Century. Great film. Russian, long, violent, emotional, and obscure. The movies raised the day from Not Bad to quite Good.

 

     Saturday, we went to the Saturday Morning Coffee at the Nepenthe Club House where we learned it had been cancelled for most of the month. This saddened us deeply, so instead we went grocery shopping to cheer ourselves up.

 

     That night at about 4AM I woke up because it struck me that at my age, having lived past the average life expectancy line that there are perhaps two of me now appearing (there may be more, but two seem to be becoming more evident at my age. I hate dualities. They may be necessary for us to think but they all to ofter lead us astray. Even physics had to abandon it) The two are:  My consciousness that wants me to live forever and my body that tells me it is preparing to die. Unable to get back to sleep I  went downstairs to write about it until the sun came up and I returned to bed.

 

     Did you know there is a 17th century English word “spuddle? It means to work ineffectively; to be extremely busy while achieving nothing absolutely nothing. Sort of like this post and last nights mania. But there always is tomorrow and I will be finished with this post by months end as I had committed to do. And there is today the NFL Championship to choose who with play in the Super Bowl. The Niners will probably lose and I will cry tomorrow along with Susan Hayward. Who cares. Better yet why would I care. Don’t I have anything better to do. Nah!

 

    Ugh! The Niners lost ugly. Perhaps I will skip crying tomorrow. I am happy this football  tsuris is over and am glad this month will be over tomorrow along and I will send out this post. February is the worst month of the year but it does have Valentine’s Day and President’s Day. They are funny.

 

     On the last day of January I got up before sunrise. I couldn’t sleep because I was obsessed with writing a summary of my various maladies, medications, and treatments Both current and past so that I could give copies to my many doctors without having to resort to memory, which at my age is untrustworthy at best. I also believe it represent a maniacal byproduct of my underlying real or feigned hypochondria. Is an unrealistic belief in ones hypochondria also called hypochondria? Well, I have been down here for most two hours with my computer and have not yet begun even preparing to begin my sleep disturbing personal medical opus. I think I will have breakfast now.

 

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Pookie’s Adventures: Summer ends, COVID continues, some jazz, and the end of my quarantine hairdo (Sept. 2021).

Sunday, over a week since the last time I wrote here and 18 months after the COVID lockdowns began. Try as I might, I could not make eating, sleeping, watching television and playing on the computer interesting to me, much less to anyone else. Yet, I assume for most of us, that pretty much describes our days during the pandemic. Then suddenly, it was Monday. Thinking back to Sunday, I watched the Niners defeat Philadelphia on television then for some reason, I was struck by a terrible headache which put me back to bed for most of the day. That is something different. I rarely ever get headaches. But can it be considered an adventure to lie in bed all day, somnolent and in pain?

 

It is now Friday.  One of the reasons why writing these posts has become so sporadic is that, among those reasons, I had hoped to preserve memories that I  had wished to remember but feared I would forget. Since the beginning of the pandemic, now eighteen months ago, memorable events seem to have been in short supply especially this past week. Summer ended and. in the middle of the week, Autumn began with little more than a passing reference in a few Facebook posts. The changing of the seasons seem to be more significant to we children of the East Coast than those from California whose seasons consist of hot and sunny with no rain and warm and sunny with a little rain except for the denizens of San Francisco and California’s North Coast who have only one season, cool and foggy. It appears, however, that the scourge of climate change is making the seasons we had grown up with distorted horrors of what we recall. Instead of seasons of  re-birth, fecundity, harvest and rest, our seasons now seem only to teeter between horrid storms and insufferable drought.

 

They call the threat of climate change existential. By that I think they mean a threat to human existence. I am not convinced that is so. I suspect the current human assault on our environment to dissipate somewhat before total destruction, leaving a few habitable spots on the globe remaining here and there, such as certain sheltered altitudes on the sides of mountains where a few remnants of the species Homo sapiens (wise men who will thereafter called not-so-wise) eake out a meager living and perhaps even eventually flourishing again if they ever learn to treat each other as truly human and the biosphere as the only truly sacred entity on this world. One thing I am sure of is that those woebegone remnants of humanity will enjoy a far better life  than those that may have fled to live a new life in the tunnels carved into the crust of Mars or some other desolate spot in the solar system. (We should expect that seats on the rockets to Mars for fleeting humanity will be reserved primarily for billionaires and those retainers they believe necessary to provide them with their concept of happiness. To me is seems more a flight into hell than an escape from oblivion.)

 

Anyway, this week, Naida and I decided to travel to Denver and the East Coast in mid-October. We had been invited by Lorraine (Betsy) Smith, who I had not seen in over 60 years, to spend a few days at her home in Denver. I swam in the pool a few times. My headaches began to diminish toward the end of the week. I had my usual weekly lunch with Hayden. I read several very trashy novels and although I may be too embarrassed to name them, I enjoyed them a lot. Tonight we have planned to go out for dinner at Wildwood. The band we like is playing there this evening.

 

Alas, it was not the band we liked but another one. The dinner was good even though my ability to savor many of the flavors had not yet returned.

On Saturday, we got up too late to attend the Saturday Morning Coffee so we watched cooking shows on TV. I then went to the pool for a swim. The day was warm and strangely quiet — no bird songs or the rustle of wine it the trees. The water in the pool placid. No-one else was there swimming or even passed by while I swam. I put in my usual 20 minutes to half hour on laps. I felt as sluggish and tired as the day around me. After swimming, I luxuriated in the hot tub and then rested lying on the reclining lounges by the pools. Although it was warm even hot it the low 90s, the sun was hazy and shrouded. I dressed, left the pool area, and walked back home through the silent and still Enchanted Forest. It was qall a good opening for a mystery or horror story.

 

I returned home, sadly without mishap, to find Naida and her daughter Jennifer working on Naida’s passport application, so I went upstairs and, joined by Booboo the Annoying but Heroic Farting and Barking Dog, took a nap for about an hour or so. Before falling asleep, I wondered if this could have been considered an adventure of sorts. I fell asleep without reaching a conclusion.

 

On Sunday, we awoke late, ate breakfast, and sat at our respective computers until 2PM. Outside it was warm in the mid eighties, the sun shining and the skies blue. The yellow skies of yesterday had gone, most likely on account of the stagnant air containing the smoke of the fires being blown onto some other hapless community by the gentle breezes that brought relief to ours. The Good/bad David called from Aberdeen South Dakota. He was taking a break from harvesting corn and beans on his farm and was enjoying the view of the sunlight glistening off the fields. We reminisced about our times together in Thailand and played “ain’t it awful” about the state of the nation and its politics. I pointed out that the nation has always needed two parties one rural and one urban. Unfortunately, the modern Republican Party has abandoned the interests of its rural base in favor of its racist and fascist minorities while the Democrats further entrenched itself in its Urban-Suburban focus and interests.

 

Later, Naida’s daughter arrived again to continue with her help on preparing the application for a new passport, a process that had bedeviled her this past week. While they wrangled with the process, I watched some shows about Sammy Davis Jr. and Miles Davis and typed this.

 

That evening, we went to Jazz by the Nepenthe Pool a program put on by the HOC. We brought along some food and a bottle of Prosecco. The audience, like us, was mostly elderly, the music old timey jazz with a singer, a base, and two guitars. Coming from just listening to Miles Davis it was quite a come down, all twangy and predictable. A result of the modern obsession by every aspiring musician to play the guitar. No more bright sounds of the trumpet or the moan of the sax. Twang, twang, twang.

At the Jazz fest, Naida met an old friend and fellow author, Nan Mahon. Nan had written the first newspaper article about Naida and her initial novel, River of Red Gold. Nan participated with Naida in a professional writers critique group and had said at the time that she was in awe at how seriously Naida took the process and how well she organized the group meetings. Naida always strove to assure the group was balanced between male and female authors and everyone got full benefit of their 20 minute discussion of each writers work. Among the writers in the group in addition to Nan and Naida were, Persia Woolley, Frank Luna, Bill Breault SJ, and others.

Naida and Nan Mahon

That night, I could not sleep. A poem kept running through my mind.

 

I live at the next level of generalization.

My thoughts are as broad as the ocean 

And as deep as the early morning dew 

Upon a leaf.

 

I walk through the damp dawn forests of my mind.

See deep Atlantis

Within a drop of moisture

Shimmering on the edge

of a flower.

 

I wrestle sharks and whales 

And the terrors of the deep 

In the moist earth beneath my feet.

 

My clothing as wet as I walk

Through the morning damp

As if I have plunged to the bottom

Of the sea.

 

I revel in all that I know and see

And think and feel.

I am alive.

I am me.

 

I rushed downstairs to write it down before I forgot it. Now as I sit here at three AM, I realize that it is a young persons poem written by an old man. That made me happy.

 

Monday, I remember nothing about. On Tuesday I caught the morning train to San Francisco. I met up with my Grandson,  Anthony and we drove over to the Mission Rock Restaurant where we had a pleasant lunch overlooking the Bay.

After lunch I walked over to UCSF for my appointment with a speech and throat specialist who opined I did not sing enough and as a result spoke without properly using my breath and this was causing me to cough. He said he was going to send me to a speech therapist since he only makes the diagnosis and they do the remediation. Following this curious waste of time, I took the bus to Peter and Barrie’s house. On the bus, I was joined with the usual assortment of the denizen’s of The City, two of which appear in the photo montage above.

 

After arriving a Peter and Barries house, Barrie broke out the wine. I then thought it was a good idea for Barrie to give me a haircut as she had offered to do several times during past visits. We proceeded to the back porch where the following occurred:

 

Alas, I unfortunately ended up with bit of a bald spot on the top or my head where Barrie snipped off my pony-tail too close to my scalp.

 

 

Peter arrived and we all drank more wine. Then we went back upstairs and ate another great Barrie Grenell mealand told each other stories well into the night.

 

The next day or the day after that, I drove into the Golden Hills for lunch with HRM and Kaleb. They are at that age where then have begun to worry about their future. They have started to feel their coming adulthood and its responsibilities beginning to press down on them. They indicated that they and most of their friends are focusing on money and how to make it rather than skateboards and automobiles. They believe they need to learn a trade before they consider embarking on higher education. Kaleb who is only 15 has gotten an offer of an apprenticeship in the electricians union when he reaches 16. I advised them to pursue those goals but also between now and their early twenties also to take every other educational opportunity they can get. In addition, I urged them to travel, after high school and after they finish their education. Kaleb said he would like to travel but it would be hard raise the money to do so. I told him, the only serious money he needs to raise is the money he keeps at home to use get back on when he tires of his travels or has an emergency.

 

I also told them to get as much education as possible. Education is not simply about learning things but also about learning to recognize what you do not know. The mark of stupidity is not a lack of knowledge but the unshakable belief that you do. 

 

Kaleb seems to have grown to about 6’4” to 6’5”. He has grown about two inches in the past month.

 

That’s all folks.

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MOPEY JOE’S MEMORIES: RETURN TO SAN FRANCISCO, SEPTEMBER 2011.

As The Little Masseuse, who accompanied me to the airport, faded from my sight, I passed through security and customs into the boarding area.

My last view of Bangkok as I winged away to return to the US was of the gathering monsoon rain clouds quickly obscuring the city below. The adventures of Princess LuckyGirl, Thaksin the Terrible, Cheeky Cherlerm, and Abhsit the Unready have already begun to fade from my consciousness.

POOKIE’S ADVENTURES IN AMERICA:
I arrived in San Francisco last night at about 8pm and was picked up by my daughter-in-law Anne and my grandson Anthony. The flight was remarkably unremarkable. I spent the time that I was not sleeping watching the first 12 episodes of “The Game of Thrones“ on the plane’s video. I enjoyed it a lot. Having read the novels over the years, I  became convinced the author had not the slightest idea of how he was going to resolve the many plot lines he unleashed in his novels, a number of which seemed to just peter out. Like many of the aficionados of the work, I was furious at his refusal to complete the set, promising to deliver the concluding book eventually and then failing to do so year after year until coterminous with production of the first book in the HBO mini-series, he published an over 1000 page tome, that I have not yet read but which I understand still does not tie everything up. I assume he hopes the mini-series lasts a decade or more.

First Impressions:
Sleeping: Last night I enjoyed a good sleep on a soft bed covered with a warm blanket. The windows were open. In Thailand, I sleep on a rock hard bed (as do most Thais) without covers (usually starkers) since the temperature in BKK, even during the coldest part of the night, rarely drops below 80 degrees and even the AC, if it exists and is working, rarely drops the temperature below 77. If I set the AC below that temperature, the Little Masseuse starts shivering and covering herself up with multiple blankets. When I explained that Americans prefer to sleep with the temperature in the high 60’s and in SF at least, I prefer it even cooler, she shuddered.

Dressing: I delighted in putting on more clothing than a light shirt and shorts (which, except for questions of modesty, in BKK is still too much clothing for me at least and I suspect most Westerners).

Bernal Heights, San Francisco (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

Walking: Today I walked the over six miles from Bernal Heights where I am staying to Downtown and then on to lunch in North Beach. I mention this, not because I am proud of walking that far, but because the last time I was in the city, I could not conceive of walking that far in one trip. It is one of the benefits of my exercise regime of the past two months that I can now spend hours doing something that a sensible human being would take minutes to do by riding in a car or a bus. I would never walk that far in BKK, first because it is too hot and second because Thais believe walking from place to place is a sign of low-class.

Banking: One purpose of my morning trip was to get to my bank and withdraw my money before the Franchise Tax Board (California’s tax storm troopers) took it to pay my back taxes. Last time I was in the US and travelled to Italy, I decided not to remove the pension funds the day of their deposit but to wait until I had returned to Italy. Sure enough, the FTB looted my account. This was especially bad for me since they effectively took my savings for the year as well.

Hats: The second purpose was to buy a Panama hat to replace the one destroyed by the little masseuse. She had complained that my existing Panama had begun to look and smell bad, a criticism I could somewhat agree with. So, one day while I was out, she decided to wash it in the washing machine and then scrub it with strong soap and a brush. When I returned she presented me with a mat of very clean Ecuadorian straw. When I complained that not only was I fond of the hat but that it was expensive, she replied, “Expensive maybe, but not very strong.”

Anyway, I had purchased that hat on Union Street during my last visit to the City. As I walked past the shop at that time the hat spoke to me so I just had to go in and buy it no matter its impact on my budget. This morning I searched again for the shop and after I found it I told the shop girl, that I had travelled all the way here from Asia to replace the hat that spoke to me. She smiled, took my money and hustled me quickly out the door.

Beatniks in the summer of 1969 (Photo credit: Martin Pulaski)

Lunch: After banking and before buying my hat I walked to North Beach to eat lunch. For those unfamiliar with SF, North Beach, it is the so-called Italian neighborhood, home of overpriced generally mediocre Italian restaurants and the ghosts of Beatniks past (Kerouac, Cassidy, Burroughs et al.) Two of my favorite places were closed. Franchetti’s which not only serves some of the best Southern Italian cooking in the area, but the husband and wife who run it and do the cooking came from a little town near Avelino in the mountains outside of Naples, not more than a mile from the town from which my grandfather emigrated. Panta Rai is the other restaurant. Its food, while acceptable, is not so good. What I liked about the place, however, is that when I lived in the neighborhood, I got to know the waiters and owners. And, the owner always hired beautiful young Russian student waitresses who flirted with me. Moreover, I like to eat at the sidewalk tables since, as any Italian knows, dining al fresco improves the taste of the food. In addition, the location of the place, at the Green St. and Columbus Street intersection, allows one to enjoy the street life of the neighborhood’s busiest intersection. Another reasons why Italians enjoy eating al fresco is that it is much more interesting to watch the world go by while eating, than simply sitting in a room with other diners burying their faces in the food.

Anyway, unfortunately, I ended up eating mediocre Spaghetti Bolognese at a sidewalk table at another near-by establishment.

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Chapter 3 of my unfinished and never to be published novel “Here Comes Dragon.”

 

The following reproduces Chapter 3 of my unfinished and never to be published novel “Here Comes Dragon.” The whole unfinished draft can be found at, (https://papajoesfables.wordpress.com/here-comes-dragon-an-unfinished-novel/).

 

 

Dragon’s breath:

“A good detective should be afraid…always.”

 

 

Chapter 3.

 

I turned the doorknob and pushed the door open slowly. I only had opened it a few inches before it was wrenched from my hand. A big guy stood there holding the door and filling all the space between the door and the door jamb. He was not too much taller than I am, but he was big, with a body poised somewhere between muscle and fat.

“What do you want,” he growled?

I stepped back. Said, “I’m looking for Mark Holland.”

“Why?”

Thought this might be a good time for a clever story. Could not think of one. Went with the truth. “I have been asked to find him.”

“Why,” again?

Still lacking clever responses, said, “I’ve been hired to find him.” Took a business card from my pocket handed it to him. He looked at it for a long time. Said, “A Detective eh. Why don’t you come in and we’ll talk?”

I said, “If it is all the same to you, I feel better standing out here in the hall.”

The door opened a little wider. Another fat guy appeared. He had a phone pressed against his ear with one hand. In his other hand, he had a gun that was pointed at me. “Get in here,” fat guy number one ordered.

At that moment I noted a strange phenomenon. My clothing went instantly from dry to wet. At the same time, I felt like I shit my pants. Said, “I think my chances of being shot are greater in there than standing out here in the hall.”

I flashed on how stupid that sounded. The embarrassment of shitting in my pants began to leak into my consciousness. Did not get far with either thought as they were interrupted by an explosion to the side of my face. As I toppled toward the floor, my first thought was to protect my computer. The second was that I might be dead.

Thought I was shot. Actually, Fat Guy One suddenly had reached out with his ham sized hand and slapped me aside my head as they say. His heavy ring raked across my jaw.

Before landing on the floor, I was grabbed and dragged into the room. I looked down the hall in the vain hope that Ann had seen what happened and would call the cops. No such luck.

I was thrown onto a bean bag chair on the floor. Thought, “Who the fuck still has a bean bag chair?” Said, “Who the fuck has a bean bag chair any more?” But did not get it all out as the pain had finally hit and I realized that I had bitten my tongue and was dribbling blood down my chin. Got out “Woo fla bee or?” before giving up and grabbing my jaw. I was bleeding there too from the ring. Said, “Shiss!” Added “Blon.” My tongue was swelling up.

Fat guy one threw me a dirty dishrag. Thought I would probably die of sepsis if it touched my open wound. Spit the blood from my mouth into the rag folded it, and pressed it against the side of my face anyway.

Fats Two was talking on the phone. Whispered to Fats One. Fats One said, “Who sent you?”

Replied something that sounded like, “That’s confidential.”

Fats one raised his fist.

I quickly responded, “Gul fren.”

“Fucking Mavis,” said SF fats.

“No, na yeh” I commented. I thought I was being clever. They ignored me

Fats Two whispered to Porky One again.

Porky asked, “Find anything yet?”

“Hired hour ago. This first stop.”

More talking on the phone and whispering. Fats Prime asked, “What did Mavis tell you?”

What I answered sounded a lot like, “Not much. He’s missing. She’s worried.”

More talking on the phone and whispering.

I said more or less, “We could save a lot of time if I just talked directly to whoever is on the phone.” Although it did not come out quite like that, I actually was getting used to speaking through my swollen tongue and frozen jaw.

They ignored me. Fats One said, “What’s she paying you — tattoos or blow jobs?” Thrilled with his cleverness he let out a surprisingly high pitched giggle.

I did not answer as I struggled with a clever comeback and failed mostly out of fear of retaliation.

He said more forcefully, “What do you charge?”

“Two hundred dollars a day. One week minimum. One half paid in advance.”

Some more whisperings into the phone. There seemed to be some disagreement.

Fats Prime finally turned to me and said, “We’d like to hire you to help us find him.”

I was gobsmacked. Wanted to say, “Fuck you” or “What the fuck,” even. Said instead, “Can’t, conflict of interest.”

Prime Cut One turned red-faced and advanced on me. I quickly said, “On second thought, I can probably figure a way around it.”

He stopped, smiled reached into his pocket, and pulled out a wallet. From it, he extracted 10 one hundred dollar bills and placed them in my hand not holding the towel. “You will get another thousand if you find him.”

Pocketed the money. Said, “Whose my client?”

Again with the whispering. “Me,” said First Lard Brother.

Asked, “What’s your name?”

“No name.” He scribbled on a piece of paper. Handed it to me. “My phone number. Call every evening at about five o’clock.”

“What can you tell me about Holland to help me along?”

Again the phone. The Fats One then said, “Ask Mavis. She knows more than she is telling you.”

They then both picked me up out of the bean bag and guided me toward the door.

“How do you know I won’t go to the police?”

“If you do we will have to kill you.” They both giggled in falsetto.

I knew that was bullshit but I was still scared shitless, literally and figuratively and I knew involvement of the cops was futile.

Once back in the hall, I ran to Ann’s door pounded on it and rang the awful buzzer. I do not know what I expected I’d do if she answered; cry in her arms perhaps. No response anyway. Pictured her standing in the middle of the room staring blank-eyed at the door.

Turned, grabbing the computer in one hand and the bloody rag in another, ran out of the building and back down the hill to Pino’s place.

When Pino saw me he said, “What the fuck happened?”

I ran by him and into the restaurant. Said as I passed. “Bathroom. Ice in a napkin quick.”

In the toilet, I threw the rag into the wastebasket. The bleeding had mostly stopped. Dropped my pants and drawers and sat. Saw that I really had shit my pants, a little not much, but enough to make me groan. My hands were shaking as was the rest of me.

When I left the toilet Pino was there with the ice in a napkin. Repeated, “What the fuck happened?”

Took the napkin with the ice, pressed it to my face, said, “Later, I need a taxi right now.” Pino went into the street flagged down a cab. I got in. Gave the driver the address of my condo on Fourth Street, waved to Pino, and slunk into my seat as far down as I could go.

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Excerpt from my unpublished and never to be finished mystery novel, Here Comes Dragon.

Dragon’s Breath:

Sam Spade: “Then the trick from my angle is to make my play strong enough to tie you up, but not make you mad enough to bump me off against your better judgment.”

 

 

Chapter 2.

 

I watched her disappear around a corner, took a sip of my wine and realized she had not paid for it. “Bitch,” I opined to no one except me. Drank the rest of my Barbera. Began on hers since she had not touched it and I was paying for it and I am opposed to wasting good, or even mediocre wine on religious grounds, being raised Catholic.

Usually tracing a missing person for the price I was being paid warranted about a half hour or so on a computer, a few telephone calls to bulk up the brief final report. A report written in a way that allowed the client to resolve any residual guilt they may be feeling by assuring that he or she had done all that could be done under the circumstances or, if the client is still mired in guilt, suggesting they pay me the rest of my fee and retain me for another week of futility. What the fee did not include, however, was any effort requiring the use of foot protecting composite material or knocking on doors.

Nevertheless, given that the sun was out and it was about as warm as it was going to get in San Francisco; I had just drunk two glasses of wine; the knowledge that the missing Mark’s apartment was only about three blocks away from where I was sitting; and the urgings bubbling out of that dark and defective communication channel that ran between my brain and my groin suggesting that the extra effort could result in my observing Mavis’s tattoos closer up, I decided to knock on his door just in case Missing Mark had decided that Mavis was no longer his playmate and he was hiding from her wrath.

So, I finished the wine, packed the computer in its protective shoulder bag and signaled to Pino to put it all on my tab (which was met with a scowl and a sneer). I then got up, jaywalked across Columbus Avenue and moved on up Green Street toward Telegraph Hill.

I guess I ought to describe how I was dressed so you do not simply picture a dark blob bobbing along the sidewalk. I was dressed like a dark blob. I wore a shapeless grey-brown short overcoat with wool lining, that I picked up at Goodwill, over a yellow sweatshirt with nothing written on it. I do not do advertising. Black slacks below. I don’t do jeans. On my feet are ugly orthotic enhanced shoes to coddle my nonexistent arches. I don’t do sneakers or trainers or whatever those horribly expensive and garishly colored things are now called. Around my neck hung a ratty red and black wool scarf with a fringe on each end.

The sun was shining. The fabled San Francisco fogs of three decades ago a vague memory. It still, however, was about a million degrees colder in the City than in the East Bay but the temperature was still warmer than it had been in times past when one suffered through 12 months of semi-winter. Now, due in all likelihood to global warming, winter in San Francisco lasts only about seven months.

I regretted this change in the weather. Gone were the fogs that cloaked Hammit’s Sam Spade in his daily run from his offices near the Burritt St. ditch to John’s for lunch. You need a real City for mysteries, full of shadows and unhappiness. San Francisco is not a real City. It is too happy.

On the far side of Grant, Telegraph Hill rises. It is capped by that great phallus in the sky memorializing the transcendental virility of San Francisco’s Fire and Rescue personnel. The stunted cement penis also separates the residents of the sunny side of the hill from those fortunate few who really have views of the water. These few live primarily in shacks converted over the years into luxury aeries. These luxury shacks, reachable only by stairs, cling to the side of the cliff like barn swallow nests cling to the eaves of a barn. Among these fortunate few living snug in their aeries live some of the most unpleasant people living on the face of the earth. They are those who fervently believe that their struggles for preservation of their water views and indolent lifestyles benefit the rest of us.

Now do not get me wrong, I hate rapacious developers as much as anyone and believe that most developers should first be boiled in oil and then burnt at the stake in the middle of Union Square, but if these cliff dwellers were so concerned about the rest of us, as they would have us believe, why don’t they turn their happy huts over to the rest of us, say for two days a week, so that the rest of us can sit by the window, smoke a joint, sip some wine and stare slack-jawed at the Bay bridge marching across the water into Angel Island while the ceaseless maritime traffic in the bay passes back and forth under its soaring piers?

On the sunny side of the hill, the streets get steeper as they approach the crest of the peak. The sidewalks change into steps about halfway up the hill. The houses on this side sit cheek by jowl crammed one next to each other. Built about 100 years ago as immigrant tenements, over the years they have been stuccoed, shingled, painted or wood or aluminum siding as fashions dictated. All now painted either white or some pastel shade of pink, blue or green. All except missing Mark’s building located about where the sidewalk changes into steps. Sometime in the late 1950s someone tore down a number of older buildings and replaced them with a dark shake sided five-story apartment in the then fashionable but utterly boring international style. It gave that side of the street the appearance of an ancient bleached jaw bone with a few molars missing.

I knew this building well. In it lived Ann Kennedy who, as serendipity dictated, lived on the same floor as Missing Mark. Ann Kennedy was a masseuse that I visited now and then. She was the type of masseuse that one finds in the back pages of monthly alternative newspapers or on Craig’s List.

Because of the steepness of the hill the entrance to the building was on the second floor, Ann and Missing Mark’s floor. Various stacks of construction materials lay about as they always have as long as I had come here, but no one was ever working.

I marched up to Ann’s door first, because I thought she may have some information about her neighbor. Also, I contemplated the possibility of spending some of my fee on relaxation and release before embarking on my job. Knocked on the door and rang the bell which buzzed with that grinding sound that I hate almost more than anything I could think of.

The door opened about a foot wide. Now, if one were expecting that curvaceous, cleavage exposing, lingerie wearing, red-lipped, dark-eyed beauty in the photographs that often accompany the ads, it was not Ann. Ann more resembled a reject from a model call for a Dorothea Lange photo shoot on the ravages of the Great Depression, right down to her shapeless house dress.

“Yes,” she said?

“Hi, Ann,” I said with a big smile.

I was met with a grey-eyed, pupil-less stare of non-recognition.

“Do you have an appointment?” she asked?

Thought she was either stoned or my belief in the memorability of my presence was overrated. Decided I would save some money and later resolve by hand any uncontrollable urgings I still may have. Said, “Do you know Mark Holland?”

Long stare. “No.”

“He lives on this floor. He is your neighbor,” and I gestured toward the other end of the hall.

She slowly turned her head and looked in that direction, which made no sense since she was standing inside her apartment and could not see down the hall. Slowly turned back to me.

“No,” and she closed the door in my face.

Stood there wondering if I should kick the door in frustration. Decided I would only hurt my foot. Turned went to the other end of the floor to stand in front of Missing Mark’s apartment door. Looked down at the doorknob. Saw scratches and splintered wood. Thought, “Uh-oh, run!”

However, like touching just to see if a sign announcing “wet paint” means what it says, I reached down to turn the doorknob just to see if what I knew to be true really was.

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Mopey’s Memories: From the Enchanted Forest to the Pacific Northwest — Naida and Joe’s Adventure — Part I.

A. POOKIE’S ADVENTURES IN THE ENCHANTED FOREST:

 

 

Days pass. Discovered Kenneth Fearing, poet, novelist, and founding editor of Partisan Review (see below). He was a good old leftie. Alas, he probably would have become a Trumpite had he lived today instead of drinking himself to death at a relatively young age. Watched the movie made from his book “The Big Clock” starring Ray Milland and Charles Laughton and enjoyed seeing Laughton’s wife, Elsa Lanchester, steal the film away from the headliners as she usually does.

I spent time with HRM. Ate lunch with him at Subway and learned that the Slackers vs Jocks contretemps still simmers — the indomitable conviction of youth in the importance of their every experience — sadly to us decrepits we have forgotten how right they are.

Begun packing for our trip into the wilds of the Pacific Northwest. I suspect there will be more to write about then — discomfort, fatigue, and, at times, beauty and novelty or boredom. That’s what adventures are all about, a lot of discomfort and boredom broken now and then with bits of terror and fear moderated by a dollop of poetic beauty. The photos are nice, however.

For the second time In the last few months, Naida and Boo-boo the Barking Dog have been attacked by another dog leaping from a parked car that they passed during their evening walks. This time, Naida was knocked to the ground. The dog’s owners, after securing their pet, rushed to see if Naida was hurt. She responded to their expressions of apology and concern, “Don’t worry, I am one of those eighty-year-olds whose bones do not break whenever she falls down.” More indomitability.

Thinking about indomitability, I have, at times, fought and refused to give up. Now, when it no longer matters, I realize it was not indomitability but merely fear that I would be exposed. I guess that is the way it is with most men.

Now I think it is time to leave this morning’s morass of introspection as well as my recliner and go out and meet the day, or greet it or something like that.

“It’s always something” (Rosanna Rosannadanna.) Lost my wallet. Probably yesterday after I returned from EDH and I stopped for gas at the Shell Station nearby. Perhaps someone stole it. I do not know how. It is a disaster. Losing one’s wallet is one of life’s great tragedies. Everything important was in there. My debit cards, my passport, other things. We are leaving for our trip on Friday. A new credit-card will not be ready by then so the costs of the trip will be all on Naida. Sometimes life sucks. I guess I have to get started on canceling and reordering things. Well, perhaps tomorrow. Tonight I’ll pretend I’m depressed. Tomorrow is another day.

Before going to bed we watched Sidney Poitier in Lilies of Field. I felt better. I’ll cry tomorrow.

It is tomorrow. Oh, happy day. I found my wallet. It was where I thought it was. I always throw the clothing I intend to wear the next day on the floor near my bed. They are easier to locate that way. I thought I had lost my wallet among the accumulated detritus next lying there. Several times I had picked through everything to see if it had fallen among them. This morning, I picked up a shirt I planned to take with me to SF today and there it was lying underneath. So, in happy spirits, we left for the Big Endive by the Bay and my immunotherapy treatment.

 

 

 

B. AGAIN IN THE BIG ENDIVE WITH PETER AND BARRIE:

 

 

Following a surprisingly delightful drive (I napped, Naida drove), we arrived at Peter and Barrie’s home in Noe Valley. After getting settled, Peter and I told each other stories. He spoke about his time in Cambridge and India as one of the famous anthropologist, Cora Du Bois’ doctoral students. In India, he and Barrie lived primarily in Bhubaneswar where he studied the politics and design theories behind the construction of the new capital of the then recently created state of Odisha. I told of my adventures in Turkey (a midnight knife fight) and old Jerusalem and Bethlehem (meeting with the dealer who sold the Dead Sea scrolls). Later Hiromi and my granddaughter Amanda joined us for dinner.

 

 

The next day we went to the Mission Bay facility of UCSF for my immunotherapy treatment. Nothing to report here.

We then returned to the Enchanted Forest.

 

 

C. BACK IN THE VALLEY:

 

 

The next day we prepared for our trip. I took a brief drive to EDH to fetch Hayden from school and to stop at the pharmacy to pick up the medicines I would need during our trip. After I returned to the Enchanted Forest, Naida and I enjoyed lunch at a local sandwich shop. Later, a box containing about 20 copies of the revised version of Naida’s memoir, “A Daughter of the West,” with her corrections arrived. Naida spent some time checking to see if the edits she had made were incorporated in the revisions. At about ten o’clock in the evening, we left for the train station.

 

 

D. OFF TO OREGON.

 

 

The train to Portland left the Sacramento Valley Amtrak Station at about midnight on Friday. We slept uncomfortably in our business class chairs. I had made a mistake not reserving a sleeping compartment. Nevertheless, train travel, in my opinion, is the most civilized way to travel. It is a shame the United States, unlike almost any other advanced nation in the world, pulled up its tracks, sold the rails for scrap and replaced them with asphalt roadways.

When we awoke, we had a pleasant breakfast, even if not of the quality offered on the Orient Express. Our breakfast companions were an interesting couple from Irvine who made it clear they were not married. “Neither are we,” we chimed in gleefully as though we all were old folks reveling in our naughtiness.

We spent the day mostly sitting in the observation car watching wooded northern California and Oregon landscape pass by. We arrived in Portland at about four PM.

 

 

E. PORTLAND AND PUYALLUP:

 

 

We were met at the station by Naida’s cousin Debbie and went for a walk along the Willamette River. There are many bridges spanning the Willamette. I had not noticed that during my previous visits here. Walking along the riverside path I felt as though I was walking under a freeway interchange.

As we strolled along the path, I noticed on its inland side the Portland Food Festival was under weigh. It extended for many blocks. It was lunchtime and we were hungry but we decided to skip the festival and find a local restaurant.

Naida and Debbie on the Waterfront.

 

After walking around a bit, we found a Chinese restaurant that looked interesting. I had not eaten Chinese food in a while and was eager to do so now.

In Italy and in many places in the US recently, I have noticed that a goodly number of Italian restaurants have been taken over by Chinese immigrant families resulting in mushy noodles and a poor understanding of the cuisine’s use of herbs and spices. Every national cuisine begins with its own traditional mix of herbs and spices. Failure to get them right may still result in a palatable meal but it cannot be called an example of those nations’ traditional food.

So, we entered. The waiter seated us and took our orders. I ordered Mu-shu pork. When he brought us our meals he told a lengthy story about learning to be a mu-shu pork folder and considered himself to be the best mu-sho pork folder in Portland. I had never known there was an art to folding mu-shu pork so, I asked him to show us this talent of which he was so proud as I was sure he wanted me to. And so he did.

Folding Mu-Shu Pork.

 

After that, we went to Debbie’s house and promptly fell asleep.

The next day, several of Naida’s relatives from Portland joined us for a late lunch. Many interesting stories were told but, alas, T&T is not a venue in which I can share all of them. Debbie’s father, a renowned Methodist minister, was also an accomplished amateur mineralogist and jewelry maker. When he died, he left Debbie his immense store of rocks, semi-precious stones, and jewelry making equipment. Debbie and her son Nicolas have avidly continued his father’s avocation. Tumblers hummed all night, and piles of rocks and minerals covered much of the yard.

Some of the Rocks. 

 

The Tumblers.

 

 

Later, we visited with David, Naida’s son who assists the well-known regional sculpture Bruce West (Naida’s ex-brother-in-law). We met at the studio. Bruce was unable to join us because he suffers from late-stage Parkinson’s.

Naida and David.

 

Some Works by Bruce West.

 

Debbie then drove us to the train station and left. We had hoped to take the train to Puyallup, Washington to spend the night at the home of Debbie’s sister Colleen. Unfortunately, the train was full (since when do trains in this day and age get filled up?). So we trundled, in the rain, dragging our luggage a few blocks to the Greyhound station. Alas, the bus had left for Puyallup a few minutes before we arrived. The amused ticket agents suggested we try another bus line a few blocks away. Once again, we struggled through the drizzle to the place where we were told we would find the bus.

When we arrived where we were directed, there was no ticket office to be found. We noticed a bunch of people across the street who appeared to be waiting around for something. We went up to them and asked if they knew the location of the ticket office. We were told there wasn’t one but, they were all waiting for a bus from that company to arrive and had already bought their tickets already. So, we waited there standing with them in the light rain. Eventually, the bus arrived. The driver told us that if there were any seats left after everyone with tickets had been seated he would sell them to us. So we waited some more. After everyone boarded, he announced there were two left. Relieved, we paid him and prepared to board. At that moment, a young man approached and handed the driver a ticket. The driver told him that the ticket said he must arrive at least five minutes before the bus departs and since he did not so the tickets had been sold. So, we boarded. I felt bad for the guy, but not bad enough to give up my seat.

Naida’s cousin Colleen picked us up at the bus stop and drove us to her home in Puyallup. Coleen’s home, a one-story building, appeared small from the outside but was surprisingly large once you got inside. She took us on a tour of the house. It seemed to me to be one of the more pleasant houses I had ever been in. For forty-seven years Coleen, her husband, and her mother lived in that house, constantly changing and remodeling it to better serve their needs and comfort. After Naida and Colleen exchanged a few family stories with each other we went to sleep in a far too comfortable bed.

Colleen’s Back Porch.

 

Naida and Colleen.

 

 

A ninety-nine acre heavily wooded park surrounds Colleen’s home on two sides. Waking up in the morning with the sun shining and the encircling trees rising up behind the yard was delightful.

 

 

Later, Naida and I went for a walk around a nearby lake. It began raining as we walked along, a light drizzle at times interspersed with more heavy downpours.

 

Following the walk, we returned to the house. Naida and Colleen worked on a puzzle together and quietly talked and reminisced about family and things while I sat on the sofa and played on my computer and dozed until it was time to leave for the airport and our flight to Boise.

Colleen dropped us off at the bus station for the brief bus ride to the airport. We flew to Boise on a prop plane. It has been a long time since I last had ridden on one.

We arrived in Boise at about 11pm. After an adventure securing our rental car, we drove to the hotel on the river where we were going to spend the night.
(More to come)

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Joey’s Mystery Novel: Dominion

My partially completed but never to be finished novel, Dominion, can be found at, https://papajoesfables.wordpress.com/dominion-an-unfinished-and-never-published-novel/. Below is one of the draft chapters in which the main protagonist, Vince Biondi, is confronted by San Mateo County Sheriff Megs Polan.

JOEY’S MYSTERY NOVEL: “Dominion.” When Vince Meets Megs.

Chapter whatever:

Vince took into the office washroom the overnight suitcase he always kept available in his office in case he had to make a sudden short business trip or pulled an all-nighter like this one. He washed as best he could, shaved, changed his clothing and returned to his office just as Ray arrived to accompany him to the San Mateo County Sheriff’s office. Ray had obviously been called by Ike and was dressed in what for him passed for business attire, pearl button earrings, a military-style camouflage jacket, matching camouflage pants and neon green Crocs on his feet.

When they arrived at the Sheriff’s office, they were immediately ushered into the office of Sheriff Megan (Megs) Polan, former beauty queen, bodybuilding champion and a rising star in local Republican politics. Vince and Ray sat in chairs across the hygienically clean desk behind which Megs sat enthroned like a medieval duchess. Her still super toned body so filled out her tan uniform that it looked painted on. She had curly auburn hair that hung down to her shoulders and the steely blue eyes of either a stone cold killer or paranoid schizophrenic. She did not rise to greet them or speak but leaned across her desk and pushed a transparent evidence bag containing a small piece of paper towards them. As she bent forward, Vince caught a glimpse of cleavage struggling to escape the casually unbuttoned shirt. He also noticed the large black pistol riding high on her hip. Vince disconcerted that he found himself turned on, covered his embarrassment by dropping his eyes to the proffered evidence bag and studying its contents.

Inside the bag was a piece of paper torn from a small spiral bound notebook and on it, written in a shaky hand, was the message, “If anything should happen to me, call Vincent Biondi,” along with Vince’s personal mobile phone number.

“So Mr. Biondi,” Megs intoned in her surprisingly whiskey edged voice, “what can you tell me about this note and what may have happened to Mrs. Stephanie Coign last night?”

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Pookies Adventures Continue in the Enchanted Forest and the Big Endive by the Bay.

A. POOKIE’S ADVENTURES IN THE ENCHANTED FOREST:

These are gloomy days. Moody skies cover the Enchanted Forest as the winter storms pass over the Great Valley. Threatening they may look, but they leave behind only a ceaseless cold drizzle and little silver droplets on the branches of the trees — the only bright spot in the muted and silent landscape. I assume the storms reserve their wrath for the mountains depositing layers of new snow to the delight of skiers and those who fret about reservoir levels.

My mood is bleak also. There are three daggers aimed at me now. My cancer of course, but also an enhanced threat of infection and a shut down of my ability to pee threatening irreparable damage to my kidneys.

Naida had a bad cold. We walk around the house with masks on, wash our hands constantly and I try to avoid touching places she has touched as though…well, as though a dread disease lurks there — which of course it does. As Rosanna Rosannadanna says, “It’s always something.” And, at my age, that is probably truer than ever.

My daughter Jessica is in San Francisco, thanks in part to the government shutdown and to attend a funeral she is hesitant to talk about. I am very excited to see her. It has been a long time, perhaps two years, maybe more.

(Note: As I type this, I am also watching a movie about Giant carnivorous rabbits attacking a town in the western US. This has got to be the nadir of my existence.)

During the past few days, a lot of the usual annoyances of life sped by — towing my car and the rush to get it out of the pound, confusing discussions with pharmacists and medical professionals, and so on. Naida remains sick, Trump remains not my president, life continues as it usually does until it doesn’t, and I find myself unusually bored. But, tomorrow is another day (Scarlett O’Hara).

On Sunday, my daughter Jessica arrived. She drove up from San Francisco to see me. Seeing her after almost three years made me very happy. It has been too long. She looks well. She’s recovering from a series of concussions she experienced playing soccer over the years. The concussion injury to her brain caused several perception and other problems. We talked about our various maladies and other things. He Who is Not My President’s governmental shutdown has had one good result, my daughter, furloughed by the shutdown, was able to return to California and visit with me.

It is now Tuesday night. What I wanted to write here since that time has passed on from when I thought it important or at least depressed enough to think so. It appears another of my medicines had caused an allergic reaction that resulted in me wanting to simply give up. It has passed.

I don’t often give up. Not giving up has always been important to me. In the almost incessant fights I found myself in during my youth, I would not give up no matter how badly I was beaten. And, I was beaten most of the time.

During my years as a trial lawyer, I asked only to be assigned cases no one in the office would touch because they believed those cases were losers. I still managed to amass the third longest string of consecutive victories at the beginning of a career in the history of New York (while also losing my marriage because of my obsession).

I refused to be daunted by opposition from the medical profession and my own colleagues in setting up NY’s Mental Health Information Service that reformed NY’s mental health hospital system from the horror it inflicted on my mom and innumerable others. It became the model for the nation. That agency still exists today.

There was no option for me other than the approval of California’s Coastal Program as it was expected to be, and the successful establishment and financing of the innovative California Coastal Conservancy no matter the cost to me (another marriage) and to those that worked for me. That occupied 13 years of my life.

The same can be said for the law firm on whose management committee I served and obsessively fought against often unanimous opposition to alter the economic and social mores of the firm for the benefit of the workers, women attorney’s and the firm as a whole by, among other things, demonstrating that the health and profitability of the firm did not depend solely upon the efforts of those with the largest books of business who inevitably end up plundering the firm for their own benefit. The health of a firm depended as much upon the lowliest of paralegals and junior partners and that balanced practice groups are necessary in order to weather the effects of the various business cycles and that those groups adversely affected by a business cycle should not be punished by those groups benefiting from the cycle (e.g., bankruptcy and real estate often operate on opposing cycles).

As a member and later Chairman of California’s High Speed Rail Commission during a period when it appeared to be foundering, I put it back on track so to speak, by pushing through its EIR, changing its tendency for locating its stations at the edges of the cities to bringing them downtown where they would revitalize the communities, developing the concept of the HS network as a backbone transportation system for California whereby multiple regional transportation systems could connect to the downtown stations and service the entire region; and finally fighting against the rapacious efforts of the four of five large engineering firms who sought to control the process for their own benefit and who, I believe, can be blamed for much of the criticism HSR has been subject to since I was removed by Governor Schwarzenegger over the issue.

On the other hand, when I lost (most often a marriage), I usually ran away and started again and again somewhere else. From New York to Pennsylvania, to Rome Italy, to back to the US, to San Francisco, to Thailand, to The Golden Hills and now to the Enchanted Forest. In each place, often penniless, I licked my wounds, struggled with despair, indulged in excess and dreamed of renewal, a new life somehow somewhere, and ultimately I moved on. There was, however, even during these times always something I could not give up on, first Jason, then Jessica and now HRM. I may not always have been successful in their view, but I tried and they kept me more alive and happy than I am sure they believe I have benefitted them. But no more now, they are grown (perhaps not HRM) and despair now is reserved for those times when the pains and discomfort of my various maladies become too much and instead of not giving up, I sometimes long for the peace of oblivion.

Talk about depressing things, the HAC just towed our automobile again. I left them a nasty message and threatened to sue them.

B. UPDATE ON THE MYSTERIOUS ORB.

For those interested in the odd adventures of the Mysterious Orb, it has moved slightly from when it emerged from the bush behind which it had been hiding to show Nikki the way to our house. It has now rolled on a short way and appears to be intending to hide behind another bush to await for whatever the orb waits for next.

It moved from its hiding place behind the smaller bush on the right where it had hidden for a few weeks to the center of the space where Nikki saw it. The Orb has since then moved on toward the bush on the left. Whether it will choose to hide behind that bush or proceed on up the alleyway, I can only guess. I await the next episode in the adventures of the Odd and Mysterious Orb.

The Mysterious Orb —Photograph Taken From Our Garage.

Today about four days after the above was written, the Orb made its decision and is now well hidden behind the bush on the left.

A few days later, during an early morning walk, I passed by the alley where the Odd Orb was hiding. I noticed one of the Turkey Gangs pecking around that part of the alley near where the Orb was hiding. It got me thinking. Do you suppose it is the Turkey Gangs that are moving the Orb around? The birds are big enough to do so. If so, why? Another mystery.

C. OFF TO THE BIG ENDIVE ON THE BAY.

First, we bailed the car out of impoundment. I grumbled and plotted revenge on those I believed targeted me specifically. On the drive home in response to my complaints, Naida said, “I guess we know now that there is a wicked witch in the Enchanted Forest.”

Then we spent some time on our computers doing last minute things. Finally, we and the dog set off to the Big Endive on the Bay. We arrived at Peter’s house in late afternoon. My daughter arrived soon after. We had a pleasant evening reminiscing. Jessica planned to leave on Friday to go back to Washington DC. I will be sad to see her go I do not know when I will see her again.

The next day I met with my doctor and received the first glimmer of good news in at least the past three months. He said that cancer had shrunk enough to bring the possibility of an operation to remove it before the board of surgeons. They then efficiently scheduled all tests and my infusion to occur the remainder of the day.

That night we had dinner at a local Italian Restaurant that I used to enjoy when I lived in that neighborhood years ago. It used to cost about $10 for the same meal I enjoyed that night. Now, that same meal cost me $70. Nothing had changed but the wealth of those that now live in the neighborhood.

Later, Hiromi and my granddaughter Amanda arrived at Peter’s house for a visit.

D. BACK TO THE ENCHANTED FOREST.

We returned to the Enchanted Forest on Friday. On Saturday I drove into the Golden Hills to drive the Scooter Gang around. While we were driving HRM turned to me with a big smile on his face and said, “Pookie, I have a girlfriend.” How does one respond to that? I settled on, “Good for you” and high-fived him. Now I worry.

Among the books I have read so far this month was James Lee Burke’s most recent Robicheaux and Purcell saga. The boys are getting old — and they know it. They still, however, act like adolescents while Burke places in their minds the sorrows and sadness of aging heroes approaching their end. Although, the novel takes place by Bayou Teche in Louisiana and Monument Valley Arizona, the epilogue has Dave, Clete and Dave’s adopted daughter Alifair recovering from their efforts and injuries in a motel in Bodega Bay California and traveling up and down Highway One for entertainment.

Alas, I just got word that Lucia’s bar in Sacile, a place I always considered the happiest place on earth, is no more. It has succumbed to the downsizing of the nearby American military base and the Italian economy’s multi-year depression. Lucia is now working as a barista in one of the other cafes in the town. This is all so sad.

I am losing my hair as a result of the chemo. Great gobs of hair flitter down from my head often falling into my food as I eat, making it even more unappetizing than usual. It all amuses me. If it continues I will become the first person in my direct ancestry to go bald in at least five generations. My head looks like it is covered with down.

hemothera

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Mopey’s Memories: NATIONAL WELCOME NEW IMMIGRANT’S DAY (Previously known as Thanksgiving). November 2018.

A. IN THE GOLDEN HILLS.

Thanksgiving Day brought with it an intermittent sun playing hide and seek with the rain. We had lunch in the Golden Hills with HRM, Uncle Mask, Adrian and N. I was surprised to see N there. She had come to California a few days before and will remain until late December when she will take HRM to Italy for the Holidays. The lunch featured a well-made ham with several toppings to choose from. I was a bit disconcerted because I had expected I would be minding H during Dick’s absence in early December but with N there, I expect that would not be necessary.

N and HRM

Later, we drove back to Sacramento for dinner with Naida’s Daughter Sarah, her family, and their two dogs, a black and white brindled standard poodle named George Washington and Franklyn Delano Roosevelt, a large mixed pit bull and retriever. We brought along Boo-boo, a mixed Chihuahua and whatever, who although he may have lacked the size and prestigious name of the other two dogs, by the end of the night had clearly acquitted himself as an equal.

Dinner included turkey with all the fixings and pumpkin pie and cheesecake for dessert. The cheesecake made by Sarah’s son Charlie, who happily explained to all of us the secret of making a perfect cheesecake — first rule “do not beat your eggs,” mix them slowly using only a certain rotation of one’s arms and shoulders. He then demonstrated the movement. It looked quite painful

B. POOKIE’S ADVENTURES IN THE ENCHANTED FOREST:

The rains have returned soft and gentle. The streets, lawns, and pathways in the Enchanted Forest glisten a brilliant red and yellow. Here and there pods from the Deodar Cedar litter the walkway like little banana slugs. For the first time, it seemed like autumn.

As usual, we attended the Saturday morning coffee at the clubhouse. Surprisingly, as many men attended this week as women. I sat a bit off to the side, observing as I often do. I could not help noticing the usual neatly coiffed hair on the spy who goes by the name “Ducky.” It always looks as though she just came from the hairdresser. Unlike most of us at this advanced age whose hair of various colors gone drab, interlaced with streaks or dreary grey, and winds about our heads like birds nests, hers, a brilliant white, sparkled like icy snow in the sunlight.

I decided to survey hands today. Most of the woman had long slender fingers gone knobby with age. The model’s fingers were the longest. Like many whose movements are often characterized as elegant, the tips of her fingers seemed to move as though they were independent of the hands to which they were attached. Naida’s hands, unlike the others, were the hands of someone who spent a life of a farm or a ranch, thick and strong.

I noticed while most kept their hands relatively still when they talked they would now and then gesture whenever they were making a point. Naida again was an outlier. Her hands flew about vigorously as she talked. She would not be out of place in Southern Italy. In fact, in Sicily, the Sicilians would consider her an uplifting and ebullient person before even hearing a word she had spoken. Alas, to these same people, her hand movements would appear to them as gibberish — meaningless noise. Americans use their hands while speaking only as punctuation. Without words it is meaningless. In Sicily, the gestures are words and have meaning independent of what is spoken.

We then returned to the house, Naida to work on her Memoir and me to write this. Later we walked the dog along the levee beside the American River. The setting sun shining through air recently washed clean by the rains lit up the autumn colors like fireworks.

On Sunday we sat around the house. Naida read to me sections from her memoir. As she read the words, my mind transformed them into scenes from a movie — the frightening 25 mile skate down the frozen Big Hole River; learning of her parents divorce; the comical introduction to her father’s new girlfriend; the infatuation of a 13 year old girl with her handsome uncle; the fight with her brother over a plate of macaroni and cheese; the dreams, the fears and the sorrows… It will be a wonderful book — a Little Women with real drama.

The Author at Work in Her Studio

Monday I had an appointment with my primary care physician. As he entered the examining room, I said, “Since my surgeons agree I am a dead man walking, I intend to go out happy, pain-free and without my bowels turned into cement. So, I need you to prescribe the pills that will allow me to do so.”

“We are from birth all dead men walking, ” he responded. “Nevertheless, I think I can provide what you need. I even know of something that relieves pain without constipation.” He added that he understood what I was going through because he has had two bouts of his own with cancer. Also, his seven-year-old child was struck with bone cancer and had to have his leg amputated below the knee.

Once again, I found myself embarrassed and humiliated by my misplaced sense of humor.

The doctor a youngish man, in his late thirties or early forties, is built like an NFL linebacker and specializes in sports medicine. At my prior visits to his office, I noticed a deep sadness in his eyes that made me wonder. Now I know why.

He prescribed a healthy supply of Xanax to keep my spirits up, a pain reliever that keeps my bowels lubricated and even a topical that eliminates the irritation caused by my clothing rubbing against the tumor. Finally, he explained that the most important thing he’d learned from his own experience with cancer was that one ought not to concern one’s self about the future but concentrate only on what needs to be done that day. In other words, take it one day at a time. I am not a fan of platitudes (unless they are my own, of course) but appreciated the effort.

C. TO SAN FRANCISCO AND BACK AGAIN:

On Tuesday we left for San Francisco to spend the evening with Peter and Barrie before my visit with the physician at UCSF early the next day. We brought the dog along with us because Barrie thought it would be a good idea to see how he got along with their dog, Ramsey.

That evening, leaving the dogs with Barrie, Naida and I went to a French restaurant on 24th Street where Peter’s trio was performing. They were very good, as was the food. Peter played bass, the leader of the group, guitar, and the third member, the violin. Peter told us he (the violinist) is or was first violinist in the LA Symphony. If you’re ever in the Noe Valley area on a night they are playing you should drop in.

The Boys in the Band.

The next day, I met with the oncologist at UCSF to explore potential treatment options including clinical trials. As usual, I began with an inappropriate joke. When the doctor entered the room and settled into the chair opposite me, I said, “Now that two surgeons have agreed that ripping out a part of my throat and slicing off parts of my body with which to fill the resulting hole was not advisable, what options are available to me?”

The doctor a youngish Korean-American oncologist with a national reputation was not amused. Nevertheless, after asking some questions he played out a treatment program that appeared to me to be promising if we could get the insurance company to approve it in a reasonable amount of time.

D. BACK IN THE ENCHANTED FOREST AND A VISIT TO THE RIVER OF RED GOLD:

On Wednesday, I rested all day and Thursday, I turned my attention primarily to a request of Terry’s that I am sure, as usual, will turn out more interesting than beneficial. I also received a call from my doctors that the insurance company approved my treatment plan and it will start early next week. Hooray!

If I have learned anything from life (I am pretty sure I have not), it is that that one learns less from success than from failure and it’s more interesting too. Also, behaving foolishly is a lot more fun than propriety could ever be.

On Friday, I accompanied Naida to Meadowlark Inn at Slough-house on the old Jackson Highway. There Naida had a luncheon with a small book club (about eight women). They discussed her California Gold Trilogy. Later we all went to the historical Slough-house cemetery several of the characters mentioned in her books were buried. Naida told some fascinating stories about the area — the Native American, Chinese and European settlers, the gold discoveries, the massacres and the private lives of the people buried in the cemetery that she had garnered from their diaries. She even found the grave of the old woman who had become her friend and whose diary had begun her interest in the area and became an important part of her books.

The Girls at the Cemetery.

Following that, we drove to the bank of the Cosumnes River in Rancho Murieta where the Indian village described in her books stood. She became quite upset when she saw that the great old mother oak, sacred to the Native Americans who were buried in the ancient midden that lay beneath its branches, had been chopped down by the developer (despite his promises not to.) We then walked along the river bank and explored the rocks containing many native grinding holes and the stepped stone platform where she was sure the natives gathered to listen to the orations of the head man whenever there was a festival or a party. Naida mentioned that the area was so productive that it has been estimated the average time native male worked (built things, hunted and so-on) was only 45 minutes a day and the average women 3 hours. It was a peaceful paradise that existed for over 600 years until it was utterly destroyed by European immigrants from the United State in less than twenty.

On the Banks of the Cosumnes.

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Mopey’s Memories: Ephemera and Is The Mysterious Orb Problem Solved?

A. POOKIE’S ADVENTURES IN THE ENCHANTED FOREST:

After three days, while on our late afternoon walk, we discovered the mysterious orb still there. Now, however, with a sign affixed to its surface announcing “Fountain. Free. Take it away.” Mystery solved, perhaps.

It is now three and one-half months since the growth on my neck first appeared and I went to my oncologist for the first time for a diagnosis. Since then, I have had a PET scan, two CT scans, four sonograms, three visits for biopsies, a stress test, two blood tests and at least 8 meetings with five separate doctors and I still have no treatment plan. Today, I am awaiting insurance company approval for a second opinion on the feasibility of surgery. During all that time, the swelling tumor on my neck has grown from an insignificant bulge to a goiter like bump and my diagnosis has gone from, “It is nothing to worry about” to “You’re probably going to die.” I am no longer amused.

Groucho Marx had a cousin from Argentina named Gaucho.

Days pass, I read a lot, watch the news on television, see the Niners lose again, spend too much time on Facebook — It is now Wednesday, I finally have an appointment scheduled in San Francisco at UCSF for my second opinion. Sometimes bitching and shouting works.

Thursday was a good day although the air quality made it better to stay indoors. San Francisco was reported to have the worst air quality in the world today because the smoke from the many fires in Northern California hung over the city like a dirty shower curtain. Sacramento was not too far behind. Nevertheless, I felt good today. Whether it was from the valium I had taken last night to help me sleep or something else I do not know. In the afternoon, I felt good enough to brave the hazardous air and drive into the Golden Hills to pick up Hayden and Jake. The Skate Park was closed because of the hazardous air-quality, so we went to the house where we discussed the possibility of the three of us driving to a Mountain Bike track somewhere in the mountains this weekend. After doing some research about the various trails, I left them to ruminate on the alternatives and returned to the Enchanted Forest.

Back at the house, I busied myself posting various articles on Facebook from two of my blogs, “Trenz Pruca’s Journal,” and “Papa Joe’s Tales, Fables, and Parables.” I was doing this because I wanted to increase the number of views this year to more than any of the Blogs’ prior years. At first, I was afraid to mention here in T&T how I spend several hours a day (at least four) because it might reveal me to be an insecure recluse desperately seeking recognition for what I feared were my inept and odd scratchings. Eventually, I convinced myself that it was no more than an obsession to “beat my record.” So instead of revealing my pitiful insecurities, I exposed one of my more idiotic neuroses which I somehow believed was less embarrassing. Anyway, for “Papa Joe’s” I passed my best year in early November. For “Trenz Pruca”s Journal,” it will be close to the end of the year before I know if I will succeed or not.

In any bureaucracy, all the work is done low on the food chain. Everyone else just holds meetings.

Last night, I dreamed a movie, actually two, one complete and one half-way through. This is not unusual. I have dreamt movies before. Usually, in my dreams, I enter one of the movie theaters I remember that existed on Fordham Rd. in the Bronx way back when I was going to college at the end of the 1950s. They were grand old Egyptian-Baroque buildings. In my dreams (and probably in real life) the theaters had deteriorated to become purveyors of soft porn and old movies. Strangely, in my dream, I had to go downstairs to get to the theater. The movie was an old one I had never seen before — a melodrama about two families going through various domestic crises. I woke up briefly half-way through the second feature but fell back to sleep almost immediately. The movie was still running but had now become a porn flick and I was an actor in it. This was notable, not because of the nature of my involvement and the vigor of my participation, but because I have not experienced such dreams for years now.

I awoke that morning with Naida caressing my arm as it lay across her body. It made me both happy and sad. Happy because it is so nice to wake up in the morning with someone who loves you and sad because I fear those mornings are going to end far too soon.

Those who observe well, dream well.
Friday was a non-event and then came the weekend.

At five o’clock in the morning, Naida woke up and said that she had to go downstairs to write something in her memoir — something about her approach to math as a child, a complex method that included fingers, beacons and musical rhythms ( the left hand did the rhythm and the right counted the repetitions). I went back to sleep and fell into a marvelous dream. I was somewhere in the Mediterranean, in a colorful small town by the sea. I was younger, a drifter and con man. My friend Blackie had engineered a scam that had gone bad. I was accused even though I had no part in it. A younger Isabella Rossellini, who was a princess of some sort, rescued me somehow. We laughed a lot and got naked. Then Naida woke me up to go to the Saturday coffee at the Nepenthe Club House.

The weekly Saturday coffee was usually attended by the older members of the community. Women outnumbered men more than two to one. Although each person sported a name tag, I never could recall names even after staring at the tags so, as usual, I gave them nicknames — the football coach, the two spies (one a man who was a senior executive in the State Department, the other a woman with coiffed white hair whose job prior to retirement was shrouded in mystery), the leader, the cute lady, the model (an eighty-year-old ex-model), the model’s husband the architect ( a 90+ year old architect of some renown) and others. There was also a mother-daughter duo that one could not discern who was the mother and who the daughter. They whispered and laughed together in the corner. Also, there is always a woman there, usually without a name tag, that attended to the refreshments. I do not know if she is a resident or an employee of the HOA.

The Leader, a large woman, selflessly devotes herself to the task. She feels quite distressed and obviously hurt if anyone challenges or disagrees with her, so we don’t. She opened a small roll-on piece of luggage that accompanies her everywhere, pulled out some papers and a small bell that she rings to call us to order. Then, she announces the events scheduled, calls for volunteers for the myriad of charitable activities planned to be undertaken and so on. After that, we clean up the clubhouse and leave.

Naida and I then went shopping and had lunch at Ettore’s where I choked on a piece of turkey breast and threw-up all over my plate.

The mysterious orb remains, in the gutter by the house. No one has claimed it yet.

B. A SHORT TRIP INTO THE SIERRAS:

On Sunday, we decided to escape the fire-caused air pollution and drove into the Sierra foothills. We drove to Jackson. There is a bookstore that sells Naida’s books. The bookstore has a Sherlock Holmes museum on its second floor with a room made to look like the great detective’s Baker Street residence. While Naida went into the store to discuss book things, I took the dog for a walk around the time. The little fellow got into a snarling match with a large pit bull. I admired his courage, not his common sense.

After that, we went for lunch a Teresa’s one of the better restaurants in the town. It always saddens me that so many Italian restaurants here and even in Italy have passed from the families whose food came from the techniques and recipes that their mothers develop to please the taste of their families who ate the food every day, to others whose recipes and techniques are often designed to lower costs and aspire only to being merely acceptable. If you are ever in Jackson you should stop for a meal at Teresa’s.

While there, I learned the story of how Naida got her name. It was not an uplifting story. It was as remarkable and as disturbing as the rest of her life.

We drove back by way of Ione. While passing through the town Naida told me about a friend of hers, an Indian woman, who was Dave Brubeck’s piano teacher when he was growing up there.

C. OFF TO THE CITY — THE BIG ENDIVE:

On Monday, we set off for San Francisco. Before leaving we drove to the kennel to board Boo-boo for the night. It took a little time because the person typing the required forms was blind. He had to lay one eye on the computer screen in order to read the form. Then, after saying a teary farewell to the dog, we left.

By the time we had reached Vacaville, the smog from the Forrest fires was so thick our lungs began to ache. We had coffee and a brioche there and then drove on into The City. Noe Valley where Peter and Barrie live was only slightly less occluded with the smog. They gave us some masks and we walked down to 24th street for lunch. After lunch, Peter and I went to Bernie’s for coffee. The air was too unbreathable to sit at the “Geezer’s Bench” so we sat at a table by the window drinking coffee and complaining about the pains and burdens of growing old.

The next morning, we went to UCSF for my appointment. On the way, as we passed the Ferry Building, Naida told me that at one time she worked with the State Department of Corrections on a massive study on the effectiveness of various parole alternatives on the recidivism rates of violent criminals. The results showed that nothing works.

I met with a Dr. Ryan for a second opinion on the possibility of surgery on my neck. The surgeon’s office was located on the fourth floor of a hospital in Mission Bay. Many years ago I had some involvement in the approvals for the development of Mission Bay. Precisely what, I do not remember. It now has become a hub or medical treatment technology. The cancer department impressed me. It is set up so that most of the diagnostic and treatment needs of the patient can occur in one place without the usual delays.

The surgeon was a youngish man in his mid-forties, dressed in a dark blue suit (He did not have a bow tie). Following the usual prodding, he confirmed the opinion of the previous surgeon that an attempt to operate would probably be fatal. The tumor had entwined itself around the muscle like a lover and pressing up against the artery. If he operated he would have to cut a flap of chest muscles to fold over the wound. He did indicate that all the tests done so far do not show that cancer had spread any farther and those other treatments may work. I then told him I was also looking into various trials including with one of his office colleagues that Terry recommended. He then arranged for an appointment with the doctor in a trial that focuses directly on my problem.

Although this was a somewhat more positive result and made me feel much better, I realized that I am effectively dead in the very near future should these treatments not work.

We drove home that afternoon, picked up the dog, watched some movies and prepared for Thanksgiving.

And on Wednesday the rains came.

Have a Happy National Welcome New Immigrant’s Day.

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