Nocturne

Life is a canvas we paint on each day, starting off with the brilliant sunrise of dawn, as we grow toward the nocturne of our lives, with the purple dusky serenade of night to come. We can paint our days as colorful as we wish; or we can end up with a muddy composition written entirely in the minor key. I miss my parents. Of course, one always does, when they have passed from this earth. Certain times of the year, or smells, sounds,- evoke an emptiness that can become palpable, if we don't get busy with our paintbrushes and make the memories bright and exuberant on our canvases, which I mostly always do. As Mother's Day approaches, I am missing my mom more than ever. I was very close to my dad, had a tumultuous relationship growing up with my domineering mother, yet as I have blogged before, became best of friends with her before she passed in 2002, a month short of her 90th birthday. I wrote the following persona poem nineteen years ago, and it was subsequently published in an anthology.

In a recurring dream, my father had died. I wrote this poem imagining my mother's voice, of what might come to pass when he did eventually die, out of empathy for the elderly condition. Several months later, my dad died suddenly, while on vacation.        

                                            NOCTURNE 

Another one gone, just like that, taken
as though stealing a gem,
no need for sirens anymore. 


We'd only played Gin two nights ago; 
I'd complained my arthritis was kicking up. 
She laughed at my excuses, then said, 
"I feel lucky." 


This photograph in black and white 
gives a flat, unreal image of 
the colors, the textures, of taffeta, 
chiffon, velvet and satin, 
we girls in our formals, with minks 
draped around us, the men in tuxedos 
with fresh boutonnieres. 


Martinis, Manhattans, Revlon's "Love That Red" 
lips, and matting the shine of callow skin 
before we took off in assorted pumpkins for 
The Nocturne Club. 


Saturday nights spent under a mirrored moon-ball 
that sprayed diamonds around the darkened room, 
as we danced to Glen Miller's 
String of Pearls...


Did I preen longer in the women's lounge 
because so many husbands flirted with me? 
They said that I looked like Loretta Young; I coyly 
blushed, under well-rouged cheeks. 


Now I look in the mirror, and only see Death, 
crooking his gnarled finger at me. 
In this time-worn photo, my eyes are as bright 
as my taffeta gown, of emerald green. 


"Four o'clock," I whisper, to the man in the picture, 
with his hand on my shoulder, and a smile 
that held promise. I pour the cocktails: 
A Manhattan for me, a Martini for him. The Big Bands play 
soft, in a minor key. 


"What a shame about Helen, so suddenly," he'd say. 
I stare ahead, nodding, 
and not toasting anything, wait 
for the liquor, like Novocaine.


(Copyright © 1993, and may not be reproduced in any manner.) 

Room For Rent - Great Location

It's been a sad couple of weeks for me. Two friends died within ten days of each other.

They were very different people, and, in fact, didn't much like each other. I, however, cared a lot about both of them - would even try to "promote" each to the other behind the scene, - to no avail. They were, if not oil and water, at least an annoying chafe upon the other's skin.

I'd known Patti for three years, finding a room for rent in her Pebble Beach home, where I'd first gone the summer of 2007 to escape the Scottsdale heat. We hit it off immediately, though I am sure, Leo that I am, and very loquacious, I talked far too much for her more quiet demeanor. And I was in a state of semi-angst over my now-ex "boy toy," as I called him. That in itself is funny, since although he is ten years younger than I am, he is no more a "boy" than I am a "teenager." However, we had this weird love/hate dramatic relationship that would drive us individually and jointly crazy, but both being fire signs (him, an Aries) there was that pull, and the thrill of each making the other feel ALIVE. Even if at times it was but a mere tumultuous existence.

I bent Patti's ear a lot that summer, and though patient and kind, I was aware that many times she would rather be filing her nails or pulling weeds in the yard than to be listening to a repeat of something she'd undoubtedly heard before. But we forged a friendship based on similarities and differences, which, after all, is what relationships consist of, right?

She had been divorced from a husband who for all intents and purposes had traits that could have been my ex-husband. Patti, however, had found her true love early-on following her divorce, and they had shared the last thirty-something years together. I, on the other hand, gave up a few years back. Partially due to the ex-boy toy's drama and immaturity and partially due to meeting several men who, although they may have had paunches, shiny heads, and steamer trunk-sized baggage, felt that because they may (or may not- it remained to be learned) have had a couple nickels to rub together, they really deserved a juvenile Barbie doll arm-ornament. Much hot air + little substance = not for me.

But Patti and I had art in common, as well. She, having painted and owned an art gallery locally, and I, a painter. We talked art, recipes, life, and histories, other housemates (she rented 3 rooms out) and by the next year, when I returned for the second summer to her home, we had communicated by phone and emails several times over the eight months in between, and were genuine friends. I loved her, as I love all my friends, - for all that they are and all that they are not. They are perfectly perfect for my diverse circle, and valued equally.

This summer of 2008, the "boy toy" was in the past except for a lingering on-again, off-again friendship, so she was spared the angst, and thus, the earbending therapy sessions. It was a wonderful summer.

In 2009 I decided to rent up in Santa Cruz on the north end of Monterey Bay- my old stomping grounds, where I'd lived nearby for several years. But I visited Patti and stayed in touch frequently that summer, in spite of the 46 mile drive.

Having had several unexpected huge house expenses early this year, I was going to grit my teeth and stick out the triple-digit summer here, feeling I couldn't justify the money to go to California. It was to be the first of the past five summers, and I was not looking forward to it. As it turned out, I didn't have to. Due to an odd series of events, by the end of April, it was decided I would go after all, and stay at Patti's house again. It was cinched when she emailed me right before a trip to the "Drink Local Wine Conference" in Virginia, in late April, saying, "It's been a very mysterious year. Your room is empty! It seems to be waiting for you..."

Now let me explain the living situation at that house. Patti designed and had the house built in the 70's. She claimed she didn't anticipate or even give a thought to the perfect set-up for future rentals of having one wing to the right separate from the rest, and with 3 bedrooms, two of which had their own outside doors, and a separate common entrance as well. It was to keep her three young kids in their own wing. Worked out perfectly, and the funky house of mixed colors and eclectic style in serious need of some updating sits in a neighborhood of multi-million dollar houses and mansions, within eyesight of the famous 17 Mile Drive, and the Bird Rock scenic viewpoint. Even in this bad economy, it, too, is well over two million dollars in value. As is.

So three rooms are always rented out, and often to not the most harmonious of housemates. The first year, Vince, a beer-guzzling, Dinty Moore Beef Stew out-of-the-can eating creep flushed a can top (Dinty Moore?) down the toilet and caused major plumbing bills. Much to the disgust of the young Jehovah's Witness housekeeper, Emily, he would have loud drunken sex in the other housemate's room. Gratefully, I was never present in the house at the time, finding out the following summer. I only agreed to come back the next year on the firm assurance that they were both gone, not even having been privy to this newly-divulged information.

The next year one room was occupied by a man who was never there, and the other by a former "Four Freshmen" singer (a group from the 60's). He was a little odd, but nothing I couldn't handle. It wasn't too bad, and a far cry better than the previous year.

This past summer, there were two new roomers: Sue, a Taiwanese-American who teaches Mandarin Chinese at the DLI (Defense Language Institute, Monterey), and Richard, a fellow-Leo, colorful large personality (understandably, being a male Leo!) former opera singer/stage performer, married (several times) divorced older man. His constant humming and singing - Patti had warned me ahead of time - will "drive you (me) crazy!" But it didn't at all. He was sand rubbing skin to Patti, and he didn't really like her, either. Richard was a talker, which, as mentioned earlier, Leos have a penchant for. The first time he caught me upstairs in the kitchen and started telling me about his life story, making me his captive audience for an hour, Patti had come up and interrupted him in a lightly chastising manner to give me, she later confided, an "out."

But I was captivated by his stories, his colorful past as an opera singer, stage performer, and so much more, and welcomed the opportunities to hear more. We fell into an unplanned friendship, though I'm sure he would argue that it was not a "friendship," as he shunned them. My entire birthday week he sent me a new email card every single day, and when that week was over, I missed the daily notices terribly. He would go to this little bakery he found with a Russian woman who baked fabulous chewy cookies with raisins and nuts and cinnamon and spices and bring some for me. Reluctantly, - let's face it - it was a struggle - he would accept little offerings from me once in awhile. Food, afternoon coffee, and so forth.

He took me out for crab cakes and mojitos on my birthday at my favorite place for crab cakes, The Fish Wife. We went to hear a 95 year old pianist (amazing) play, to an "Arias in August" performance in Monterey, where I met a new friend, to hear a wonderful guitar player he'd known for years. Sometimes he'd slide a New Yorker magazine cartoon under my door. His presence was so felt, so immense, that when he went away for a couple days, the house seemed cavernous.

Patti was ill. She went for tests and found out she had stage 4 brain and lung cancer on July 28th. On August 15th, her mate took her to the hospital in the middle of the night, where I visited her often. Some days she was smiling and chatting, joking about her balding head, only to be at death's door the next visit. The prognosis was not good. I prayed and cried often, but I feared in my heart, as Richard had told me, that it wouldn't be long.

I last saw her at the hospital on September 10th. When I'd rounded the corner into her room, there was a man in a suit, sitting up close to her, next to her bed, handing her a tissue. Unseen, I'd gone to the nurse's station, to learn it was the chaplain. After waiting for nearly 40 minutes, he came out and I asked him if it would be better I not go in. He said, "She's very quiet today, but she had some things on her mind. I think she would be happy to know you'd come by." I went in to find her sitting up with a tray of horrible-looking food in front of her, staring into space. "I know you're very tired," I said, "but I just wanted to let you know I'm thinking of you."

She insisted I sit down. It was the only time Roc was not there; she was alone. I told her that it was no wonder she wasn't eating that awful looking food, the macaroni was more orange than any pumpkin I'd seen. She laughed, perked up, and we talked and laughed for another fifteen minutes, until her son came in. "I'll be back," I said, "I love you," kissing her forehead as I'd always done before I left. Two days later she was moved to a "rehab" (as she was told) - hospice, where she died on September 20th.

Richard was not at the house when I left to drive back to Arizona on September 17th, having been gone the entire week to visit his brother-in-law. Sue was not there, either, as she would get home late, go to work early, and leave Friday after work to drive to LA every single weekend, where her family was, coming back late on Sunday night. Patti's mate, Roc, was never home, living by her side since she went into the hospital. The house was as empty and sad as my heart felt, leaving for what was probably the last time, checking the tomato plant once more, bagging up food for Richard, sticking my shiny birthday bow and candle he'd attached to my door a month earlier on his.

The day before I'd left, I was upstairs watering Patti's indoor "topsy turvy" huge tomato plant - something she'd always asked about every hospital visit, worrying that it would die in her absence (I assured her, it would not. I was taking good care of it), and I picked off some notes on the old piano, not knowing why the melody had been running through my mind. Uncertain, although I had taken eight years of piano, but tentatively striking the E, D-Sharp, E, D-Sharp, C-Sharp.....I found the melody on nearly the first try, even with the three-plus decades since my lessons. The words running through my mind
Common sense may tell you
That the ending will be sad,
And now's the time to break and run away.
But what's the use of wond'ring
If the ending will be sad.................?

What, indeed. I knew that the ending would be sad, is always sad, because it's an ending. I've always had trouble letting go, and since my marriage ended, I'd become the "Queen of Letting Go," having had many losses in my life. But still, it wasn't easy. It never is.

I had said to Richard that I wanted his number- that we needed to stay in touch. He told me no, that I would never hear from him again. Since he had quite the sardonic and often sarcastic sense of humor (which Patti neither "got" nor appreciated) I only half-believed him. We were friends, for godssake. We shared our stories, histories, sat down to eat together, visited each other's rooms, amused and sometimes annoyed each other (me him mostly; it was his nature). Surely he couldn't mean such a thing. I knew he liked me in spite of his curmudgeonly ways. He'd shared his typed book of letters to and from whom I believe to be the love of his life, in Australia. I'd listened to his CD's and tapes with him singing. He had carved a place in my heart. Surely I had done the same. You don't simply shun friends. Do you?

After I came home, Patti died within two days. Richard emailed me a few times to tell me of it and catch me up on the news or lack of at the house. He planned on staying till the end of the year, then heading on to another place up in the Bay area, ever leading the nomadic lifestyle. He once told me, "I do as I please," and he truly does.

He was due to have retinal surgery soon, and I sent him well wishes. I didn't hear back, so after a few days, I wrote him again, telling him that his "JM" as he named me (Jewish Mother) needed to know all was well. Still nothing.

Several days ago I got a notification from Hallmark that an e-card had been sent, and one that he opened it the next day. (Before I came home, I'd sent a couple spaced cards for fun and forgotten about them.) Still no word.

On Wednesday of this past week, I sent out a notice to several of my email contacts of my upcoming radio shows and guests for this week, something I haven't done for awhile, though I had in the past. Richard had said he liked my shows, that I was a good interviewer. I felt proud at the time, and realized that his opinion carried weight I'd not considered before. He was on the list of names I'd sent the notice to, and I received an email on my Blackberry as I was leaving my chiropractor's office late that day saying simply, "Please......as previously indicated. No more emails." It was from Richard.

I felt crushed, but it wasn't until I got to my mailbox several minutes later and found a letter from him that the harsh reality of it all started sinking in. I put the letter next to me on my bed, and turned on TV, got on my laptop and started answering email. I couldn't even open it for a long time, but when I did, the immediacy of tears rolling down my face shocked me all the same. It started off: "Dearest, darling, delightful, intelligent, Queen Hostess of the Blog Radios Shows and all around superior human being - of endless facets of human accomplishment- those facts being clearly established - I am writing to say that you do not need another friend...."

The utter arrogance, to tell me how many friends I "need!" Richard has cut off friends, business associates, even his children and grandchildren. I should have expected nothing more. It seemed the only precious few who remain in his life were former lovers, so I would not be kept. I was hurt and angry all at once. Mostly hurt, as the realization that I'd lost not one, but two friends in the space of ten days set in. Both had died. One who wanted to live and fought death all the way, and the other who pulled the trigger himself. In the end, it matters little how. Both are dead.

In 1964, it took but thirty minutes of collaboration between Jules Styne and Bob Merrill to write the song that became Barbra Streisand's first Top 40 song:
People
People who need people
are the luckiest people in the world....

I am unashamed to say: I need people. I love people. My heart has been beat up many times, sliced open, dashed to the ground, and yet it remains open, and so it can be filled again. That which is sewn up and sealed shut, can never be full, can never be healed. And that is a sad waste of life and love.

Two people dear to me have died, - one by inches, and the other by design, and I am sad. Very, very sad.

Yet I can say, and mean it: "I am," as the song goes, "the luckiest person in the world!" I will never have "enough" friends that I can add no more. And, like my late dear friend, Patti, I will always have a room for rent. In my heart.

Grateful Attitude, Bountiful Life

"The Secret of health for both mind and body is not to mourn for the past, not to worry about the future, nor to anticipate troubles, but to live the present moment wisely and earnestly." - Buddha

I love going to the farmer's market. The Wednesday afternoon market in Santa Cruz is like a flashback to the 70's - a plethora of tie-dyes, dreadlocks, Birkenstocks on dusty-footed hippie types, mixed with the thinkers, the artists and poets. There are homeless or just plain hungry who stand in front of the offered "samples" plates at each booth, spearing one after another cut piece with the same toothpick, though the signs clearly state the practice is unacceptable. The age range is as wide as the social class, but everyone is there to partake of the bounty.

Saturday's market, in Aptos, is a different crowd, a more "white bread" type - or at least few to none are vagrant in appearance. Saturday morning shoppers are generally of a more established social status, with families, children in tow, couples, and many silver-haired, but exceptionally spry, heading down or climbing the hill where the canopied stands cover three full tiers on the fairly steep grade.
There is a wide variety of offerings: fruits, nuts, vegetables, fresh local eggs, orchids, herbs, cut flowers and outdoor plants. Welcomed hot coffee stands, oysters and fish, fresh roasted corn on the cob, local applewood smoked ham and bacon are favorites, as are baked goods from two friendly competitors. Pottery, hemp bags and motley assorted other goods one wouldn't expect at a farmer's market are found. A van that says "The Peace Mobile," with a woman holding a sign that reads "Hands of friendship to Cuba" is parked next to "The Farmer's Market String Band," playing very non-Latin, but rousing Cajun Zydeco. One can always find at least one petition to be reviewed, local mountain honey, and the mushroom man, with an array of the ordinary to extraordinary fungi. It is, simply put, an aphrodisiac to all one's senses.

Today I have parked at the top of the hill, and walked down, instead of my usual opposite routine. I realize the error of my judgment, as I climb the path with heavy tomatoes, melons, sweet corn, and my weekly purchase of individual quiches Normandy, from Sweet Elena's Bakery. A bag seems about to lose it's flimsy plastic handles, so I stop and sit briefly on a rough log bench on the top of the hill under a stately old conifer, where two very loud and very angry squirrels are in the midst of a disagreement.

As I attempt to adjust and reallocate my purchases, I notice a very elderly woman making her way up the long inclined path in my direction. She is carrying cellophane bags with 3 orchid plants in one hand, and a large overflowing basket in the other. The hand grasping the orchid plants is also resting on a gnarled walking stick that she is using to help pull her up the grade.

I am contemplating offering help, alternating with a little voice that tells me no, she does this every week. She wants to do it herself. As my inward debate continues, a Santa Claus bearded man with a bald head on top, save thin side and back-of-the-head hair coaxed into a very skinny four-inch ponytail overtakes her, momentarily exchanging pleasantries, a laugh, and a quick pat on her shoulder. He is bent at the waist, in at least a thirty degree angle. He has a backpack full of his purchases, about three huge bunches of cut sunflowers in one arm, and a large arthritic dog as old as he is on a leash. A lady going down the hill in front of him drops her keys, and he immediately stoops the rest of the way to pick them up, handing them over with a smile and a, "Here you go! Beautiful day!" greeting.

It is, in fact, cold and gray with drizzly fog.

The woman with the walking stick arrives at my bench and I quickly scoot over, imagining she will rest for a bit . She doesn't. Instead, she smiles brightly and cheerfully calls over, "No thanks, honey. If I sit down I might never get up again!" and continues to the parking lot.

As I arise from the bench behind her, two teenagers are passing abreast of each other, and one bumps into me, offering no apology, but rather continuing a rant about too much work around the house and being tired, while his companion, apparently not listening, is saying, "Dude. They didn't even play a twenty minute set last night. Shit, man, that's seriously top of my diss list..."

A pine cone falls, hitting my head, and I look up to see my squirrel friends. They have apparently called a truce and they are close to each other on the same branch. As one squirrel scurries up the branch, the other, which I now see has only 3 legs, ambles gingerly behind him.

I turned another year older the day before yesterday. Though I'm not thrilled to see the years now passing at warp speed, I am grateful that I am aware that they do. Whenever I need a gratitude check, God and the universe speak to me, and to us all. One only needs to listen. The voice is loud and clear, and never wrong. It says one word: "attitude." It is up to each of us to turn that word into "gratitude" by remembering every single day how very much we have to be grateful for.

I like to remember it as once being just an "attitude," fused with "great" and "grateful" (GR)

GRateful +Attitude = Gratitude

It is a beautiful day, as the bent man called out a few moments earlier. A perfect day.

Carrots, Eggs, and Coffee

A dear friend sent me this today. She is a wonderful, loving person who has recently gone through courses of debilitating chemotherapy for stage 3 ovarian cancer. It was a surprise to find she had it; she'd had a "complete hysterectomy" years earlier, only to find that her doctor had, in fact, left one ovary.

We pick each other up, mostly me her, as I have been blessed with an optimism that has seen me through near death, breast cancer, and many other challenges in life.

What she sent is so true, and so thought-provoking, I want to share it with everyone:

Carrots, Eggs & Coffee


A young woman went to her mother and told her about her life and how things were so hard for her. She did not know how she was going to make it and wanted to give up. She was tired of fighting and struggling... It seemed as one problem was solved, a new one arose.

Her mother took her to the kitchen. She filled three pots with water and placed each on a high fire. Soon the pots came to boil. In the first she placed carrots, in the second she placed eggs, and in the last she placed ground coffee beans. She let them sit and boil; without saying a word.

In about twenty minutes she turned off the burners. She fished the carrots out and placed them in a bowl. She pulled the eggs out and placed them in a bowl. Then she ladled the coffee out and placed it in a bowl.... Turning to her daughter, she asked, "Tell me what you see."

"Carrots, eggs, and coffee," she replied.

Her mother brought her closer and asked her to feel the carrots. She did and noted that they were soft. The mother then asked the daughter to take an egg and break it. After pulling off the shell, she observed the hard boiled egg.

Finally, the mother asked the daughter to sip the coffee.. The daughter smiled as she tasted its rich aroma. The daughter then asked, “What does it mean, mother?”

Her mother explained that each of these objects had faced the same adversity: boiling water. Each reacted differently. The carrot went in strong, hard, and unrelenting. However, after being subjected to the boiling water, it softened and became weak. The egg had been fragile. Its thin outer shell had protected its liquid interior, but after sitting through the boiling water, its inside became hardened. The ground coffee beans were unique, however. After they were in the boiling water, they had changed the water.

"Which are you?" she asked her daughter. "When adversity knocks on your door, how do you respond? Are you a carrot, an egg or a coffee bean?"

Think of this: Which am I?
Am I the carrot that seems strong, but with pain and adversity do I wilt and become soft and lose my strength?

Am I the egg that starts with a malleable heart, but changes with the heat?
Did I have a fluid spirit, but after a death, a breakup, a financial hardship or some other trial, have I become hardened and stiff?
Does my shell look the same, but on the inside am I bitter and tough with a stiff spirit and hardened heart?

Or am I like the coffee bean? The bean actually changes the hot water, the very circumstance that brings the pain. When the water gets hot, it releases the fragrance and flavor.

If you are like the bean, when things are at their worst, you get better and change the situation around you. When the hour is the darkest and trials are their greatest do you elevate yourself to another level?

How do you handle adversity? Are you a carrot, an egg or a coffee bean?

May you have enough happiness to make you sweet, enough trials to make you strong, enough sorrow to keep you human and enough hope to make you happy.

The happiest of people don't necessarily have the best of everything; they just make the most of everything that comes along their way.

The brightest future will always be based on a forgotten past; you can't go forward in life until you let go of your past failures and heartaches.. When you were born, you were crying and everyone around you was smiling.. Live your life so at the end, you're the one who is smiling and everyone around you is crying for losing your bright light from their lives.

And hope that once their tears are shed, they, too, will once again be smiling at remembrance.

Let us all be coffee!