Ann Shields on Letting Go

Blogger's Block Cracked Open

I have been avoiding my blog for weeks.  Call it blogger's block.  I get focused on a topic and then get sidetracked.  Or I procrastinate due to life insertions.  Like doctor visits and a new computer and college graduations and dentist stuff. 

Inspiration struck me to blog on the first weekend in June when the anniversary of DDay captured our attention.  We watched the three hour documentary on the History Channel of the Battle of the Bulge and right in the middle Des spotted his brother, Ep, who was killed in Belguim but first wounded on Omaha Beach on DDay.  We froze the frame, played it back and forth, and then I photographed it with my digital camera.

That documentary swept our memory  back to our visit to Ep's memorial in Belguim in 1994 where we walked the road he traveled in the little town of Soy along side the man who found his skeletal frame under dirt in his father's field.  Ep, as you may have heard from us before, was buried under a German tank and wasn't discovered for four years, after the war ended.  It was a chilling, somber walk on that same country road.   We felt it again as we viewed the documentary.    Des is certain it was Ep.  He sure had a sweet smile.  Much like his younger brother's, I think.

Nostalgia captured my attention during the June 14th graduation ceremonies at UCSB of our grandson, Matt Weber.  I remember sitting in that audience when his mother Judith graduated from there.  So did his father, Joe.    Sat there again not that long ago to see granddaughter Suzanne graduated there, as well as her boyfriend Ryan, now her husband.

The day of the graduation was remarkable especially after the ceremony while sitting in an Italian restaurant on State Street in Santa Barbara with 18 others including great grandson Lucas to realize that I was surrounded by all of my immediate family, minus one.  Des wasn't up to the challenge of the day physically and I missed his presence, but it was a joy to be amonag the rest of my kids, grandkids, their mates and Lucas.  I really meant to write about that.

 Every third week of June for 18 years, I drove up highway 101 to settle in at the blue tile roof of the Miramar where I spent a week at the Santa Barbara Writers Conference. I learned more about writing and people and how the rich and famous and not so famous are more like the rest of us than we ever imagined.  I loved that conference, missed it after I quit going.  The excitement in those weeks was palpable.  The conference meets somewhere else now.  The Miramar is  history and just as well.  The place held secrets  dying to come out.  I could write forever about those weeks.  Don't tempt me.

So, now you know why I haven't blogged for a few weeks, but I think the blocked is cracked open.  This has been a heavy weekend with Michael and Farah and Ed  dying.   Sad for so many  But what luck for that  governor in South Carolina who defected like some idiot schoolboy for the sake of lust/love/insanity to have his folly erased from the headlines by the untimely death of a world icon.

So says Sassy

Wading Through the Albums

Decluttering continues at our house.  But compared to photo albums, the books were a snap.  I tackled a book shelf in one room that I thought just had cook books.  Turned out they were full of all the old photo albums that became mine when my mother died in 1989.  Tons of old photos, with people I no longer knew without her input.  Now what to do with them. Who are these stiff looking people in sepia tones with side burns and mustaches, a foot resting on a pillow?  My father, I was told, at his confirmation ceremony. How weird is that? 

Sitting on the floor as I go through some of these albums, I get caught up in memories and find myself stuck in another era.  See my skinny, balding paternal grandfather and remember how he said I had eyes like a bug.  Oh, and there is my old girlfriend Dinah, who's parents tried to bribe me to get Dinah to go to the synagogue.  She rebelled, while I was rebelling against going to Catholic Mass.  The age of rebellion.  Later grade school pictures caught my daughter with braids and a black eye.  I can't remember how she got it now.    My son's picture with a crew cut and a bow tie, his arm around his sister.  A sweet picture.

When grandchildren enlarged our family, we followed them around like thirsty papparazzi.   Digital cameras made picture taking a snap.  Now, besides the albums, we have CD's of pictures piling up in every nook and cranny.  At my granddaughter's house, a slide show of photos captivates me. How do they do that, I wonder, but don't dare ask.  Since I am already in line to get my new computer up and running by grandson by marriage when he finds the time from his busy life.  Moving photos are low priority.  I still need instructions on getting my blue tooth operational, after all. 

As a young mother, I used to love to visit my mother in Van Nuys, pull out her old albums and reminisce.  Added to my own collection of photos now, the collection is overwhelming.   When the family comes over mid June, I think I'll add the photo albums to the books spread out on tables up for grabs in the back yards,

First, I have to quit waltzing through memory lane among the albums.  Besides, there's a box of old letters begging for attention.  I spotted a post card written in Italian to my maternal grandmother, postmaked 1906.  How cool is that?

I hear a voice in the wilderness as I write this.  It is Des  asking me to help him plant some corn in the back yard.  Reality wins over fantasy every time. 

So says Sassy

Books 'R Us

My name is Ann aka Sassy and I am a book-aholic.  What is more, I seem to be powerless over this addiction.  Every room has books on shelves, against the wall, on top of side tables.  Well, you get the picture.  It must stop. 

So far,  I am avoiding Barnes and Noble, deleting all email offers from Borders and Amazon and ignore the supermarket aisles that have added books to tempt me.  Now I have to reduce my collection of books.  My daughter will be down from northern California in June for grandson Matt's graduation at UCSB.  Her daughter, Elle, will be around then too.  They are book lovers.  Of course.

What's more, my thrifty daughter has a library card and uses it.  She, unlike her mother, is not drowning in books. 

So here's the deal.  Daughter and granddaughter will browse my books and take some away.  I told this to my son who lives in our town and he confessed that he might like some of my books, too.  Yes!

Where to start gathering up the books.  Surely, I can't give away the books that are signed by the authors.  I have many of those, collected over the years while I attended the Santa Barbara Writers Conference every third week in June.More than the signatures are the memories attached to them.

When Joan Collins signed one of her novels I told her I was a handwriting analyst and couldn't wait to check out her strokes.  She stared me down and said, "You little sneak." 

I loved meeting columnists at the conference.  My favorite Los Angeles Times columnist was Jack Smith.  When I told him I read him every morning in bed, he wrote in his book "Jack Smith's L.A., "For Ann Shields, Hope You Still love me in the mornings,  Jack Smith.    The next year, San Francisco columnist Herb Caen signed "One Man's San Francisco, " to me by writing, "For Ann--A memorable night in old Santa Barbara! Warm regards, Herb Caen.  I could make up a great story about these guys, being the fiction writer that I am.

Then there are books signed by Charles Schulz, a couple of them with a heart drawn by his very own hand.  The very hand that created a world of round headed kids, plus Snoopy.  Nope.  Can't let those go.

How can I ever get rid of these book? 

Okay, I quit reading the signed books in one room and now have to hit the other shelves.  Maybe, I will spread them all out on a table in the back yard with a huge sign that says, "Take Me, I'm Yours."  It will pain me to get rid of favorite authors, such as Jody Picoult, Elizabeth Berg, Anita Shreve, and Ann Lamott.   Maybe I'll browse through some of them and if they don't strike my memory bank I'll hang on for another read.  See how sick I am?

I haven't even mentioned the memoirs that I am becoming infatuated with.  Got Julie Andrews, Barbara Walters, Frankie Laine, Charles Champlin, Barack Obama,  and on and on.  In fact, I want to get Larry King's memoir just out.  Oh, right.  Can't.  Well I'll just put it on my wish list.

Well, I have a couple of weeks to traumatize myself by paring down the book shelves.  Meanwhile, my Ventura son better get a head start on the northern congregation coming in June.  Maybe there is something here for Lucas, the center of our universe,  too.  Can't start him too soon on his great grandmother's addiction.

So says Sassy

Cats and Commandos

Our cats brought in a baby possum yesterday, sneaking it through the porch, past the kitchen and into the garage where they studied it with suspicion.  I noticed this intense scrutiny and freaked out.  Grabbed the broom and dust pan, yelled for Des and hopped around while the possume curled up into a lifeless ball.  Playing possum, I deduced cleverly.

Des came galloping into the scene, grabbed the broom and dust pan and scooped the baby up while our cats looked deflated.  I know I am supposed to praise them for this present, but just muttered - good cat - while Des disposed of the body.  By now he was breathless and asking for a nitro to dump under his tongue. 

Today, the cats brought in a baby bird and managed to pull off the feathers in the garage before I caught them in the act, grabbed the broom and dustpan and took care of the disposal myself.  Didn't wake Des.  He gets too excited, especially when I am squealing.

This is not the first time the cats caused the breathless, fast heart rate for Des.  It often happens at night when we try to round them up from the back yard after dark.  Mitzi saunters in and Murphy hangs back to hide.  Sometimes we get one in and the other one sneaks back out.  Des stumbles around the back yard with flashlight and the cats laugh at him.  No, I don't hear them, but I can tell by the twitching of their whiskers.  Once in the house, the goal is to coax them into the garage where Des has made elaborate bedding for them on top of Sassafras, my Toyota Corolla.

I entice Mizie with sliced turkey meat from Von's deli because Mitzie lives to eat. The ritual begins when I enter the kitchen around 9, assuming they are already indoors, whereupon Mitzie saunters in behind me to rub against the backs of my legs while I slice up her meat.  Murphy has already disappeared with the foolhardy assumption that she will spend the night on our bed and has staked her corner.  Murphy lives for comfort, naps and her insatiable need to be carressed.

Get ready, I yell to Des who is surfing the Tube with the remote.  Now, He yells back?  Affirmative, I say, thinking I should respond military-like and say 'copy.'  So he heads for the bedroom to get Murphy whereupon he gathers her limp body into his arms while she plays possum and he heads for the garage door yelling at me to 'get ready, Murph is on the way.'  Mitzi follows me into the garage salivating for her treat, and we have a wild last minute struggle at the door because Murphy balks and hide under the table where  a brief struggle ensues.  Des is breathless and we shut the garage door with a sigh of relief.  I get the nitro and game is over.  Ocassionaly, there is no struggle and they wander into the garage together, not even looking back.

  Speaking of our military maneuvers, I learned something new the other morning at water aerobics.  As I came out of the shower and grabbed my clothes out of the locker, I noticed I had forgotten to bring underwear.  Gads, I gasped.  Well off with the wet suit and on with my jeans and blouse minus underwear,  As I walked past my fitness trainer I confessed that I didn't have on underwear.  She said, so you are going Commando and laughed.  Never heard that expression before.  Asked someone 40 years young than I am and they just laughed too. Clearly I am out of the loop.  Come to think of it, someone I know who used to be in the Green Beret said the other day that he never wears underwear.  A casual comment but whoda thunk it.  Now I am mulling over all our military guys traipsing through the desert and jungle,commando style.

Or are they putting me on?  Well, the cats outsmart us, so who knows?

So says Sassy

The Movies and Me

Saturdays meant going to the movies during my growing up years in Chicago.  The Biography and the Crest Theater sat across the street from each other in my neighborhood and sometimes my friends and I started out at one and finished the day at the other one.  Movies were my escape and fantasy.

I never missed watching the Academy Awards through the  years, except for one year when living with my extremely fundamentalist former in-laws who disapproved of movies in general.  I recall sacrificing the night to work on a correspondence course from Moody Bible Institue.  My fervor was short lived when I came to the conclusion that God didn't mind my movie watching after all.  I mean, surely He had bigger fish to fry, or catch in the Red Sea.  Excuse my mixed metphors.

Pressing the foreward button on this tale, while Des and I were good friends with Sheb Wooley, he starred in a movie, titled, The Purple People Eater.  What else?  So he invited us to his premier and made Des wear a purple cumberbund.  Seemed I was inching closer to my fantasy world.

This is all a prelude to my big news.  About 20 years ago I co-authored a book with someone we met in an airport in Mazatlan.  A former green beret and part of Special Operations, he told me about a mission he had been on in Viet Name that haunted him, troubling him with Post Traumatic Stress Disorder, among other things.  He invited me to write about it with him and I said as long as my name was somewhere in the credits.  No ghost authoring for me.

What ensued throughout these years has been a meandering relationship, a finished book, Escape From Hell, disappearance of my co-author for 8 years, and then his reappearance with a phone call from Mississippi asking me to send him a bio an picture of myself for the book jacket.  Huh?  What book?  Turns out that he managed to get the book published through First Books, and it was out there for the world to see.  Even on Amazon.com.

But that isn't the end of the story.  As crazy as it sounds, our book will be made into a movie, filmed in and around Winnemucca, Nevada where Doty, my collaborator, now lives.  Not only that, Richard Tyson, the actor you might have seen in Kindergarten Cop or Black Hawk Down, is Directing the film as well as starring in it.  The town of Winnemucca has embraced these guys and the project, along with the Nevada Film Commision, and  all kinds of serendipitous things are happening.  Doty is Executive Producer, and he said when the credits roll at the end of the film, my name will be given a credit. 

What has been most surreal about this is a day last week when Richard and Doty sat in my living room kicking around some of the scenes, then holding a conference call with a couple of guys who are writing the shooting script.  Richard drove up in an old pickup truck from Malibu where he lives with his wife and a 6 year old daughter.  Unpretentious to a fault.  I joked that I wouldn't mind having a cameo shot in the movie and Richard said I needed to know the director first.  Him being the director.

Back to Reality, there is a good chance the project will be finished before November 1st, under a different title from the book...that is being kicked around.  It might be released early next year, and so who knows where this will all lead.  Doty says his bucket list contains an invite to the Academy Awards, just to be able to sit in the audience and soak in the atmosphere.  Sounds good to me.

I have no idea what the 'rest of this story' is, but my daughter says I am a late bloomer. No kidding.

So says Sassy

Tomatoes 'R Us

Spring is upon us.  The farmer half of this partnership has been itching to plant something.  What prompted this surge to grow something edible is the two scraggly carrots that poked up through cracked dirt in a broken down wooden barrel clamoring for attention.  Des proudly brought these pitiful specimens into the house and the fire under the farmerwas lit. 

Off we went to Green Thumb the day before Easter to buy tomato plants.  Two pony packs with a total of eight plants.  They await planting in the back yard, while we have visited two doctors, a third awaiting to decipher symptoms of my erstwhile farmer.  His second soujourn to the Sleep Disorder Center  was kind of a bust, by the way.   We are waiting the results. 

That's what our cardiologist said today, while gazing at the bright green boots on Des' feet.  He had spray painted them green because the original tan got too dirty.  Said cardiologist asked him if he was making a statement, that after he pointedly mentioned Des was nowhere to be seen yesterday at our Easter Service at First Methodist.   Des said he was hiding under the bed.  It did sound plausible.

Meanwhile, we left that doctor with orders to come back for an ultrasound of his carotid arteries, plus another pro time test, and hopefully, the results of the sleep test. He told the doc that on the next visit his shoes would be tan..we just bought the spray paint at Lowe's on Saturday.

Now that he will be planting tomatoes soon, I agreed to order more tomatoes from the Farmer's Almanac Gardening Guide--2009.  The ad promised Italian Tree Tomato  guanteed to produce over 50 lbs of tomaoes per plant.    He thought we should get two plants, I opted for 4, but after talking to the pleasant sales person on the phone, I ended up ordering 8.. . What, she asked, not getting ten for just $2 more.  Sold, I said.  So in two weeks we will be inundaed with tomatoes, a veritable tomato factory in our back yard.

Here's the irony in all this.  Once the tomatoes overtake our lives, I will be boiling, peeling, freezing them for Spaghetti sauce.  Des has declared himself free of the bondage of Italian food.  He made me promise, after the first twenty years of marriage to have a sauce free life.  He can be cruel, you see. 

So what am I to do with all this red stuff coming into my life.I could open a stand at the end of our driveway, once the tomatoes proliferate.  Maybe lemonade on the side.  But at least I managed to talk him out of zucchini plants.  After several years of zucchinis overtaking my life, he switchd to green beans-- of the pole variety - and that enthusiasm hasn't abated yet.

The point of all this being that I am a city girl,  brought up in Chicago where our block had squares of dirt next to the curb where I played 'stick the knife' with the big boys when I wasn't shooting marbles to the consternation of my mother who disliked to see dirty knuckles on her only begotten child.  WE never had a garden, although a huge cherry tree in our back yard fed neighboring birds who took dainty bites and spit out the pits on the ground. .  My mother didn't take kindly to the birds either.  Ah, but she made the best spaghetti sauce this side of Rome.

Back to the beginning of this meandering tale, the next two weeks should bring us an avalanche of tomatoes, a plethora of diagnoses from the medical support team who keep us breathing, and a plan to work on our Christmas letter.  We never did get one out this year, and it is too late to send one on April Fool's Day.  I did intend to do that.  Maybe you'll get one by summer's end, after I have frozen gazillion tomatoes.

So says Sassy

The Morning After

The Sleep Study went off without a hitch last night.  Ryan, the father of Lucas, picked us up at 8:15 with his state of the art GPS to guide us to the hidden, under cover, sleep study office.  Very appropo, I thought.    Ryan and his GPSfound it without a problem.  Suggested we should get one.  You think? 

The streets were fairly absent any traffic on a Sunday night in Oxnard,  kind of spooky for my fertile mind.  The office was dark, we rang an outside bell and soon a technician let us in.  I could see by the look that Des and Ryan exchanged after seeing her that she passed the 'guy' test. So we left Des with his bag of jammies, two rice krispie bars and a large print Readers Digest, and he looked almost happy.  I went home to Mitzi and Murphi who looked around for Des.  They love him best. 

Did I mention that I don't like being alone all night?  Des blew me off on that confession.   Me a grown woman. Come on.  Well, I went from my parents' home to a first marriage at 19, single parent at 36 with two teen-agers, and then entered Des before the last kid left.  Never had to be alone except for a few trips Des took without me.  I put on all the outside lights, shut all the drapes and nestled into my cave with my cell phone and the neighbor's phone number at the ready.  Cowardly but I am Italian after all.  What wars did we ever win?

I fell asleep, awakened by the phone at 4:40 a.m.  The sweet technician telling me that she was going to wake Doyle up.  (that's his real name but he can't deal with it).  Okay, I'll be there, I promised.  She said he would be ready in 20 minutes.  Yikes.  I peered out the drapes.  It was dark out there.  Buck up, I told myself, but not before I let the cats in from the garage, made sure they couldn't go outside to torment the birds, got dressed, slunk into my car in the garage and headed out into the dark night, the moon a toenail sliver in the sky.  Translation...truly dark.  Turned on KCET f.m. and soothed myself with whoever talked to me as I headed for the last roundup.

Ran the doorbell and cute technician lets me in, leads me to Des who sat with his night bag on his lap while he let the two technicians tell me what a sweet man he was.  He forced one to give me her email address so she could get my blog.  You should hear how he builds it up, makes me all embarrased and shy-like while I thrust the email address into waiting hands.

Okay, we are now outta there, and he says he is hungry and would like a cup of coffee.  It is 5:30 a.m.  When we get home, I suggest, managing to get lost driving out of this sleep complex.  He spots a McDonald across Gonzales near WalMart.  He is sure they are open, but I am driving straight for the freeway.  He sighs.  Brightens up and suggest Carl Jr's by KMart, I drive into their driveway, only the drive thru open.  I think he considered banging on the door.  Addiction is a terrible thing to witness.

I will fix you breakfast, I promise, and head for home.  We pull in our driveway and even the cats don't make him happy.  Intent on his fix.  It is 5:45 a.m.  Okay, when the clock strikes 6 we will go back to Carl Jr's.  His smile lights up my heart.  I am a pussycat.  We wait for 6a.m as I am yawning pointedly.  No reaction.   I drive back to Carl Jr's and Des orders his usual.  Only one other lonely man sits in a booth.  He probably doesn't have a wife.  Thus endeth the night tale.

One digression:  Today Des is industrious, doing projects, I hear machines revving up, he is in the backyard , in the house, like a little energizer bunny.  At one point he hands me the phone for a call from Donna so I go back in my office for girl talk.  30 minutes later I come upon what looks like a crime scene out of CSI.  He is trying to stem blood from his wrist, and I am yelling what happened.  Turned out the drill he was using to drill something slipped and went into his wrist right next to the vein.  Why didn't you call me I said like any reasonably hysterical fiction writer, and he says,  "well you were busy, and I didn't want to bother you." 

What is left to say after that?  He truly is a sweet man, after all.

So Says Sassy

Rambling through the Brambles

Lately, most of my thinking has been done in fits and starts.  Our calendar is splattered with doctor visit, lab tests, physical fitness routines and intermittent lunches with friends.  Oh yes, also meal drops where the 'center of the universe' lives with his mother, father, one cat and one dog, plus a critter from another planet.  An iguana, I think.

Ocassionaly, I am ruminating on some idea that could work into a blog, but life interferes.  I get these flashes of wonderment.  Like, why is there no elevator in LA Fitness where I work out?  I mean, there are these winding stairs that go up to a sea of treadmills, but you have to walk up there to get to them.

Another why:  Why did my fitness guru quit last week to work for a totally out off the wall outfit dealing with automobiles?   Not fair. I have this irrationally feeling of having been dumped.  I complained about this to my husband who gave me this odd look.   

Another thing.  How come, just as I decide to get a library card and save money from my addiction to Barnes and Noble, when I read that they are think ing of cutting libraries in my town?  Well, not totally, but making some cuts.  Seems like I always come to the party too late.

Kind of reminds me of my penchant for catching on to the new fad, when it suddenly goes cold.  LIke when I finally went to mini skirts and fashion police decided to lower the hemline to midi's.  Not trendy enough, I guess, which when you realize that I once had a column on fashion for a very brief period in the L.A. Times, Ventura Section, may explain why that whole section got dumped along with the columnists.

Here's another puzzle.  Who are the mapmakes that give you instructions to a sleep center in Oxnard that you need to hire a private investigator to find?  My husband is scheduled for tests at a sleep center tomorrow night so we went for a trial run this morning to find the place.  Only got lost three times.  I can only imagine the nightmare of trying to find the place in the dark at 9 p.m. when we are to drop him off.  I say we because I have drafted Ryan, the father of the 'center of the universe' to take us to the center where we will dump 'Des the sleepee'  and where I will retrieve him on Monday morning at 6 a.m.

Reason for the aforementioned test is to see if he has sleep apnea.  I personally doubt it.  But I am considering slipping a tape recorder in his pajama pockets because his monologue during sleep is pretty interesting, just not intelligible.  Believe me, I have tried.  I finally gave up the night he said I was growing a tree trunk out of my back.  Never mind the psychological implications here.

To get serious now, I attended a memorial service this afternoon for  a church member who died after a four year struggle with ALS.  I came away with my faith soaring from the rembrance offered from his widow.  She must have been surrounded by angels holding her up while she stood on a celestial ladder.  Her eloquence, dignity, humor and solid faith in the face of her loss  was beyond awesome.  She is my new hero.

Now, I have to end this rambling and gather up a few things for my husband's sleep over.  I'm getting lonely already. 

So Says Sassy

 

Happy Birthday, Dad

My father would have been 100 years old today.  Sadly, he never made it past 64.  I think about all he missed in those intervening years.  Most shocking to him would have been to get a birthday greeting from President Obama.  He would wonder how come an Italian never got to be president when an African American made it.  He was pacified that JFK made it though, a good Irish Catholic guy.   He did gripe that I never brought home a nice Italian boy as a suitor.  Sorry dad.  I was partial to blue eyed blonds in those days.

He would have loved to meet his granddaughters, partial to the girls in the family.  He would always tell my daughter that someday she would be queen of the Rose Parade.  He was the male figure in her life who built her up, cherished her.    Well, at the same time, he would slip her some money not to tell my mother  that he sat in the car when they came to visit in order to listen to the race results coming from Santa Anita. A flawed guy. 

He was proud of his grandson, the first grandchild.  But he liked to tease him and sometimes his teasing could be on the mean side.  He wasn't good with boys, never had one, and happened to hate his father.  Good , meaty stuff for a psychiatrists couch.

On to the family tree, he missed knowing great grandkids.  Two girls, 3 boys.  And going into the next generation.

I am sure he would have gone crazy over Lucas who would have been his great, great grandson.  Luke would have won him over in a heart beat.  One happy grin and he'd be putty.  Lots to miss up on, Dad.

Too bad you didn't live to learn that you weren't a weak guy after all, not the no good SOB you you labeled youself in the aftermath and remose of a gambling fallout.  Addiction is what you had, like so many other 12 steppers, you might have learned about it, overcome it.  You were a great guy when not trapped in the secret life and frenzy of gambling.  Everybody loved you.  Good time Johnny.  How you loved to hear Bonnie Baker croon O' Johnny, O'Johnny, how you can love......"  My mother usually made a tart quip about that.

And, all in all, I know how much you loved my mother.  Your last words in the hospital in San Fernando Valley were about her.  You said you were worried about her, and I, in glib fashion, didn't comfort you with words like, Don't worry dad, I'll take care of her.  Instead, I said, 'she is strong, she'll be fine.'

Too often, we regret the words we never said.  Life is like that.  Lots of regrets.  But this one thing I know.  You loved us, you were kind to us and you wished you had done better.  But, don't we all.

Happy Birthday, Dad.  Your soft brown eyes always could melt my heart.

So Says Sassy

Cruise-Part One

First part of our cruise to the Mexican Rivera, began by train on Amtrak from Oxnard to San Diego where we boarded Holland America Ryndam vessel.  Road Runner picked us up at 6 a.m.  Bleary eyed, we waved farewell to  our cats.  Cats were bleary-eyed.  Des Teary-eyed.

As usual, in our serendipitous marriage, Des and I have two versions of cruising. 

His:  too long, misses his cats, 'is it over yet? asked in a plaintive voice', Knees hurt, Musical entertainment too loud--looks for cotton to  stuff in his ears at showtime.  Other times, can't hear too well and won't get a hearing aid.  Oh well!  But he is enjoying meeting new people, and hanging out with his best friend from Olympia, Ed Kenealy, and others from our church. The food is too fancy for his 'Jack in the Box' taste.  Asks me to interpret the menu, even though it is is English.  He was thrilled to find bread pudding on the menu, though.

Hers:  Glorious to have breakfast served in our room, dirty dishes hauled away like magic.  Great views, Went ashore on Mazatlan and Loreto, a charming Mexican village absent touristy traps.  Taken to Loreto  by a Tender...a misnomer.  Not tender...rocky, weavy, waves which pitched and tossed, but not my breakfast.   My friend promised I would be hauled into the Tender by two gorgeous muscular men who would drop me daintily from the moving platform onto the rolling deck of the Tender.  Since the crew and staff of the ship is comprised of mostly Indonesian and Phillipino men,  no big guys around.  Besides, who could see if they were gorgeous and muscular when you are shooting up prayers to the saints of all things hazardous.  On shore, walking on cobblestoned paths another challenge, but doable.  As for bargaining with local vendors, most overused expression was 'make my day.'  The plea to buy, buy, buy.  You bargain, they lower new price to a whisper and you must promise not to tell anyone.  Crafty guys. 

Entertainment on the ship nightly was mostly good.  We had CNN in our cabin where Anderson Cooper captivated the news junky in us, just like home  One night a fabulous ventriliquist who never moved his lips. Come to think of it, the dummy did it all. He assured the audience he didn't really need the guy with his arm up the dummy's backside? The act was so good, I suspended disbelief and believed Sam, the dummy.

The Casino sounds didn't lure us, even though we walked through it every night on way from dinner to our room.  Des loved swooping down on one of our church members to make them feel sinful as they worked the slots.  (No names here to protect the guilty.)    He/she was to immune to his teasing....anyway, sin is not preached much in our church.  My own Catholic childhood  assured me that sins could be deposited in the ear of a shadowy figure in a tiny cubicle  just for the price of a few hail Mary's, some our Fathers, and a Station of the Cross depending on the magnitude of the sin.
My greatest sin on this trip is the neglect of the gym on the top deck.  Hux, my trainer back home, will be very disappointed in me.  I have been avoiding most desserts, but that won't impress him.  His dire warning, cruisers gain one pound a day for every day on the ship.  I hope he was wrong.

Back to Des:  There were 3 formal nights on the trip, meaning men wore Tux or Suit and tie and women wore long dresses or fancy pants suits.   Des had his black preacher's suit (for weddings and funerals) and he negotiated with me to dress up two out of three nights.  This was before his feet got blisters and he couldn't wear his good shoes.  He wore his fluffy sheepsking bedroom slippers with his suit.  I should have taken a picture.  He promised me no one would notice.  Right..

Well, maybe so,  because a contingency of 200 or so Members of TOPS (take off pounds sensibly) were on our ship.  There were times when the small elevators were overloaded and people had to back out before it would move.  Kind of embarrassing at times.  No one noticed his slippers in th elevator.

All in all, we both enjoyed the experience, especially since I promised Des I wouldn't allow him on another cruise, and promised to lock the door when we got home and allow me to leave the house.

I have other thoughts to share on the philosophy of travel when the hair has whitened or disappeared and the knees are undependable and the case carrying assorted prescription meds is larger than the one carrying the clothes, but that is for another time.

  One back home, we have pictures and memories to share.  Our cats and Des are purring while I am dipping one toe lightly into the real world.  I am sure no one will bring me breakfast in bed tomorrow, call me Miss Ann and leave a chocolate on the bed tonight.  Not only that, no one will fashion turkish towels or cloths into an elephant perched on the bed when we turn in for the night. The party is over. The laundry awaits.

So Says Sassy