August 23, 2008. Me and Teddy.

NOTICE

If you're interested in starting from the first diary entry, you'll need to choose page 1 of the archives which are currently still on the old diary system. Little by little I'll be adding old entries here, but to read the diary from beginning to end, you'll have to start on the old system for now.

Cheryl

P.S.  There may be some overlapping entries until I get everything finalized.  Not to worry.

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I've been happy lately and I like the feeling. I feel connected in a way I have not for a long time. I think this feeling may be short lived, but we'll just have to see. Traveling helps, spending time with new people helps, being invited to new places helps and I've had a taste of these things in the past two weeks. I feel sunny and warm-hearted. I think it shows. I hope it shows.

We were invited to a small dinner gathering at a neighbor's home last Saturday evening and we had a great time. There was good food and animated conversation all round. Before we knew it, four hours had passed. It was just before midnight before I looked at my watch and then I was embarrassed to have stayed so long. We all decided to do it again in a few weeks, but this time at another home. Allen reminds me that next it will be "my" turn and I reminded him that the meal we had enjoyed was a cooperative effort by our friends, a husband and wife, so it would not be "MY" turn at all. Technical foul, Allen. Technical foul.

There are other things to look forward to as well. A PH'er who lives north of S.F. and who I met very briefly at the conference has organized a little get-together later this month for the PH'ers who live in the Bay Area. We will meet for a few hours to get acquainted and perhaps some bonds will form, some friendships will blossom.

But today, I spent my time tidying up, watering plants, and preparing some letters and photos to pop in the mail slot. My friends in Montana and Allen's mother will receive their copy of the June diary and some snapshots from our trip, Allen's cousin in So. Cal. will receive a thank you card, a friend will receive photos of Sadie and others from our recent visit and so on. All envelopes include a chatty letter from an upbeat PH'er.

I expect the remainder of the week to be pretty quiet. I'll be spending a fair amount of time tending to the cats in the neighborhood, my "job" while two different families enjoy some time in the mountains for the July 4th holidays. I don't expect Bailey, Blue or Max to have much to say.

Glad to be home. Not glad to be home. Things are fine here.

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I just cleaned up the kitchen and the new cookie jar adorned with dog bones and pooches got me thinking about Betty, the former "mayor" of Irving Street. It was a gift, the cookie jar, by a circuitous route starting with Betty, a large and unsmiling woman who used to work in the hardware store a few blocks from here. Everybody knew Betty.

Recently when I was getting my graying locks trimmed, Sunnya told me that Betty had left a cookie jar for me. She said she wanted it to go to the lady with the pretty little dog although when Sunnya says it, it comes out "pooddy little dog". Honestly, I was not convinced that Betty had meant it for me, but I took it home, washed it out and filled it with Sadie's treats.

Betty is a plain talking, no-nonsense, large-boned, now elderly and somewhat infirm woman. She has never been the kind of person to welcome you into her world. When Allen and I used to enter the portals of her hardware domain, Betty never gave so much as a hint of recognition. We were new-comers to this area in 1980 and she had lived here for many years. She was a scary one, that Betty. I knew she was a loyal friend to my wonderfully warm-hearted neighbor, a woman nearly my mother's age, but she was no friend to me.

When I walked into Sunnya's the other day with Karen, who was about to get clipped, and spotted Betty sitting under the hairdryer, I plopped down next to her and said, "Did you give me a cookie jar?" Betty, who is Betty through and through, was quite straightforward in her response. "You are the wrong person." I did not skip a beat. I'm not the youngster I was in 1980 and Betty no longer intimidates me. I replied, "But my dog is the cutest dog." She said she had never seen my dog so as I left Karen there to wait her turn, I vowed to return with Sadie in a bit and prove my point.

I did return about half an hour later and sat Sadie on my lap, belly up and doe eyed. Betty melted. She did not demand the return of the jar although I told her I would happily return it. She said she would not take sides. The rightful recipient of the jar had a very cute dog, but she would not, could not choose one over the other. She cooed and coddled my Sadie and we won the jar fair and square.

Sadie turns one-year-old on August 1 and I'm thinking about throwing her a little party. It's just an excuse, of course, to bring people together and it's really for me. It would be great fun and maybe we'll invite Betty, the mayor of Irving Street too. What do you think?

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Seventeen years ago on this day, my father, Allen and I rolled into Ariba Colorado, a rural town on the prairie near the Kansas border. My mother had died the month prior and my teary father decided he wanted to visit his hometown one more time. He had always hoped to take my mother there some day, but it never happened. He settled for us.

Ariba was not at all what I expected. Having lived in California all my life where nearly every little town gets to be a big town sooner or later, I just expected Ariba to have done the same. I told my father there would be a McDonalds there somewhere, but he knew better.

Ariba was nothing much. There was a coffee shop and a boarded up motel. There was a gas pump, not a gas station. My father's grammar school had not been occupied for years. Everything was just the same, only older and more run down. We walked through the Brethren church that my stern German-Swiss grandfather had helped build and saw his name - Jessie Switzer - prominently displayed on the plaque inside.

We pulled into the little coffee shop parking lot and went inside. I tried to imagine what these people would think of us. It was pretty unlikely that travelers would end up in Ariba for any reason. There was a group of old-timers in the corner sipping weak coffee and dad went over to join them. One of the men remembered the Switzer family and knew the precise location of the farm. It was still there, of course, but my father could not remember how many miles down the road it was, not exactly, not after a forty-year absence.

With no variation in the topography and few standing buildings of any kind, we had to watch our odometer closely. We headed down a two lane road with a lot of nothing in front of us.

We missed the old Switzer farm on the first pass and wound up at a neighbor's place. The farmer who greeted us, a man a bit younger than my 69-year-old father, remembered him well. He recalled that he used to play with my father and remembered my father as being quite a clown. As they talked, I ran my hand through a mound of fresh wheat piled in the back of a nearby pick-up truck letting it trickle through my fingers. Not even Allen noticed when I removed a small empty film canister from my pocket and filled it with new wheat. It would be my Ariba memento.

We did finally see the Switzer farm, take a tour of the house my grandfather built, the fence that is still standing, the creamer my aunts had once used now discarded in the basement. But the best thing of all was in seeing a dozen or so nails poking through the basement ceiling. Many times when I was growing up, my father had told me a tale about these nails. As a toddler, he had escaped the notice of everyone long enough to pound a handful of nails into their dining room floor. It happened as the house was being built and my father had not gotten in trouble for it. He had been too young. My father was very animated about seeing the nails. It's as if it proved he had existed there. In a family consisting of eleven children who were expected to work hard on the farm, I believe he felt quite overlooked, but that's a story for another day.

I took photos of everything we saw that day: the fence, the house, the creamer, and of course, the famous nails. We left Ariba at dusk and headed for Lyman, the big nearby town.
On the fourth of July, the day after our Ariba visit, we sat in the hot Lyman sun on bales of hay to watch a family show in a parking lot. A family living out of a truck the size of a moving van, had opened the large side door that became a stage, plugged in their amps and sang their pea-pickin' hearts out for us. It was the oddest 4th of July I'm sure I'll ever know.

It will be Hebrew National dogs and potato salad here tomorrow and maybe a glimpse of sparkle through a dense and predictable fog.

I wonder what they're doing in Lyman tomorrow...

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Elen told me the other day that she would like me to take her blood pressure on Saturday, so when I had not heard from her by Sunday afternoon, I began to wonder what was up. Her phone rang and rang. There is no answering machine - too new-fangled for our Elen who still has an old rotary dial perched on a tiny phone table in her hallway - and so I called Roxanne who also keeps tabs on Elen sometimes. No answer there either. And so I took Elen's key out of my neighborhood key box and walked the few short steps between our front doors, rang the bell and inserted her key in her lock.

My imagination was running wild. I did not want to find Elen down on the floor with broken bones, hopelessly alone or worse. I was very relieved when every room was tidy and unoccupied. I exited after my quick tour and I don't know that I'll ever tell her that I was there at all. No need.

I had been sniffing out the wrong place, it seems. Another neighbor called last night to say his mother, my friend had passed away. He apologized for not calling sooner; Josephine had died on July 4th alone in her living room chair.

Josephine, a woman I met, along with a number of others on my block when I organized and executed a street-tree planting in 1987, lived eight doors up in the house with the barn-shaped roofline, a description Josephine did not particularly like. She was a lovely and elegant woman and like many others in this area, a long-timer who had raised children on the block. Only a handful still remain.

I knew Josephine had been struggling with her health, but recently she had been going to cardio rehab across town and seemed to be getting stronger. Since my own diagnosis, we had taken a few neighborhood walks together and I had been planning on ringing her bell soon for another one.

I hate to see things change, have friends move and pass away. This is my little universe. Elen talks about people that used to live here, the families, the girls who babysat, the boys that were rowdy. I can see that I'm already doing it myself. When a long-timer around here asks me where I live, I always say "next to the Bennett house" although the Bonnets are long gone. And the barn house will forever be Josephine's house to me.

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We had turkey burgers and young, sweet corn tonight after an unusually hot day here. I managed to get a few chores done but mostly I felt at loose ends. Karen came by to pick up her box of organic produce and our spirits ran high in each others company, but I have not been feeling very "up" for a couple of days, not really.

I walked the seven blocks to one of the two nearby Korean-owned produce markets to buy my favorite dried pasta today. I have to admit, I get a kick out of shopping there for canned and dried goods. It's a little like being on a treasure hunt. Will they have the good mustard, the canned baby clams for the clam linguini we love, the sweet pickle relish Allen favors on the rare hot dog we consume? It seems to be catch-as-catch-can and God only knows where the stuff comes from. The prices are significantly lower than my upscale super - which is way out of line if you are a coupon clipper - but that's irreverent. It's an adventure and it gives me a destination, a reason to push myself and go for a meaningful walk.

As usual, I bought a bit too much today and I had to drag it all home. Sometimes the wind is fierce and it's a struggle. Other times the fog is down to the ground and it's teeth-chattering all the way. Today it was just plain hot and that made the 14-block round-tripper a big deal. Well, we're set with pasta, pickles, lemons and clams for awhile. At least I was smart enough to leave Sadie behind. Dealing with her and two heavy sacks might have put me over the edge in this heat!

I stopped along the way to tell a few of the merchants about Josephine. She was friendly with Michelle at the other Korean market and also with Bob at the print shop. They were both shocked and saddened when I told them she had died on July 4 and both said they would try to make it to the memorial this coming Saturday.

Tomorrow night, I'm having some old, old friends over for dinner. I've found a pasta recipe with smoked salmon and goat cheese I have decided to try. I'm looking forward to reconnecting.

Diary, I have nothing to complain about and so I won't.

P.S. About a week ago, I learned that Grits, the mini, jet-black lop-earned bunny died and his caregivers did not know why despite a trip to the Animal ER. That was a low blow. I had a feeling Grits was not going to make it. Despite his owner's fondness for him, they did not know much about keeping bunnies. They had not done their homework. And so I might step atop my soapbox right now but I won't. Maybe another time.

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My choice of entrées tonight was not the best. It is not likely that I would make the goat cheese, smoked salmon and leek fettuccini again. The guests were gracious - maybe they liked it well enough - but for me, it was a failure. I know you should not test new recipes on guests, but I do it anyway. Sometimes you win…

I spent much of the day preparing for this meal, this little get-together. I had to make two trips to my super, one trip for the things I had on the list and one trip for the things I had forgotten. I also prepared lemon custard, chopped the zucchini, washed the spinach leaves, organized the essentials for the meal and chilled the wine. It was a day of planning and eye-balling the landscape. I dragged the vacuum down and gave the hardwood floors the once over. It had to be done.

Now Allen, after a long day at work, is cleaning up. I think he appreciated my guests tonight. My male friend, from a job I held long ago, is a sweet and sincere soul with the purest of hearts. My woman friend, also a co-worker from a lifetime ago, is someone Allen has come to know and like. We had a nice time together, the three and then the four of us.

And so as the rest of the Bay Area tosses and turns under the weight of a sweltering wave of warm air, we sit here in the relative coolness along the coast. I will snuggle soon under my down comforter, place the Mirage BiPAP mask over my nose and flip the switch. No overheating here folks and no sweat over a mediocre meal. We're staying cool by chance and by choice.

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There's a lonesome dove somewhere today. Wally finally got his prey after a couple of years of stalking the poor thing. His patience paid off, it seems.

Every day in the late afternoon, Wally jumps into the planter box alongside the deck to watch for the arrival of the doves. You can set your watch by it. They fly from a nearby roof into our big tree in the early evening. If Wally could talk, he might tell us more about their routine. He's made quite a study of their habits. All we know is that they spend a fair amount of time in our oversized tree, a fact we have deduced from the pattern of muck that has formed on the brick path near the park bench. As the sun fades, Wally climbs up the unstable trellis to perch at the tippy-top, at the extreme edge and as close to the nearest tree limb as possible. Then he leans forward. He sits transfixed, watching every move the doves make. When the sky becomes jet-black, Wally slips down the lattice again. The show is over. Our little spectator comes inside for a snack and a good night sleep. That was the pattern until recently.

In the last couple of months, the routine has changed a bit. Wally has been raising a ruckus after dark until we let him out again. He has not been getting his good night sleep and Allen has been finding dead mice and rats on the deck or on the brick garden path in the wee hours. We figured this was okay; we told our friends that Wally took a night job.

It never occurred to us that he would get the dove. The doves have been well aware of our lanky, black peeper for a long time. Maybe they just thought he was still working the day and early evening shift and let their guard down. Whatever happened, the killing took place night before last and even though the evidence is circumstantial, it's gotta be Wally.

I called Allen's mother today to find out about her sister's surgery and after we had covered that, I told her about Wally's crime. She was not pleased. She is a bird lover, not a cat lover and believes cats should all be in permanent lockdown. I see her point. For a long time I did not understand why she did not like cats much. Well, duh, they are killers. Maybe you do have to choose.

We're finding that three animals and two humans is a difficult mix. There is an uneasy peace here at best most of the time. Wally likes to beat up on Tassy, Sadie likes to heckle Wally, Tassy hisses at Sadie and not one of them will settle down to sleep for an entire night if they're all inside and have access to each other. What to do with the Wall-man… You know, it was kind of nice having him work at night.

What to do… P.S. He has a bell already.

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I've been the little social butterfly and today I'm feeling very worm out. Nothing hurts, I'm breathing well enough, it's just that bone weary feeling PH'ers get sometimes. I've been trying to ignore it all day with some success.

A big wave of this feeling washed over me last night at dinner, but I chose to ignore it then too. I wanted to be present for the evening, to be lively and get to know my hosts better and so I pushed the feeling away. It seemed to work.

It was the end of a long day, by my usual standards, and we were out late having dinner with some people we're just getting to know. Three couples were seated in a lovely kitchen on the sunny side of town looking out onto a lush private postage-stamp sized garden. We might have been anywhere on earth. There was nothing to place us in San Fran, not one thing. It felt like a vacation hide-away.

Our hostess, a petite woman just my height of 4'9" (now, what are the odds of that happening?), announced to us that after many years of working, she was just learning to cook. At that point, one might have expected a run on the cheese tray but it did not happen. We all just waited to see what would come next.

What happened was this little woman pulled it off. We had a very decent salmon, couscous and vegetable meal, some good conversation and a tour of a charming, Victorian home that is being restored piece by piece by some nice folks.

Earlier in the day, we had attended dear Josephine's memorial at the catholic church one block away and spent some time in Josephine's lovely home mingling with neighborhood friends. It did not seem right to be there without her, but that's how it is with death. It's always a surprise and it never feels right.

I'm anticipating a quiet week ahead, but I have things to look forward to: an outing with my women friends to see Vagina Monologues, a dinner party here, a b-day party for little Sadie, a SF Symphony concert in GG Park and who knows what else.

In so many ways, I'm living the life I want to live.

My head is still breaking the surface.

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A little group of former neighborhood-activists who are after many years, old-friends, gathered last night around our oak farm table for a short meeting. We had raised funds when we were a vital neighborhood organization and the money we raised back then has been driving the bank crazy. The bank wants to take our money or charge us fees and so it was time to either rally or raise the white flag. I think we have chosen retirement. The money - in the seven hundred dollar range - will be donated to tree plantings in our area. We all want to see more street trees. The vote was unanimous.

Josephine should have been there. She had been urging me in a very understated way, to call a meeting, to resurrect our group. Josephine was very community minded and was wonderful to work with. She would never take a lead position, but never let me down. I think that's why I'm having trouble with her passing. I needed her support and counted on it. We worked well together.

She and I were as different as any two people could be. She had spent her entire life studying the arts and I, the pragmatic one, had the business mind and the organizational where-withal. I know Josephine admired my organizational skills but I was in awe of her. While I was solving tech issues for law firms, Josephine was giving lectures and tours at the fine arts museum. She loved the theater and books and travel. She was completely befuddled by gadgets and practical matters.

Josephine had a wall phone in her kitchen - circa the nineteen sixties ,- and at some point, it became very unreliable. I prayed she would replace or repair it. Josephine would pick it up and, knowing there was someone else on the line that she was unable to hear, would shout into the thing, "hello, hello, hello, hold on please, hold on please." And then she would fiddle with the thing and often move to another phone. It was horribly annoying.

One day, I made a suggestion, "you know, phones are for communicating and yours is not doing a very good job. Don't you think it's time to replace that one?" Josephine let out a little laugh, but ultimately rejected the idea. That was Josephine.

It's not that I did not see her frailty, it's just that I did not think about her much, I guess. I took her for granted.

One of my friends last night suggested we donate the money in Josephine's name. I met Josephine when I organized my first street-tree planting and it is an entirely appropriate way in which to honor her now. And so we will.

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Good day? Bad day? I can't decide. I spent it in my office, tidying up my desk, organizing, sorting, tossing out and filing the papers that covered the top. It's amazingly clear at the moment. The warm red oak surface of this old office desk - the treasure my mother and I found together twenty years ago and my father refinished - is visible for a change.

I also threw out every bit of paper, every note in every binder I had saved from my tech job. I had put "how to" binders together over the years, having realized early on that if I did not take notes and organize them well I would never be able to do my job going forward. I have coveted these papers in the past but today, I threw them out without a trace of regret. The past is the past. All the office bond paper will go to the recycle center where it will bring a good price for them. The other notes, handwritten mostly on paper from yellow lined tablets, will go in with the junk mail for our local pickup. This office is lighter by about twenty pounds now and I feel lighter too.

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Madeline came for chicken tacos, black beans and rice tonight. I showed her Sadie's new trick, "shake hands" which she does very reliably after just three training sessions. We talked about everything we had not talked about in weeks. Now that Madeline is working, she has very little time to hang out, practically none at all. We knew this day would come, when she would have to make money again. She misses her freedoms, that came through loud and clear. But also she is feeling vital again.

For most of our lives we are worrying about something when we're free and wishing we were free when we're tethered. That's a problem. I have to say this about being dis-abled (not able), nobody wonders why you are not obsessing about your next job, your next position. Nobody asks, "So, what are you going to do NOW?"

The pressure is always on the workers, the healthy ones who are defined by what they do. I don't miss that part of life.

I resurrected an old half-finished project today and spread it all over the dining room table. Five or more years ago, I bought a scrap book and started organizing all the before-and-after photos we had taken during the course of our massive 10-year renovations of this old house. I got as far as pasting photos into the scrapbook, but along the way I ran out of steam. To be truthful, I was just giving up any pretense of good health. I was not feeling well and not feeling especially "long term". I lost interest in a lot of things.

But now, I want to finish this scrapbook. I want to finish some of the things that I started a few years ago. Maybe I'll even find a suitable place for the loose pictures that are overflowing the basket on the floor of the guest room. Maybe.

When I walk into an antique store and see the old photos of families, the portraits and the other "campy" shots of former humans, I feel so sad for them. These are not artifacts that should be sold to strangers. This is recorded history of the people who lived their vital or pitiful lives before us. I imagine my photos there.

Well, we'll just tackle one thing at a time, shall we? The scrapbook may be of interest to our dinner guests, our nieces and nephews someday, or the next owners of this old house. I think a house with a past is quite charming. I am not going to worry about it, that's for sure.

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It's just getting dark here tonight and the lady bugs have just been liberated from their waxed cardboard container in the back yard. Allen tried to talk me out of buying them when we visited the nursery earlier today, but I feel good about setting the lovely little bugs free and grabbed one of the containers anyway. I would buy them all if they weren't so expensive; I worry that they'll run out of food and die before they are sold. Besides, it's lucky to have lady bugs around and since we don't spray or use anything toxic in the yard, I figure they might have a chance at a good life.

At the nursery, we also picked up a salvia plant to fill the gap the lobelia left in the pot on the front porch, some potting sand and a Japanese fern that should do well in our shady yard. At a nearby store, Allen picked up a new pond pump and we were all set.

Our yard might be lovely if we were to make more of an effort. I'd love to have the path swept more often, the odd bits snipped off, the bare patches filled, but it all takes energy. I don't have it and I don't obsess over the things I can't change anymore. It is a natural garden, I tell people. Nature is messy.

After our little shopping trip today, we walked to our favorite neighborhood café with Sadie in tow hoping to snag one of the four patio tables. No luck. Our timing was off. Three of the tables had just been occupied and the two women at the fourth table were deep in conversation. We waited for awhile before we got practical. Allen took Sadie home and came back again. There were lots of tables inside. Now, if we had been in France…

If that sounds like a full day, it was not. It was all accomplished in the course of a few short hours. Before our outing, I had puttered around in my housecoat and after our meal, I could not wait for a nap.

I don't know diary, I think I am in a little slump. My naps don't refresh me and I am weary in the morning when I wake up too. Sleep is a problem periodically. I do sleep, but it's not deep and refreshing. It does not nourish me. I've read that sleep deteriorates when one gets older, but it's more than that with me. It's also that I don't breathe well. A double whammy perhaps? Don't know why my ventilator is not helping as much right now.

Other than that, I'm in decent spirits and hoping to stay on the social circuit as much as I can. Allen is taking a trip this coming week so friends are lining up to fill in. I wonder how many naps I'll need this next week…

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What a difference a day makes… Well, it has been more than a day, but the big weary is over. I regained some stamina and even managed to clean up my garden a couple of days ago. I've been admiring my work from the sunny deck in the afternoons. It's a no-brainer when you feel good.

The house smells of fennel and rosemary tonight. The fennel came out of a glass jar, but the rosemary was from my deck plant, a gift from Elen's husband. If my kitchen fan worked better, my house would not smell nearly as good as it does. I was trying out a new dish tonight on Annette, a dish I will probably prepare this weekend for our dinner party. Annette gave it the thumbs up sign tonight. With a few minor modifications, I think it will work out well.

I'm alone in my house now and so it seems a good time to sew up loose ends.

Birdie, the senior tap dancer who recently turned 95, had her routine physical recently and is reported to be in tip-top shape. As Bob, the merchant at the local print shop put it, "they couldn't find anything wrong with her!" With that, Bob let out a hearty laugh. Diary, I've sat with Birdie as she eats her soupy lunch and old age is not a cake-walk. She says the crusts on the Peasant Pies are too tough for her to chew; Birdie's food choices are very limited. Still, Birdie is a sort of miracle.

My neighbor, Elen has higher blood pressure than she would like, even with medication. We have not been seeing very much of her. Usually that means she's busy with family but maybe she's just waiting for a little attention. It's probably time to give her a call.

Bernadette, the chatty woman with odd brain circuitry, met Sadie recently and she thought Sadie was a perfect little lady. I've invited Bernadette to Sadie's upcoming birthday party and God help me if she actually comes. Sunnya, everybody's favorite haircutter, and Betty, the cookie jar lady, have also been invited along with Sadie's favorite folks. I have not the slightest idea why I'm having this party; I don't know how I'm going to pull it off. Gotta put some thought into this one real soon.

My chain-smoking neighbor has quit the nasty habit altogether, so the air is much better in front and out back. I'm happy for him and me too. Good work, George.

The little packet of seeds I took home from Susan's memorial did not amount to much. I plowed them under recently and started again with something new. I wish I knew what those seeds were meant to be, but I never will.

Diary, that's it for now. That's all I know. Stay well and I'll get back to you. I'm running out of steam, feeling stale. I say that now, but you know how quickly things can change. One day you're drooping and the next day, you're full of vim and vigor. I'd like to know who's reading this stuff now. I feel the loss of contact with some folks. I need a sign, some encouragement, something…

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At a little after 1 o'clock on Sunday, Karen and I rolled into the not-quite-so-expensive downtown parking garage and walked several blocks to the theater. We had left early enough, we had thought, but we had cut it rather close. I could not walk nearly as fast as I would have liked and it made me a little anxious. It's a feeling I try my best to avoid these days.

We were attending a matinee performance of "The Tale of the Allergist's Wife". I wanted a few minutes to get settled when we arrived. And I was afraid we would not be seated if the play was in progress.

When Allen and I used to walk to the streetcar together, he would often try to get me to hurry. He would sometimes rush ahead of me and see the train coming. He would wave to me to hurry, and I would struggle along getting red faced and winded to make the train. At some point over the years, I gave up trying to run for buses and trains. Allen would say, "We'll miss our train." And I began saying "no, we'll miss the one just before our train. That one is not ours." You cannot rush a PH'er; breathing will always have to come before hurrying. It's not an option.

Luckily, we arrived at the theater with enough time for me to walk to the ladies room and breathe easily again.

Once we were settled in, we had a grand time of it. We laughed at the production and then when the lights came up for intermission, we watched the people around us.

We are both old enough to remember when going downtown was an occasion to dress up. Those days are long gone, but to see someone eating a fresh peach in his seat at intermission was a new one for both of us. The people directly in front of us were passing bags of candy between them. It all felt a little tacky. Diary, you know you're getting out of step when you start feeling this way about things.

The week up to now has progressed pretty normally. I've taken walks, talked and met with a few people, cooked a few good meals and managed a few chores. Tomorrow I must draft my questions for my visit on Friday to see Dr. Doyle and prepare myself mentally to be "medical" for a day. I'd much rather stick my head in the sand forever.

If I promise to be good, can you make this medical stuff go away? Please?

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Dinner party pickup. Tsk tsk, it's not what you think. Read on. Dinner Party Pickup was the name of a face crème - just one in a full line of cosmetics - my mother sold for a very short time. I think the idea was for her to be a door to door salesperson like the Avon women or the Fuller Brush men who occasionally came to our door with their boar's hair hairbrushes and cleaning products, but my mother was never going to do that. She had purchased a black patent leather hatbox filled with lotions, potions and lip colors, but the only people who ever saw the stuff were friends and acquaintances. Dinner Party Pickup was a face crème to refresh the tired hostess. The name always got a laugh.

I did not need any refreshing lotions after our little dinner party for six last weekend. I felt energized and cranked up the stereo as Allen washed the last of the dishes just after midnight. My relatively new recipes worked out well enough and they seemed to be well received. The main dish - sautéed chicken in a grape and shallot sauce - still needs some fine-tuning, but the pilaf was quite good. One of our guests especially liked the roasted red pepper spread served with little toasts and crackers for an appetizer. He said he had something very similar in France. And the lemon custard is always a hit at the end of any meal.

On Sunday, we walked to GG Park with Sadie, our stadium seats and a little lunch sack, to listen to the SF Symphony concert in a nearby meadow. We might have sat there in anonymity as we have in past years, but this time we had Sadie, our friendly well-mannered pooch to break the ice. People are often amazed at how good natured she is for a breed often thought of as "yappy". Well, this is my second Pom and that may not be a very big sampling, but I suspect they are not especially yappy dogs. She seemed happy to sit quietly in a shady spot for the duration.

Yesterday, one of our dinner guests called to thank us for a lovely evening and said she loved seeing our perfect house. It is so perfect for us, diary and I'm so glad we live here. Today, I took a bus ride across town to visit a store called, "Catnip and Bones" and on the way home, I had a lovely chat with a couple visiting from Massachusetts. I was so proud to say I was from here and lived here.

So, I guess the last chapter of "Cheryl's Tales of the City" has not been written yet. I've got the material if you have the time.

Thanks for listening

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Wednesday is a big day around here. The store specials change on Wednesday at my local market; I just returned with my choice of the weekly deals: yogurt and canned tuna fish - Albacore in water, not that funny dark gnarly looking stuff. I did not see anybody I knew except one friendly checker.

Yesterday when I was in line with my butcher pack of ground turkey, I turned to look at the people directly behind me. A woman was emptying the cart with the help of a young girl, a girl I took to be her daughter. They seemed to be working nicely together, the way a mother and daughter should. It was a nice little scene.

Before I could turn away, the woman spoke to me. "Cheryl, is that you?" I looked at the woman's face and realized, every so slowly, that it was a woman I used to work with, a woman who had FIRED me from a job at the phone company sixteen years ago. She went on, "How are you doing?"

My reply was short and polite; I'm amazed I kept my cool, but I did. I did not ask after her or her family. I simply turned back to the checker, paid my bill and walked away feeling quite composed.

I did not want to have a chat and I especially did not want to explain my "condition", why I was carrying oxygen. I don't care about this woman and did not feel inclined to be especially polite. Maybe it's an age thing, or maybe it's something else.

This little encounter might have brought up a lot of old and moldy bad feelings, but so far, it has not. I do recall the firing being a very humiliating experience, but after a short period of wound-licking, I was glad it had happened. I would have never been able to walk away from that hell-hole. The job paid too well. No, I had to be pushed.

And, no, this is not the place to explain the firing either. Let's just say this. A few days after my best friend had been fired for very bogus reasons, I posted a Gary Larson cartoon on the cubical wall near the entrance to our work area. It was the one where a headless chicken is running around and the rest are in a huddle. One chicken expresses the hope that when his turn comes, he manages to go with some dignity. Even though I did not put my name on the cartoon, the managers knew it was the work of Switzer.

Shoot, there were other jobs to be had in those days anyway.

Goodbye July 2002. Welcome August.

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A lifetime ago - nearly - I worked at a famous S.F. based jeans manufacturing firm. It was the 1970's when business was booming and this firm dominated the clothing market. Their products were hot and salesreps did not need any special talent. They were order takers, mostly pretty white boys with manicured fingernails and broad smiles.

Little me, after working as a clerk and then an administrative assistant, asked for a promotion into a management position and got it. I did not get the big money, but at the time for a young woman, it was a decent salary and a step or two closer to that glass ceiling. My boss joked that he was paying me by the pound. He thought that was amusing. I did not. He also referred to his women underlings as his "harem". Well, you could get away with a lot in those days. The idea of PCness was unknown.

I was the specials manager in the women's division and I still have a few business cards to prove it. I sold the piece goods, odd lots and off season pants and tops through the salesreps. I would set a price, create a catalog (on a typewriter, mind you), and wheel and deal. It was a lot of fun, but I did not appreciate at the time how good I was at it or how much freedom I had.

My best friend, Karen and I met there. She took over my secretarial duties for the assistant production manager in January of 1974 when I got promoted to something a little better. I showed her my two-year old pile of filing and we hit it off immediately. She agreed that filing little bits of paper in hanging folders was a waste of energy. Heck, nobody ever asked for any of it anyway.

Karen called last night to say she had run into not one but two old timers from our work days together. We talked about tracking down some of these people and having a reunion. What a hoot that would be! Diary, I would really love to do this. She and I have so many stories to tell about our days there. There was Peter, the ex-con who stripped his desk one day and never was seen again, the torn up love letter she retrieved from a co-workers garbage can and put on a routing slip to everyone in the office, the manufacturer who used to visit from Waco who always wanted to take us out for drinks and so on.

"Something to love, something to do, something to look forward to." I think, diary, I will look forward to making this reunion happen.

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Well, it was a good run, it was. The cold I have been dodging for nearly a year and a half is here now. Sore throat tonight and I've had the big weary all week. I've had my zinc lozenge and downed 3000 mg of vitamin C in the last few hours. I pulled a little yogurt cup of frozen chicken noodle soup out of the freezer and thawed it out. That, along with some crackers and goat cheese, was dinner.

I invited our neighbors over on Monday to check out the home theater Allen recently had installed. Their baby, little Maya who is not so little anymore, was coming down with a cold, but we were not privy to that information until they were walking through the front door. I did not know what to do and so said nothing while keeping my distance. I busied myself in the kitchen while the rest went up to scope out the tech stuff.

When they left, Allen said that Maya had been sneezing up a storm upstairs. I asked him to open the window in the TV room to air it out. I picked up the dog toy Maya had carried around and washed it. I thought I had a good chance of escaping the germs, but maybe not.

There's no way to know if Maya brought this bug to me. I was out in the world on a city bus earlier on Monday. Maybe the vitamin C will help. Maybe the zinc will help. Maybe I'll wake up tomorrow feeling A-OK. I don't want to live in a damn bubble, after all.

When your lungs are compromised, every little extra burden becomes a big deal. It's hard to digest that fact and very difficult to impart to others. I must get into the habit of asking how people are feeling before I invite them over. I need to communicate this to others.

Allen is not feeling very well either tonight and he's got to drag himself all the way to Calgary again next week. Me, I'll just lay around all week if that's what I need to do. Nothing pressing here except for a b-day dinner for dear Karen at a nearby restaurant that serves delish Calif-Asian cuisine.

How long can one expect to dodge the bugs, that's what I want to know.

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Bow Wow Birthday

Sadie's party was a big success. The theme was dogs, naturally, but that required some creativity. I told people the llama piñata was actually a very alert dog, hence the over-sized vertical ears. This was the centerpiece of a table covered with plates of silly foods: baked "collie"-flower, hot dogs and roasted red Pepper (Lancilotti) spread, named after one of our party guests, a black Pomeranian named Pepper Lancilotti. There were also "Wally" cookies (chocolate, cat-shaped cookies), oatmeal raisin cookies served in the dog cookie jar, cold cuts, potato salad, olives, cheeses, crackers and baguette. Oh, and we served "Hair of the Dog" beer, which Karen said was very good.

I expect Sadie might have pulled off her darling little dog act but for the presence of Pepper, the black Pom. The minute she saw Pepper come through the door, she began to scream in protest at the tip-top of her tiny lungs. Every piece of glass might have shattered if she had raised her pitch just a fraction. What a commotion! Allen scooped her up pretty quickly when the ruckus began, put his fingers around her muzzle and quieted her down to a muted squeal. We laughed and laughed at the poor little birthday girl. The presence of Pepper really shook her up.

The party was only manageable after Pepper arrived, with Sadie in the arms of a human admirer and so for the duration of the party, she was coddled and rubbed and carted around.

When it came time to open presents, I did the honors making sure everybody saw the loot. There was a lovely glass picture frame with a pewter bone adorning the top, a tiny deep green cashmere scarf with a red bone appliqué and a lovely gold clasp, "paw" balm for dry paws, a squeaky shearling slipper (with a very short-lived squeaker), a soft rope bone, people crackers (little cookies for dogs shaped like postmen and other humans), elegantly packaged and delish looking dog biscuits and several other bags of treats. The winner however was the straw hat with the stylish brim and floral trim. When Allen secured the Velcro strap under Sadie's tiny chin, all bravado vanished. She no longer cared about Pepper or much of anything else. She looked defeated and humiliated. She also looked adorable and the photo op began. We laughed so hard, we thought we would split. Sadie's little doe face, just-washed silky-blond hair and then this perfect hat! What a sight!

Madeline leaned over to me at one point and suggested that this party was in poor taste and I agreed that it was a very silly thing to do, but I knew she was partly joking. As I recall, Madeline is the one who wanted me to purchase an expensive, glittery dog collar for Sadie when I first became a new "parent". Ah-hah! Gotcha!

We think the guests had a good time and everybody left with a little something too. There was a box of animal crackers for each human, a gourmet dog cookie for each of the dogs waiting at home for their party-going custodians, a stuffed pug dog for one future dog owner and a stuffed Bichon Frisse for Annette, who had two Bichon companions waiting for her.

That's it for dog birthday parties around here, I think. It was silly fun and I enjoyed it, but that's that. Now I need to concentrate on getting over the cold that is settling into my chest, like my colds always do.

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I have not felt like writing all week. That's not like me. I have been laying around with plenty of time on my hands and little interest in doing anything. I'm still dealing with a deep cough and today my ears feel plugged. If things don't clear up pretty soon, I'm going to wind up with a sinus infection. I want to get through this on my own, without antibiotics so that I know I can heal myself. Anyway, that's what I want.

We had a heat spell this past week which made it possible for me to spend much of my idle time sitting in the hot sun. I enjoyed that part of each and every day, but the nights were long with Allen away again. There were no dinner invitations extended this past week, just me and the critters.

But yesterday, I broke out of here for a trip downtown to see V. Monologues with a group of women friends. We sat front and center and everyone seemed to enjoy the performance. Afterward most of us walked a short distance to a nearby restaurant for cocktails and a fine meal. We talked about the parts of the play we especially liked, made jokes and told little stories. It was a lot of fun.

Today, I'm back to lay-around mode, waiting for the sun to win out over the fog that blanketed the city all night. It's anybody's guess what will happen.

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I felt a little better today. I had some energy for a change so I participated in cleaning my own house, right alongside Joanne, my bi-monthly house scrubber with the sunniest of dispositions. I washed down the kitchen knobs and counter tops with bleachy water. I did a thorough cleaning of the sink area, the faucets, the cook top, the toaster oven, the microwave. I did not dare leave the house. When I cough, I feel woozy and off kilter. I was not in any shape to take a hike although I would have done a chore if one was pressing. Nothing was, as it turned out.

Later, I was looking over the letters on the forum. One item in particular caught my attention. I don't know the author personally, but I saw her and heard her speak at the conference sessions in June. She's been too sick for too long and despite her diligence in learning everything she could and taking every supplement and prescribed medication that might help her, she's losing the war. I'm afraid it's all making her a little crazy, at least that's how she appears to me. Being witness to such a profound loss can do that to a person, I would expect.

It's such a luxury to dwell on the simple pleasures like cleaning a surface. I also put together a little parcel of cat toys for friends in Montana with a new member of the family - Glory, the lucky cat with a loving home. I wrote a little letter, included a picture of Sadie, the party animal wearing her silly little hat. I scrubbed out the laundry sink and muddled over whether to wash my white linen pants with the pink linen shirt. I concocted a meal - stir fry - from loose ends.

It was not a social day. It was a doing day.

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We don't have the same taste in films, Allen and I. I might say that I am more discriminating, but that would not be quite fair. It would be more accurate to say that Allen is more forgiving, or that he likes a broader range of things. Tonight he's brought something home we had both agreed upon and now I'm balking at it. I can't explain why, I just don't want to watch anything silly. I'd rather pine and scrub the countertops and do some free thinking.

I'm feeling out-of-sync in many ways and one of those ways is in the area of film. There's hardly anything out there I'm hankering to see. Nearly every movie reminds me of another or of a lot of others. Some are composites of this and that and others are just poor substitutes. I won't go see a movie that is an actual remake of an earlier film. Why bother? How can you improve on Auntie Mame or Father of the Bride or that movie about the chauffeur's daughter? Someone in place of Rosalind Russell, Eliz Taylor, Audrey Hepburn, Bogie? I don't think so. But these odd re-dos do win Oscars and get noticed by a new generation. They are not for me, after all. I think that makes me officially obsolete.

I received an invitation in the mail today from our dandy of a mayor. Because I once was a vital albeit minor player in City politics, I was placed on a particular mailing list. The invitation is to attend a gathering on Sept 11 to commemorate the events of a year ago. The meeting time is 5:15 a.m. at City Hall, uh, just a bit early for me in this new life. Actually just a bit early for me in any life. But that is when the planes struck in New York and when Americans woke up literally and figuratively all over the country. I think I'll have to pass. Yet another area in which I have become obsolete. I won't be organizing groups anymore.

A friend wrote earlier about her own feelings of loss. I don't know what to tell her. I've been feeling so pitiful battling my little head cold this past two weeks. Nothing dramatic happened. I was not gasping for breath or wheezing in the night or anything like that. I just felt weak and limp and lackluster (a word I'm using far too often these days).

When you can't feel enthused about anything much, you know something is dreadfully amiss.

The head cold is nearly a thing of the past, but what next? Up and down, up and down we go.

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I blew the fuses in the stereo speakers last night. It was one of those rare evenings when I chased Allen upstairs and agreed to do the kitchen clean-up. I wanted to turn off the television and play a CD loud - very, very loud. I cranked up the amp and scrubbed to the beat. On this night it was a collection of Sondheim show tunes, selections from Sweeny Todd, Company, Sunday in the Park with George, A Little Night Music and a host of others. You were expecting Prince maybe or Bruce Springstein or perhaps Elvis? No, not tonight. It was Sondheim all the way. "Tragedy tomorrow, comedy tonight" as the lyric goes.

I think the head cold has gone. Not much of a cough today and just a little drip factor to deal with. I called to cancel my last minute appointment with my PCP. No reason to waste her time with the residue. And who knows what germs might be lurking in the waiting room.

My mind has been dull, my enthusiasm dampened by a general lack of energy and the grayness of each and every day here along the coast. Blowing out the fuses was a good sign that change may be in the wind. I hope so. I felt a little bit lively when Karen came today for a short visit. We walked to a café for latte and shared the hummus plate. We sat at a cozy bistro table near the fireless fireplace. We made light of things and laughed a lot. I hadn't known that it was in me to be so light hearted. It was a very nice surprise.

We stopped for lemons for me and hummus to go for her on the way back to my house shrouded in the foggy soup. And when she left, I piddled with a few chores and felt a little lost again. I think I'm needing good company more than anything. My friend Susan used to say she sometimes thought she might die from loneliness. I'm not quite there, but I do know that it's not good to spend too much time on your own.

We're planning another theater event. Tale of the Allergist's Wife is here for a short run and it's purported to be good for a laugh. Karen says she could use a good laugh, and God knows I could. We'll go soon and enjoy the time out.

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The sun came out today. Hooray! Is it any wonder why the Aztecs and the Mayans erected temples to the sun gods? There must have been a lot of very funky days in the Americas at their time in history. The sun can never be taken for granted. Certainly not by me, not here along the coast of N. Cal.

I turned off the heater and opened up the back door to the deck today. Ah, the flies came pouring in as they have a habit of doing, and the air was sweet and cool. Cats and dogs crossed the threshold at will and nothing much got accomplished at all.

When the doorbell rang this afternoon, I was prepared for the sight of Elen as I grabbled the door handle while attempting to quell Sadie's enthusiasm. Who is coming to see me, she barked. Which of my fans is coming to dote on me? It was a three-ringer, Elen's signal to me to let her in. It was not Elen. It was my friend's son, a young man who used to be one of the kids growing up on our block and more recently Grits, the now deceased bunny's custodian. He's no longer a child; he's a young man about to leave for college. He came to say good-bye for now, to thank me for a graduation gift and bring me a tiny African violet in a petite, gaily striped flower pot.

It was a little awkward. I don't see much of him and he's not sure what to say to me. He asked me if I needed anything, which I thought was very sweet of him. He asked how Allen was doing, how I was doing and that sort of thing. But I really saw his tender side when I handed Sadie to him. Sadie had been barking in a friendly way at his feet and I wanted to shut her up. When you hand Sadie to someone she does not know well, the barking stops. She studies their faces to see what's in store for her.

"She's so pretty," he said as he stroked her long blond strands.

When he put Sadie down, he kept looking at her. She had decided by then that this man was a friend. She stuck close to him but quietly this time.

After my little visit, I walked a short block and a half to get my hair cut and I should have taken a long walk afterward, but I have not felt like doing much lately. Even though I'm over my head cold, there is not much energy to spare here. At 4 o'clock, I was down for a nap. I'll try again tomorrow to talk myself into a stroll through the park. I need to do it for a number of reasons including just knowing I can.

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