The Rocking Horse

"The Kelpies", Andy Scott, Scotland

I’ve taken a slight detour this morning. I’m not sure why. I walk the same route day after day, month after month, and now, year after year.... Up 31^st street, down McBryde, down 30^th street, then back up to Roosevelt and home. But for some reason this morning, as I was marching down 30^th street in the frigid 37-degree air, I pause at Grant Street.

            I take a right toward the bay instead of my usual continued path straight ahead.

            What did Frost say? The road not taken?

            I stride down Grant Street, seeing houses I’ve not seen before. A bright blue and yellow number with a dilapidated wicker rocker on its porch. A fancy just remodeled bark yard, with baby succulents popping up. And as I turn down 26^th street, a Giant Metal Rocking Horse in the middle of a green green lawn.

            I slow my pace, marveling at the enormity of the sculpture. A man appears out of the house, locking his front door and then turning to walk to his car. He’s dressed in a light brown jacket and brown pants. The standard non-descript menswear. His brown bald head is hatless in the cold.

            I stop and grin a greeting, “Is this your sculpture?”
            He beams, shakes his head. “Nah...a friend of mine made it.”

            “Wow! It’s amazing!”

            He shrugs. “It’s been here forever.”

            “Really?” I walk a little closer to examine it. It must be about 15 feet high, or more, and the same across. It’s made of what looks like old parts of a car or truck or some other repurposed metal. Its giant head is a bouquet of metal pipes, pointing to both the sky and the ground.

            “Does it have a name?” I ask.

            He stares at me for a moment, then shakes his head. “That’s a good question. I don’t know. But I will ask him.”

            “Cool,” I continue to stare at the sculpture.

            “It works,” he offers.

            “You mean it rocks?”

            “Nah, if you hook it up it’ll make a noise. You know like that noise we hear round here on Wednesdays that sounds like what? ‘The missiles are coming.’” He chuckles.

            “Oh, yeah, I know what you mean.” And I do know what he means by the noise. It’s like an air raid siren that goes off at 11 am every Wednesday. The first time I heard it I thought we were being attacked. It’s loud and long, wailing like an injured sea lion magnified a thousand times.

            But I didn’t know how the Rocking Horse would be ‘hooked up’ or why you’d want it to make the Missile Alarm Noise.

            “Does your friend have other work?”

            “Oh, sure, he does. He makes those giant fruit sculptures you see on the highway. You know the bananas and the apples.”

            I nod. I have no idea what he’s talking about.

            “And are you an artist too?”

            He laughs, “I’m a security guard. But I did make some sculpture years ago taking classes at College of Marin. I like it, you know? You can put whatever you’re feeling into the sculpture. Like if you broke up with your girlfriend or broke your arm, you can take that emotion and put it in the art.”

            I nod. Of course, I know what he’s talking about. As a pianist, I take the emotion of both the composer and myself and channel it into making the music. I had to stop playing Chopin’s Nocturnes after a time because they were making me so melancholy. I don’t need that. Though the beauty of the music. I do need that....so, I go back to them again and again.

            I don’t tell him this, though. Instead, I mention my mother who is also a sculptor. Tell him how she used to work in bronze.

            He nods, thinking. “Yeah, bronze is cool. I knew this guy who worked in bronze. He created a fence for these people down in where was it? Los Altos? Yeah....and the fence was worth like a million bucks. And he showed me how to polish it. It had that patina, you know?  And then you do the rubbing and make it shine so pretty. If you know how to do this you can go anywhere in the world and make 30 bucks an hour.”

            I don’t know what to say to this. As a security guard, he probably makes minimum wage, so learning this craft would be lucrative. I wonder why he’s not traveling the world polishing bronze in Italy, Spain, Argentina....

            “What’s your friend’s name?” I ask.

            “David. He’s part of CERT. You know that?

            “No.” I’m not sure I’ve heard the word correctly, but I don’t ask again. I just want to hear him talk.

            “It’s for when the Big One comes and he’s one of the volunteers who comes over and saves the day.” He laughs.

            “Good to know,” I grin, still not having a clue what he’s talking about.

            “My name’s Carol,” I offer.

            “I’m George,” he says. Normally, we might shake hands, but we’ve kept our distance. Well, more than the prescribed 6 feet social distance required. Though now with Omicron running rampant, its transmissibility through the roof, I wonder if 6 feet is enough.

            “Nice to meet you,” I say, turning toward Barrett.

            “Yeah, you too,” he says.

            “Ask your friend if the sculpture has a name,” I remind him.

            “I will do that. That’s a good question....” He turns and unlocks his olive-green sedan, the exchange over.

            I head down the block, toward Barrett, and think how a new route can lead to stories. Glancing back at the Rocking Horse, I imagine it moving back and forth, a strange otherworldly siren screaming out of its pipe head, the missiles flying in the sky....

           

           

 

            

Marching in Richmond

“Is someone playing the flute?” I ask myself out loud, striding down 31^st on my morning walk. The gentle melody floats through the Diablo winds. I recognize it, but can’t identify it. I figure it’s someone practicing inside the house with the windows open, but as I get closer to the source, I see that it’s a dark-haired man with wire-rimmed glasses.  He's standing on the sidewalk, under the shade of a massive magnolia tree, a baby strapped to his back in one of those baby papooses.

I am walking in the middle of the street (yes, I still practice social distancing), but pause now to chat. He’s momentarily stopped playing the short, black, flute-like instrument. Grinning at me, he waves the instrument toward me in greeting.

“Hi!” I say, “that was lovely!”

“Oh....” he smiles shyly, “I was just practice....”

“Is that a recorder? Or a piccolo?” I ask. I have no clue about wind instruments. If it’s not a piano or a cello, I’m at a loss.

“Actually, this an Irish Tin Whistle. It is easier than a recorder. It has no holes to punch on the back. You can get them for 10 or 15 dollars, but this one is more. It is bamboo. It is 150.”

“Ah....well, I imagine the sound is better?” I offer. Who knew anything about the Irish Tin Whistle? Not I!

“Yes, of course, it is better. It is different. But I think maybe not necessary. For Christmas gifts, for your grandchildren (Yes, I’m a grandmother with strangers on the street), you can get it. All children, I think should have one. It is not so difficult to play.”

The baby on his back stares at me from his round pale face, big brown eyes unblinking. Music makes him serene? Or maybe he just enjoys being outside, under the magnolia tree, the dry air ruffling his thick black hair.

“I think it probably takes a lot of skill to play,” I say, thinking how I probably wouldn’t be able to get a peep out of it. I’ll never forget the time I visited my best friend in 5^th grade, Eileen O’ Brien, and she tried to teach me how to play the flute. (She was quite accomplished.) I tried and tried, blew and blew, pursed my lips just like she showed me and still......not a sound came out of the instrument!

“I am just practicing now....” he answers, modest in his skill. “It is a good instrument though. You can take it with you.”

“Unlike the piano!” I jest.

He is unfazed. “You can take an electric keyboard and play it.” He makes a motion in the air with his hands across an imaginary keyboard. We both laugh.

“Well, I’ll let you continue your practicing,” I say, waving goodbye.

He nods, starts to play again. The baby stares at me before a bird distracts him, landing in the magnolia tree.

As I march up the street, the single strain of the tune follows me. Ah, it’s Mozart! The Turkish March.

Grinning, I take up its rhythm, not even minding a brief gust of heaty wind whipping the leaves around me.

Paradise

 

Up ahead of me, I spy a small child trotting out of her backyard gate into the front side yard facing the street. She’s holding a large something—it’s awkward to hold, being at least half her size. As I approach, she lets go of a large butterscotch chicken, yes, a chicken! Butterscotch lands easily and begins pecking at the ground. I stop to chat cuz that’s what I do. And, I see that Butterscotch isn’t the only chicken. There are several chickens milling about, pecking at the ground: a speckled one, a feathered one, a black one.

            The little girl stands and stares at me.

            “Are those your chickens?” I ask.

            She nods.

            “Do they have names?”

            She rattles off a bunch of names in her little child’s voice. I can’t understand a word she’s saying. But I nod encouragingly. She’s small. Maybe 4 or 5 years old, with lank brown hair and pale white skin. She’s wearing a dirty pink dress that probably wasn’t dirty before she picked up the chicken.

            Then Dad emerges from the back yard, tall, dark,  handsome, and protective. He's wearing a lime baseball cap and holding a red weed whacker. Who is talking to his kid? When he sees me, he smiles. I’m no threat. No one is wearing masks anymore. But I’m still keeping my distance. Even though I really want to pet the chickens like I did the goats the day before.

            “Hi,” I greet him.

            “How ya doin’?” he answers.

            “Your chickens are really cute!” I exclaim.

            He chuckles, “Yeah, it’s Chicken Paradise here after the bare bones of the backyard.”

            I nod as we both observe the chickens pecking away in their weedy dirty paradise.

            “They really are beautiful,” I say. “Are they special kinds of chickens?”

            He’s all in now, “Oh, yeah. That one there....” He points to the spotted one. “....is called a Dominican Chicken. But another name for it is the Mayflower Chicken. It’s been around since the 1600s.”

            “Wow!” I admire Mayflower’s spotted feathers. She doesn’t look that old, but who knows how long chickens live if you don’t eat them.

            “And that one there, we call him Feather Foot; she is a Feather.....”

            I don’t catch what he’s saying, but nod like I do.

            “The Golden one over there is called a Golden Chicken.”

            “That’s appropriate!” I laugh. He joins in. The child continues, all this time, to stand in one place, staring at me. Then she suddenly stops staring and starts to follow Mayflower around. Trying to grab her. But Mayflower will have none of it and scurries away. She’s got pecking to do in her Chicken Paradise.

            “Where do you live?” Dad continues.

            “Oh, down on 32^nd street.”

            “Rebecca is on 31^st street. She has chickens.”

            “She does?” I am dubious about this. I haven’t heard any chickens in the house behind me, but maybe they’re all just relaxing in the hot tub with glasses of wine and Vogue magazines.

            “Yeah,” he nods.

            “I do hear a rooster every day. I think it lives in the house across the street from me but not behind me.”

            “Yeah,” he pauses. “We don’t have a rooster, but these girls do make a clucking noise.” He mimics the chicken noise. He’s very good at it.  The little girl laughs. Chases after Butterscotch again, who evades capture. At least for now.

            “Well,” I say, starting to walk on, “you have a good rest of your day.”

            “You too,” Dad says, holding his weed eater machine. Is he going to cut all the yummy chicken weeds?

            That’s hardly what Paradise is about. But, for a chicken maybe Paradise is just around the next bend.  

            As long as you can peck clear of children. Who should never be a part of Paradise.

            I cross Clinton Ave, looking both ways before heading up the next block. I hear the weed eater’s motor’s whine and wince. Such a heinous noise. But as I continue to walk, the whine fades. The neighborhood is quiet on this block. No chickens. No weed eaters. No little girls.

            A lone dove coos out into the blue sky. A strawberry tree sways in the breeze. I breathe in the late spring air, clucking softly to myself as I cross Garvin street.

             

Goat Girl

“Can we pet the goats?” Ian asks Goat Girl, who’s fondling one of the goats with both hands. Rubbing the goat’s little mouth sides, cooing at her with kissy noises. The goat stands patiently in an outdoor enclosure, her head leaning over the fence, the better for fondling.

            We’ve only been here for two days, but Ian and I immediately established a walking routine. How could we not? The calm, warm, redwood scented air and soothing massive shade from these giants beckoned us from the moment we landed here. Who knew that Aptos had an idyllic redwood forest above the sea?

            Tromping down the shady road, we spotted just one other walker. A mom with a stroller, pushing baby up the hill. No mask. She smiled and waved. I smiled and waved back, thinking about how much has changed in the last month with more and more people getting vaccinated. Ian and I have been vaccinated for weeks now, and so we, too, wore no masks this morning. But I know that not everyone is safe. Many young people still hadn’t gotten their shots. So, when Ian asked Goat Girl, who wasn’t wearing a mask and made no effort to retrieve one from a pocket, if we could pet the goats, I had my reservations.

            I mean, I guess I’m supposed to be immune. But Goat Girl? She’s young. Maybe in her 30s or early 40s? I can’t tell. She’s not a senior citizen. Thus, I assume she wasn’t vaccinated. But who knows? Maybe being a Goat Caretaker is an Essential Worker in Santa Cruz county and she had her shots months ago.

            Now, she turns and grins at us, nodding to Ian, “Sure, you can pet them.”

            Eagerly, Ian steps up to the Goat Plate. Holds out his hand and one of the goats meanders over to him, nuzzling his hand.

            I follow suit. Holding out my hand, but still, I’m anxious about the no mask situation. Do I ask Goat Girl if she’s had her shots? Does it even matter since both Ian and I have, and so we’re safe; never mind about her. If she’s not concerned, then I guess I shouldn’t be either. It’s not like we’ll ever see her again.

            Yet....I feel uneasy. I could dig my mask out of my pocket to demonstrate mask etiquette awareness. But I don’t. Why not?

            The goats.

            They are so cute that I forget about the lack of masks as I start to pet the rough goat fur on the top of one of their heads.

            “What are their names?” I ask.

            “The one you’re petting is Ella....and that one over there? That’s Earthstar. She’s not as friendly.”

            I shoot a look over at Earthstar. She stares back at me, not budging from her little hill in the middle of the enclosure. Well, with a name like Earthstar, maybe she belongs on another planet.

            “What kind of goats are they?” Ian asks.

            “They’re Nigerian Dwarfs.”

            “They don’t look like dwarfs!” Ian chuckles, scratching Ella on the top of her head.

            “Yeah, well, Earthstar is a bit of a Tank.”

            We all laugh as Goat Girl goes on to tell us how she milks the goats, uses the milk to make butter and buttermilk. The fat content of the milk. The neighbors across the road who love the goat buttermilk. How she’s raised kids for years now and has a clientele that buys her Goat Goods.

            Maybe I’m right. She is an essential worker and had her shots months ago. Goat Milk is a necessity in the hills of Aptos.

            I glance down at my Fitbit watch. It’s getting late and we need to check out of the Tiny House soon. I nudge Ian, “We should get going.”

            “But they’re so cute! Look she doesn’t want me to stop patting her!”

            Goat Girl laughs. “Oh, she’d let you do that all day long if you were willing!”

            Ella looks at us with her sideways goat eyes. Saying to us, you better not leave? Or, that she doesn’t care one way or the other. Goat Girl is there. Ella’s guaranteed pats for life.

            “C’mon, honey,” I urge. “Let’s go. It’s getting late.”

            “Oh, okay....” Reluctantly, Ian stops petting Ella. Ella immediately meanders over to Goat Girl who resumes the petting.

            “Thanks for lettin us pet them,” I call out as we start our tromp back up the hill.

            “No problem,” Goat girl grins, resuming her cooing kissy noises.

            I don’t say anything to Ian about the lack of masks. Am I just being paranoid? Isn’t it time to toss that fear aside and get back to living?

            I’m not sure. I still have my doubts.

            But petting goats is a good distraction for a few minutes from the anxieties of the pandemic.

            A small 7 note melody echoes through the redwoods, floats up as the bird gains its voice. I breathe in the warm scented air and take a step up the hill, the sun beginning to rise in the blue blue sky. The song follows me for a time, then drifts away. I glance up into the trees, but don’t see anyone. The bird is off and away.

            And so are we.

Hello Baby

 

 

“Hiiiii! Hiiii!!! Hiiii!!!!”

The little voice floats out and up into the blue hazy sky, calling me? I did notice them. The Fitness Family. Dad pushing the jogging stroller in front of him, his lean tan legs effortless in their movement forward. Mom, ponytail swinging out of the back of her baseball cap, jogging dog at her side, leashed and obedient. She’s keeping pace with Dad, but I can tell it’s an effort.

            And baby?

            I never see baby. Ensconced in the jogging stroller. But Baby musta seen me. “Hiiiii! Hiiiiii!!!” The greeting is insistent. Demanding attention. As babies do. So, I play along, “Hiiii!” I sing back, “Hiiii!” baby sings to me. “Hiiiii!” I start to laugh. Dad and Mom keep on moving. They’re not stopping to talk to anyone. They’re on a fitness mission. Running off the baby fat for mom. Out of the ZOOM office for dad. The dog eager for his morning jog.

            And baby?

            He’s just along for the ride.

            I have to say there would be something to be said for this. I wouldn’t mind if some handsome dad was pushing me along in a jogging stroller. I’d just lie there and stare up at the clouds floating in the sky. Call out to strangers walking on the sidewalk. Safe and secure in my little moving world.

            Unlike my reality. Not safe or secure at all. Why is this? I am just walking around the neighborhood. But I always run into some hazard. A near miss with a speeding car at the corner of Garvin and 30^th street. A stray dog running at me, barking and snarling. A strange person hailing me from afar, wanting something from me: peanut butter, the time of day, a kiss.

            The pandemic pacings are fraught. And, as this Fitness Family jogs by, the baby now calling out “Bye!!! Bye!!!! Bye!!!!”, are smug in their nuclear world. Jogging down the middle of the street. No worries about a car running them down. Why is this? I guess they are obvious. It’s not like the driver of the car would miss seeing them. Yet, I think how entitled this is. That the Fitness Family gets the run of the entire street, while anytime I walk in the street, I risk my life. The drivers never seem to see me even though I think how could they miss me? With my bright turquoise sun hat and red ear muffs and stalk of blond hair sticking up into the stratosphere.

            Yet, I am invisible most of the time. It’s the middle-aged lady thing. I’d heard of it all my life and had never understood, but now I get it. Middle-aged women are completely dismissed in our culture. If you’re not young and beautiful, forget it. You don’t matter. If you walk in the middle of the street, well, you deserve to get mowed down.

            Besides, who would mow down a baby?

            I might.

            Just kidding. Kinda....

            As the family jogs across Clinton, of course not pausing let alone stopping to see if there’s any traffic headed their way, I watch their easy, relentless push forward. They are so sure, so fearless, so Family.    

      

      A couple of red-breasted cuties sing out to me as I pause to let a car go by at Clinton. I wave ‘bye’ to the birds as I step off the curb. Another pandemic pacing Saturday. I pull my mask over my mouth and nose as another walker heads toward me on the sidewalk. She heads into the street, giving me the sidewalk.

            Well, someone saw me. We wave and we walk on. The sun on my back, the breeze behind me, the baby way ahead of me.

            I’m suddenly so tired. It’s been a hell of a week. I’m thankful it’s Saturday. And for the baby. Whose hi hi hi song has brightened my day. Another surprise for me on my Pandemic Pacing.

           

           

           

           

The Shot

“Have you gotten your shot yet?” A swimmer from Hilltopia stops me at the corner of 32^nd and Roosevelt. I haven’t seen him in a while, but he seems the same: Fit and friendly.

This is the latest greeting on my pandemic pacings. Everyone is curious if you’re on the road to immunity. Fortunately, I am and tell him so.

“Me, too,” he says, “Oh, here, let me put on my mask.”

He pulls it out of his pocket, performing the necessary adjustments under his hat and sunglasses. I’m glad he has the mask, but man, I’m sick of the whole masking up. It’s just so tiresome. And the experts are saying, (Who? Dr. Fauci? Kaiser Permanente?) that we’ll have to continue with mask-wearing and social distancing even after we’ve been vaccinated.

            Well, then what’s the point? I mean, I suppose I understand that even if we’re vaccinated, we might still carry the virus and transmit it to those who aren’t vaccinated yet. Like young people. And kids.

            But for groups of old people or fellow educators, if we’re all vaccinated, can’t we let our guard down just a bit?

            I saw on the news how a group of Old People, all of whom had been vaccinated, were out partying. (Can Old People party? Your bet your ass they can! Let lose Grandma! Shake your booty, Grandpa!) They were gathered in a park, all seated on their little folding chairs, like the kind you bring to watch Shakespeare in the Park, with bottles of fine wine, cheeses, and grapes, toasting to their newfound freedom from Covid!

            I wanted to join them, but I can’t drink. For other reasons that are still a mystery to me, but that’s neither here nor there.

            The point is, if we are all in a group and everyone’s vaccinated, then we can let loose a bit.

            I’m sure ready for that!

            It would be nice to be out walking and when I run into someone I want to chat with, we could just pause and exchange the latest without having to muffle our words behind a mask. Because as I’ve said before, I can’t really hear everyone behind a mask and people can’t hear me.

            The other night at the Dive Tank check-in, the polite young lifeguard asked me my name. I told him and he heard something entirely different---Teresita. For a moment, I thought of telling him I was Teresita. Maybe she wasn’t in the Dive Tank and had a Real Lane, but then I thought, what if Teresita showed up? And I was in her lane?

            Well, it wouldn’t be pretty. And, frankly, I’ve decided not to fight the Dive Tank banishment anymore.

            I’m just wishing that the Herd Immunity would happen faster!

            Hilltop Swimmer is going on about how Berkeley is supposed to open. What is he talking about? The Berkeley Y? He was telling me this 6 months ago. Is he on a Repeat Loop?

            Tonight, I just nod and agree that if Berkeley opened their pool that would be cool. Cuz all I’m doing is walking and Dive Tanking.

            “I have a rowing machine,” he brags.

     Of course, he does. He’s a manly workout guy. These types have equipment. Even during a pandemic. Or maybe esp. during a pandemic.

            “I don’t have a rowing machine,” I state the obvious, or at least to me. “I just walk and swim in the stupid Dive Tank.”

            He laughs. I can hear his amusement in spite of the mask. “Well, that’s better than nothing!” he proclaims.

            And, I have to agree. It is better than nothing, but hell, I just want to get my second shot and do a little partying, you know?

            Sans mask. Sans Social Distancing. Sans Anxiety.

            It’s time to embrace the future.

            If only it would get her sooner!

            “Well, nice to see you,” he starts off down Roosevelt, taking the mask off once the 6 ft distance is assured.

            “Yes, you, too!” I also take down my mask, tucking it under my chin, before heading in the opposite direction.  The evening light casts pink shadows on the grey cement sidewalk as I put one foot in front of the other, breathing in the cool spring air. 

Peanut Butter

         “Hey Lady! Hellooooo Laaady!!!”

I hear the rumbling of the old beater behind me. The voice bellowing above its sputtering. I’m startled at first. Who’s hollering at me now? I quicken my step, having turned off Roosevelt onto 30^th Street toward Barrett. But the car follows me. Makes the turn too.

            It idles in the middle of the street, its owner hanging out the window, cigarette smoke blasting out the open window. I don’t know him, of course. But that never stops anyone, esp. Strange Men, from hailing me. What does this guy want? I try to ignore him, but it’s impossible as he leans out the window, grinning at me, a dirty beanie on his head, a delighted twinkle in his eye.

            “I’m looking for peanut butter!” he hollers at me.

            What???? He can’t have said that, right? I mean, peanut butter? Why would he be looking for that? And more importantly, why would he tell me or ask me? It’s not like I’m rolling a peanut butter cart down the street. “Get your peanut butter now! Fresh outta the Jiffy Jar!”

            My father loved peanut butter. He’d pile Saltines high into a tower, slathered in peanut butter to make little square sandwiches. I remember his unabashed delight at these little peanut butter squares. When I went to visit him at his sad little apartment in the Valley, during his separation from my mother, this is the first thing he offered. A Saltine peanut butter sandwich appetizer before the main course of spaghetti and Ragu sauce from a jar.

            This guy obviously likes peanut butter too. But, why tell me? I could tell him to continue down 30^th street, make a left-hand turn, head down Barrett till 37^th. He’ll see Val Mar on the corner. I’m sure they have peanut butter there. Though maybe not. It’s mostly a liquor store with a nice ice cream section. The owners know their neighborhood clientele.

            Peanut Butter Man continues to grin at me. No mask, of course. I can’t help but grin behind my mask at his request. But don’t offer him the directions to Val Mar. I try not to engage with these strange men on my Pandemic Pacings, but they always seem to find me. I keep thinking my Weirdo Magnet will die out as I age, but frankly, it seems worse. What is it about me that sparks an invitation to engage? It’s not like I’m asking for it. These men just see me, follow me, and then ask me weird questions.

            Like, I’m looking for peanut butter? Or was it I’m looking for peanut butter. Just an assertion, letting me know what his day’s purpose was.

            Who knows? I still can’t really believe that this is what he said. But what else could it have been? I’m looking for people butter? I’m looking for peanut water?

            He’s still grinning at me, then starts to move away slowly, his old beater car chugging out exhaust. “It’s a beautiful day!” he calls out.

            “Yes, it is,” I agree.

            “You have a blessed one!” He waves goodbye.

            “Thanks, you too,” I say, hoping he finds the peanut butter he’s looking for. After all, he may just be in search of protein. A good thing that we all could use.

            As I watch his old car sputter away, I notice his license plate. The number written indecipherably in red crayon. Is he on the lam? Is the quest for peanut butter some clandestine enterprise?

            A group of masked neighbors are milling about in front of one of their houses, socially distanced and chatting seriously. None of them look at me. None of them watch Peanut Butter Man drive away.

            I shrug and walk on. The pink flowers are blooming on the fruit trees, the clouds puffy against the grey blue sky. I turn the corner and head up Barrett. No Peanut Butter here, but the day is young.

           

Core Nature Thing

 

“Haaaalloooo! OOOhhhh! Yooohoooo!”

I turn around, pausing against the cold grey wind and steep incline on my way up Clinton Hill. A tall, darkly clad figure is hollering at me, waving and maybe smiling---can’t tell because of the mask. Who the hell knows me? And beyond that, who knows me and would be hollering at me?

            “Haaallooo!” The figure is closer now and I see who it is---V, the Scottish Lady. As she approaches me, I back away, hyperaware of social distancing. I’ve avoided the virus for nearly a year, now. No need to get it when the vaccine is on my horizon.

            Yet, she’s still striding toward me, her eyes sparkling, her thin blue mask heaving in and out as I decide that I have no choice but to wait for her. See what she wants. She’s probably just being neighborly, but I’m in a rush. Have a class to teach on Zoom in an hour and just wanted to get some air before 3 hours in front of the computer.

            “How are you?” she asks, stepping in stride with me as I start up the hill. Damn. I don’t want to walk with her. It scares me. I know people walk with each other during this Pandemic, donning their masks, but keeping the social distance? How is this possible while you’re walking.

            It’s not.

            People naturally veer closer to those they’re talking to. And the Scottish woman is no exception as she walks too close to me as we march up the little hill. What do I do? Do I tell her to get away from me? Do I run up on the sidewalk, out of the street where we currently are walking. If I’m up on the sidewalk and she’s in the street, then maybe that’s enough distance. But then how do you carry on a conversation?

            Gawd. I’m so sick of it all! I just want everything to go back to ‘normal’—whatever that will look like once everyone is vaccinated, or most people are.

            I don’t tell her what I’m really thinking. “I’m fine.”

            “Really?” She’s dubious. “Most people I ask....” She makes the hand gesture, palm down, rocking slightly that means, I’m okay. Or as they say in Spanish, “Así así”.

            “Yeah,” I am up on the sidewalk—she’s on the street now—yelling the conversation at me. I yell back, “I’m working a lot, so I guess I don’t have time to dwell on things...”

            “Oh, what kind of work do you do if you don’t mind my asking?” When did it become not okay to ask people what kind of work they do? Maybe it’s a European thing. My French friend (I have no idea what job she does after years) told me once that it’s not polite, or even rude, to ask people what they do for a living.

            I find this weird, but I’m American. “I teach writing at FFU,” I say.

            “Oh! I would like to take writing from you! I write! Well, I try to write. I write every day. I don’t always like it. But I can’t not do it. Do you know what I mean?”

            We’re at the top of the little hill now, pausing for a moment. Her blue mask continues to heave in and out, in and out, with each breath. It seems so thin and insubstantial. I’m scared that it’s not enough protection. Couldn’t spittle and air come through it and land on me even with the mask?

            I want to get away from her being this close. Even though I like her. Even though she’s talking about writing. But everyone does once I say I’m a writing teacher. Everyone is a writer.

            I tell her that, yeah, most writers feel at odds with the craft at times.

            She nods, taking this in. Then asks me if she can take writing from me. I tell her that sometimes I take private clients but not now. I’m too busy. I’ll keep in touch with her.

            I glance down the hill toward the right, wondering which way she’s headed so I can go the opposite. Again, it’s so weird that we all have to worry about this. Yet, the Scottish Lady doesn’t seem worried at all.            

            “Walking is good,” I offer, “but I miss swimming.” Why am I telling her this? I wish I were in the pool right now!

            “You’re a swimmer, are you?”

            “Yeah, but it’s hard right now. The pools are either closed or booked up. I did swim in the bay. though,  during the summer.”

            “Oh, did you now!” she exclaims. “That is a very Core Nature Thing to do!”

            I nod. Wondering what the hell that means but liking it a lot. Is swimming at my core and so it’s a natural thing to do? Maybe, she’s got it!

            She turns to head up the next little hill and I take my opportunity to head in the opposite direction.

            “Bye, now!” she waves, her long legs carrying her up the incline.

            “Bye,” I holler back to her, my core nature switching to walking as the brisk wind hits me in the face. Thinking how at least I have another walking story. Writing--that’s my Core Nature thing to do!

Holiday Pile-up

 “Happy Valentine’s Day! Happy New Year! Gung Hay Fat Choy!!! Happy Presidents’ Day!”

            He rattles off the holidays as I pass by, giving him wide berth by walking in the middle of the street. Even though I have my mask on, I still practice the give ‘em-too-much-social-distancing protocols. At this point in my walks, the avoidance of people is so automatic, yet even so, I sometimes feel strange about it.

            Like today with this cheerful neighbor wishing me all these holidays’ good cheer. Would I have ordinarily stopped to chat with him? Probably not. But it’s the idea that we can’t do this that starts to wear me down.

            He’s getting into his mid-2000’s Toyota sedan, a plastic container of to-go food balanced on the roof of the car. He’s masked, too. Thank goodness. Even though most people are, I still see the occasional rogue non-masker on my walks. Like today the man with his gold shoes, ubiquitous phone in his hand playing some stupid video, and a sad little dog that wanted to stop and have me pet it. This man had NO mask on. He did glance at me, but barely. He made no motion to give me any social distancing. He just sauntered along, phone blaring, ignoring me.

            Unlike Holiday Pile-up man! He was all about wishing me well. Do I know him? Have I seen him before?

            Maybe. Though he doesn’t look familiar with his salt and pepper curly hair popping up all over his head and brown eyes smiling at me over his black mask. He’s a short and stocky guy, dressed in non-descript beigey clothing, getting ready for his Saturday. But not before wishing me well. Which I appreciate.

            I wave and laugh as he lists the holiday off. Even the Chinese New Year in Chinese! Was he Chinese? Maybe, I can’t tell under his mask, but with the curly hair, I think probably not. But it’s the Bay Area. We’re multicultural here. Embracing everyone’s holidays and not just the usual Anglo European ones of the Patriarchy.

            I wish him happy holidays too as I march past him.

            He’s watching me, but not in a creepy way, just a friendly neighborly way. “You take care, Young Lady!” he calls after me.

            Young Lady! I love this guy! No one has called me that for decades! There are some advantages to being masked and hatted and sunglassed up. No one can tell that I’m an old lady and not a young lady. Though this could just be something he calls every ‘Lady’—I mean, what’s he gonna say, “You take care, Lady?” Or “You take care, Old Lady?”

            Nope, “You take care, Young Lady” has a nice ring to it.

            Hell, I’ll take it.

            As I stride up the street, a grey plush cat stares at me serenely from her perch on a porch. I wish her Happy Valentine’s Day.

            She closes her eyes, raising her cat face to the morning sun.  I wave goodbye and then continue up the street, marveling at the puffy clouds, pink blossoms, and holiday pile up on this fine faux spring day.

       

Happy Face

 “Daa da daa daa da da daaaaaa! La da da da daaaaa!”

I hear the melody before I spy its source. A man’s groggy baritone, floating over the block as I march up 30^th street for my usual morning Pandemic Pacing.

            The tune is familiar. But I don’t place it right away. Instead, as I approach one of the neat little bungalows that line the block, an elderly man with a tremendous shock of white hair and beard, calls out to me. “Beautiful day!”

            I nod, “Yes, it is.”

            “No wind, no rain.” He’s beaming. Waves his arm in a wide arc. Behold the beauty of the day!

            “Yes,” I agree. But for me, I immediately think how no rain means continued drought here in Northern California. I try to banish this from the front of my brain right now as this gentleman is obviously so delighted with the weather.

            And, why not? It is a gorgeous day. Bright blue skies. Warm gentle sunshine. Sweet birds chirping.

            What’s not to like?

            As I pass his house, he takes up the tune again and it hits me. Oh, that song! “Grey clouds are gonna clear up. Put on a happy face....”

            Ugh. I’ve always loathed this song. I mean, like if you just ‘put on a happy face’ all will be okay? Who really thinks this?

            Though as I continue up the street, my face has turned happier, just from the exchange. The music. His delight.

            Is this song really just a song? I mean, my therapist would tell me all the time when I was so depressed to just get up and go through the motions. That soon I would feel better. And I never believed her. But then, when I did try it, when I did go out and walk—this was my go-to strategy even then! ---I did feel better.

            So, maybe there is something to the song, obnoxiously saccharine as it is.

            The beagle couple, a man and a woman, are paused at the top of the block, masked and waiting for me to pass.

            “Good morning,” I holler, putting on my happy face even under my mask.

            “Good morning,” the man says, though not very enthusiastically. He isn’t putting on his happy face! I decide to make him!

            “Good Morning Beagles!” I call out.

            The dogs stare at me, tails beginning to wag. I can’t go up and pet them cuz of the Pandemic, but their owners now smile. I can tell behind their masks.  I almost start singing the song, but decide that this is really too much. Tempting as it is.

            Striding up the next block, I grin to myself, singing the song softly. “Grey clouds are gonna clear up. Put on a happy face.” What’s the next line? I can’t remember, something about sunshine and blue skies?

            I glance up at the blue blue sky, feeling the warmth of the sun on my shoulders. I guess putting on a happy face ain’t so hard after all.

            At least till the next storm comes.