Fun

 “Are we having fun yet?”

The question floats across the neighborhood as I walk down Downer Street. “Nothing like a drought to start all the fun, right?”

Did I hear this second question right? A drought starts fun? How could that be? A drought may be a lot of things: worrisome, dangerous, scary, but fun?

            I don’t think so.

            As I approach the spot where the questions came from, I see a group gathered in front of a house where landscaping is being done. Earlier in the month, I’d noticed one of those mini bulldozers digging up the dead lawn. Now, as I draw near, I see that the lawn is gone and in its place is a pretty little drought-resistant landscaping.

            This must be what the fun is all about.

            Of course, I stop and talk to the group, hollering at the one man, who must be the DroughtScaper. “Hey! I need to do that to my dead lawn!”

            One of the women laughs, “Us too! We all want to get rid of our dead lawns.”

            As I pause, I take in the group gathered around the landscaper’s truck. He’s leaning on it, tall, dark and handsome. I’ll hire him, I think to myself. Then 3 women of various heights, ages and sizes circle around him.

            “Do you have a card?” I ask Handsome Landscaper. He nods and disappears for a moment into his truck.

            “I see you walking around here all the time,” one of the women comments to me. She’s very tall and slender with Mary Tyler Moore slacks and a brown bob haircut. “Do you live around here?”

            “Yeah, I just live over on 32^nd. I’m Carol,” I offer.

            Tall Woman introduces her neighbors, rattling off their names in a too-fast-for me-to-remember list.

            One of the women, with a tangle of grey and black hair, holds a little dog.

    

        “And who is this?” I ask.

            “OH! This is Mr. Doodles.”

            “Hello, Mr. Doodles.” In vain, the dog wriggles to get out of her arms.

            “And that over there is my son Leo,” Tall Woman nods. The kid is climbing around in the back of the landscaper’s truck. He grins at me for 1 second, before turning around and proceeding to play some sort of topple from the truck game.

            Handsome Man comes back with his card and a brochure, hands them to me and one of the other women. He doesn’t engage in the chit-chat. He has work to do.

            “Lots of business for you!” Mr. Doodle’s person observes. And, I realize now that she’s the one who made the drought fun quip.

            Without the drought and the subsequent landscaping, this little gathering wouldn’t have happened. Or not in quite this way. At this time. With these women.

            A tortie cat saunters past.

            “Who’s that?” I exclaim, wanting to go pet the cat instead of talking. But she’s off and slinking under the truck now.

            “Oh, that’s Pebbles. She’s Maya’s cat.” Mr. Doodle’s person says, the authority on the pet element of the gathering.

            As I stuff Handsome Landscaper’s card into my pocket, I smile and wave goodbye. “Nice to meet you all.”

            “Bye-bye!” They call out before going back to their neighborhood gossip.

            I walk on, thinking about the exchange with this group. Glance down at the Landscaper’s card. “Paul Siminali.”

            Okay, I’ll call Paul.

            Who knows, maybe the drought could start some fun. With the right ingredients, that is.  

 

Luna

Luna approaches me as I walk up McBryde, her lanky saunter and pink panting tongue now a familiar encounter on my morning walks. Her person, a modestly friendly young man in shorts and t-shirt, always stops and lets me pet her. Today was no different.

            “Hi Luna!” I call out. “How are you today?”

            She is tentative at first, then recognizes me. Heads over to sniff my outstretched hand and then does the big doggy leg lean-in. Immediately, my black velour pants are all aflutter with white dog hair.

            She turns to look at me with her two-colored eyes, one blue, one brown, as is common with Huskies. Her lean-in is solid. She wants me to hold her up. I’m delighted to oblige.

            “She’s a hot dog today,” I note.

            “Yeah, a little,” her owner acknowledges. Of course, I don’t know his name, just the dog’s.

            “It’s supposed to rain this weekend,” I offer.

            “Oh, that’s bad!” he exclaims.

            Baffled, I eye him more closely. How could rain be bad in this severe drought that we’ve been in for the last three years? Why only this morning, I’d read a horrifying article in the SF Chron about how the rice fields of the Sacramento Valley are only at half capacity because of the drought. The photo of the brown cracked river bed where the rice used to flourish almost made me cry.

            I had to turn the page.

            So, when this young man says that the rain is bad, where has he been?

            I think he sees my look of confusion and so he backtracks a little. After all, you would have to be in either heavy-duty denial or an idiot to not know the drought is killing California.

            “I guess the rain is good,” he says now. “But for me, I have to walk her. In the rain, this is difficult.”

            And I think, maybe this is most people’s reaction to the rain. If it inconveniences them, then they don’t like it. Never mind that we can’t live without water!

            “Doesn’t Luna like the rain?” I ask.

            He shrugs. “She don’t care. Once, I think it was last year, it rained a lot and we got caught in it. It was a mess.”

            I nod, wondering what kind of mess it could have been. Muddy dog mess? Sure, I know that dogs do like the mud and water. Then they come home and shake it all over the house. It is a mess.

            But what a wonderful mess at this point in the drought. Yet, it’s not like one afternoon of rain this weekend will end the drought. It’s here to stay and will only get worse. I have constant anxiety over it and there’s nothing I can do about it. Eco Anxiety. Eco Grief. It’s a thing.

            “Well,” I offer, “I know you have to walk the dog come rain or shine.”

            “Yeah, but if I had a smaller dog, it wouldn’t be such an issue. But I had to get a Husky.”

            Luna continues to lean into me; she’s in no hurry to leave. But I can tell that her owner has had enough.

            “You two have a good rest of your walk,” I say, starting down the street.

            “Yes, you too, Ma’am,” he says, his standard goodbye to me every morning.

            As I walk down McBryde, I notice the Monarch Butterflies flitting about, the crows cawing atop the telephone wires and the cars whizzing by. Our life is so vibrant and active! How can this world be drying up before our eyes?

            I can’t think about it anymore as I turn the corner at 30^th street and head down the sidewalk, the too bright sun bearing down on me. I really hope for the rain this weekend.

            And that Luna gets soaked! And makes a BIG mess!

Lemonade

I spy a man up ahead, shirt off in the heat, shoveling the yard. Who the hell is working in this heat? Granted, it’s not that hot yet; after all, I’m out here walking. But to be working in the Heat Dome sun? Seems a bit insane to me.

            As I draw closer, I see that it’s a young man in a tan shirt, not shirtless. He’s working up a sweat, his dark hair dripping as he steps on the shovel. I say good morning and then can’t help but comment:

            “You’ve got a hot job this morning!” He’s in the process of replacing the dead grass with bark, digging up the dirt first, then laying down the cardboard, then spreading the bark on top of this surface.

            “Yeah,” he stops, grins at me, tired but friendly. “We took yesterday off so gonna see what we can get done this morning.”

            “I need to do that to my dead lawn,” I note, thinking how I’ve been meaning to do this major landscape transformation for years.

            “Yeah, we’ve been on Craigslist, asking for cardboard donations.” He shakes his head, laughing softly. “It’s a job alright.”

            “Yeah, I’d need to get someone to do it for me. You need a lot of strength to do it yourself.” I note his young, fit body, the strength still there. Where did all my strength go?

            I think it’s in my brain now.

            A young woman approaches from the sideyard, “Hi,” she calls out cheerfully.

            “Hey,” I say. “Did you guys just move in?” I’d noticed the peach house on the corner here of Esmond and 32^nd for sale this summer.

            “Yes, in August,” she says. “Where do you live?”

            “Just down the street a few blocks here on 32^nd.”

            “Cool,” she says, pushing a heated strand of brown hair out of her eyes. She’s dressed in very short cutoffs, her pale legs screaming to get out, her tank top barely holding in her ample bosom.

            I can see where her strength lies.

            “Well, welcome to the neighborhood,” I proclaim as I watch Liv approaching from across the street, her big floppy hat adorned with huge yellow plastic flowers held in place by a sky-blue ribbon.

            “Well, hello!” she calls out. “I brought you some lemonade!” She hands the clear plastic container filled with the cooling beverage to the young man.

            “WOW!” he says. “Thank you!”

            “You’re very welcome,” she says. And, I think, did she see me out here talking to her new neighbors and decide to make this overture? Or does she do this for all the neighbors working in their yards?

            “Have you met your new neighbors?” I ask her.

            “No, I have not. I’m Liv.”

            “Todd,” he says. “Milly,” she says. “Carol,” I say.

            “Wow,” Todd repeats. “This really hits the spot.”

            “It’s not that cold,” Liv responds. “And I didn’t add any sweetener.”

            “It tastes great!” he gushes, taking a large gulp and then handing it over to Milly.

            I think how I’d like a gulp, too. I’m so hot! Why I’m out here in the heat is beyond me. Though, frankly, it’s early still. Not that hot. Unless you’re trying to replace your lawn with cardboard and bark! Honestly, I don’t get why these young people are out here. New young homeowners. They’re a different breed. Full of hope and energy. The house will be theirs as soon as they make all the improvements. The bark for the front lawn. A new paint job perhaps? I mean, who would want to live in a peach-colored house? Then planting. A strawberry tree. Some drought-resistant flora and fauna.

            And then the dog. The baby. The jobs.

            It’s a young life.

            It gives me hope and makes me happy despite the blazing Heat Dome that has descended upon the Bay Area. Evidently, there has been nothing like this heat before. The Dome is dangerous and long-lived. Heat warnings abound. Our usual hike for the Monday holiday, Labor Day, in Wildcat Canyon is on hold. All the East Bay parks are closed because of the heat. I don’t remember this happening before.

            It’s our new normal---Climate Crisis. I shudder inwardly. What can I do?

            I turn to go, “Well, nice meeting you both,” I say, “I better keep walking before it gets too hot! See you at the pool, Liv! Liv and I swim together at the Plunge and Kennedy High.” Why I tell the young couple this I have no idea. I sure don’t want them coming to the pool. It’s crowded enough.

            Todd waves bye and takes another shovel stab at the hot dirt.

            Liv and Milly continue chatting. “Nice hat, Liv!” I call out.

            “Why thank you!”  she beams.

            I start up the block humming Chopin as a couple of crows caw at me from the telephone wires above. The sun bears down on me; I feel the heat that is to come. As I turn the corner onto McBryde, I think how there must be a story in this encounter.

            I’ll have to think about that. After I get home and make some lemonade, take a cooling shower, and try to stay cool…..

           

           

           

            

Positivity Forever

“Let me ask you a question if I might?”

I’m trapped. I’d seen them earlier on my morning walk around the neighborhood. Down on 28^th street, between Roosevelt and Barrett. Their slow methodical walking. The tan suits and somber dresses. In no hurry at all. Stopping on the sidewalk to gather and chat. Methodically making their way to each front door, where with a knock, they’d corner the hapless occupant with the Scripture.

            Jehovah's Witnesses.

            Now, since I’d left my door open, with only the screen between me and the elderly gentleman, a little hunch of a man, black mask, open bible, tan suit, stands on my doorstep. A handsome middle-aged man stands behind him, grinning openly at me.

            Praise the lord for him!

            “Sure,” I respond. For some reason, today, I don’t slam the door in their faces. Why? I don’t know. First off, I knew they were canvassing the neighborhood, so it was no surprise to have them appear on my doorstep. I’d essentially invited them. But more than that, I was in a good mood.

            Sometimes that happens. I get enough sleep the night before. I don’t have to work. I get in a good walk with lots of cat pets. An entire day looms before me, free and clear and beautiful.

            Now, I’m welcoming his question because, why the hell not?

            “Do you think that it is possible to have positive thoughts for the rest of your life?”

            “Yes!” I proclaim. It’s such a ridiculous question, what else could I say?

            He pauses, for a moment flummoxed. “You are the first person this morning to say yes.”

            “Well,” I say, “I’m on vacation.” As soon as I say this, I think to myself, oh no, now I can’t get away from them claiming to be hard at work. He ignores the vacation reason, but Handsome Man behind him chuckles.

            “Would you be interested in lessons from the Scripture?”
            “Oh, no, I have enough to study right now,” I say, the phrase on Duolingo that I’d been practicing when they knocked on the door still running through my head: “Los servicios estan detrás de esa puerta.”

            I refrain from repeating this to the Jehovah's Witness. I don’t need them coming in and using the bathroom.

            “I see,” he pauses for only a moment. There’s an answer to this response. “Well, then let me make a request of you to go on our website, JW.org”

            “Oh, sure,” I gush, “I’ll be sure to do that.”

            “Thank you,” he says, now opening the Bible. “Let me leave you with a verse from the Scripture, if I may, Psalms 23, ‘Surely goodness and mercy shall follow me all the days of my life; and I shall dwell in the house of the Lord, forever.’”

            I almost say, “Amen,” but stop myself in time. I really don’t want a Bible lesson right now. But there is something so earnest about him, that I can’t dismiss him. Or make fun of him.  He really believes what he’s reading. You can tell. And, frankly, there is something to be said for this. A belief in your life’s purpose, whatever that may be. Spreading the word of the lord or teaching veterans how to write essays.

            Handsome Man lights up, “Well, you have a good weekend here in Richmond where we’re enjoying the nice cool weather. I live right down the street and I feel lucky to be in Richmond.” Evidently there’s supposed to be some massive heat wave descending upon the Bay Area this weekend, but so far, Richmond has been spared. I’m sure it’s the Lord’s doing.

            “Yes, I will, though I hear the Heat Dome is coming!”

            Handsome Man nods. Earnest man has turned and is descending the stairs, but before he leaves, reminds me again to check the website.

            I assure him I will. Does he know that I’m lying?

            I think lying can contribute to positivity if used in the correct doses. Today, the lie seems appropriate. Who will ever know? Who will it hurt?

            No one.

            I watch them move slowly down my front path, Handsome Man back on the sidewalk first. Earnest Man clutching his Bible, shuffling now beside him.

            I head back into the bedroom and pick up the phone. Duolingo has been waiting:

“Ellos estudian para ser mechanicos.” I repeat the sentence slowly, happy to know that I can say how they are studying to be mechanics and thinking how chatting with the Jehovah's Witnesses will make a good story.

            Positively! Perfecto! Bueno!

           

 

The Whistler

 

A syncopated whistle floats through the foggy morning as I turn the corner at 31^st from Roosevelt. Marching up the block, I marvel at its rhythm. This is no tuneless whistle. The kind I usually hear on my neighborhood walks. Usually men, often at work, whistling away. No melody at all.

            Nope, this whistle is musical and joyous.

            The tune unmistakable: Scott Joplin’s “Entertainer”.

            Oh, I know this song well. One year in high school, I drove my family mad practicing this song over and over again on the piano for a recital. I had to memorize it. So, repetition was key to this. But also, I was obsessed with the song. Its melody. Its rhythm. Its charming repetitions.

            Today, when I hear the whistler’s version of it, I can’t help but grin. Someone else is charmed by Joplin’s tune too!

            Halfway up the block, I spy a man, short, stocky, a dark mop of hair, thick eyeglasses, walking down his driveway. Whistling. Ah-ha! Here’s the whistler.

            “Hello!” I hail him before he disappears behind the back gate.

            He stops. Turns toward me, smiling broadly. “Hello,” he answers, walking back toward me.

            “You were whistling Scott Joplin’s Entertainer,” I observe.

            He beams. “Yes, it is a very famous song.”

            “Yeah, I know it well. I used to play it on the piano.”

            He nods, starts making hand motions for an air guitar. “I try on the guitar. And the flute…”

            He’s in the street now, opening a bright red car’s door (I’m assuming it’s his!), and pulling out a tin whistle.

            He starts to play. But Joplin is hard. The tin whistle is limited. He laughs, “It is too hard for the flute.”

            “Yeah, I bet,” I agree, marveling at his willingness to just start performing for me out on the street in the foggy windy morning.

            He puts his lips to the whistle again and starts to play. A beautiful and lyrical piece of music floats up and out of the instrument. His eyes are closed. He is in the rapture of the music in moments. Then stops.

            “You know this song?”

            I don’t. It’s not Joplin. Or Bach. Or Chopin. But I don’t mention these non-possibilities. Instead, I lie: “It sounds familiar.”

            He grins again. “It is called ‘Always Love to You.’”

            “Ah….” I nod, “it’s beautiful.” And I think it is. Even though I suspect it’s movie music. But movie music has its place, doesn’t it? On the tin whistle. On a foggy Monday morning.

            “Thank you for the performance!” I exclaim, truly grateful for the interlude. I’ve been so worried about everything lately. The pandemic, of course. My work. My finances. Politics. Roe v Wade being overturned is thick in my brain. Heavy and sad. I don’t know what to do with this.

            Joplin helps.

            How couldn’t he? His music is full of life and joy and complexity.

            The Whistler stops his playing for a moment, “You are welcome,” he says.

            Then goes back to his instrument, playing again the “Always” tune. I march on up the street, whistling to myself.

            You know the melody. It’s a very famous one! I can’t get it out of my head for blocks as the clouds start to burn off, the sun filters down. A woman comes out of her house, tall and elegant, dressed in forest green slacks and a golden vest.

            I smile at her. She smiles back.

            I head down the street, whistling to myself, a very famous tune.

 

            The Entertanier, Joplin, Alexander Lioubimenko

Piano Talk

 

Dinu Lipatti

“Do you play piano?” I’ve hailed a wiry bespeckled man walking out of the green house. For the last two years, during my pandemic walks, I’ve passed this house on Downer Street, and it’s been anything but a downer! I’ve stopped in front of this house often to listen to Bach, Joplin, and Beethoven. What a treat!

            So, today, when I see someone coming out of the house, I have to ask!

            He pauses at the end of the walkway, eyeing me suspiciously. “I AM the Pianist!” he proclaims.

            Oh, I should have known he doesn’t just play the piano with the music I’ve heard coming out of his house. He is The Pianist!

            “I love your piano playing!” I gush.

            “Do you? It is just practicing. The same phrase over and over again,” he shrugs.

            “Yes, well, it still is a beautiful sound to walk past.”

            “Do you walk by here often?”

            “Yes, fairly often.”

            “I’m moving. I moved the piano out yesterday. I’m going to Yuba.” He waves up toward the hills, Wildcat Canyon direction. I think, is Wildcat Canyon called Yuba? Or isn’t there a Yuba up north on the way to Eureka? I seem to remember passing a sign driving up there on the way to my parents’ place when they lived up there.

            “Oh, that’s a big move,” I offer, not really sure if it is.

Downtown Yuba City

            “I am going to Montreal to play this summer. And I will direct the blah blah blah….” He begins in on his resume. I nod, enthusiastic to meet this pianist I’ve been overhearing for years.

            “That’s so cool. You sound like a real pianist.”

            He gives me a funny look, “My piano teacher, when I was a boy, was a student of Dinu Lipatti.”

            “OH MY GOD! You’re kidding! That’s amazing!”

            He grins, takes a longer look at me, “Ah, so you know piano?”

            “Yes, I do. A little.” Actually, it’s one of two subjects I know a lot about. That and American Literature.

            “How do you know?”

            “I play piano,” I offer.

            He leans in, intent now.

            “Not a performer though. I used to teach, but I’ve lost most of my students because of the Pandemic.”

            He nods, “Yes. Did you teach online?”

            “Yeah, but it was mostly a disaster.”

            Again, he nods, sympathetic. “I did too, but I am old school. I do not like these new pianists. This Yuju Wang with her Short Skirts!” He bends slightly to draw a line on his jeaned thigh.

            I don’t tell him that I like Yuju, both her playing and her short skirts! What would he think of me? Instead, I play it safe:

            “Right now, I’m obsessed with Alfred Brendel and his performances of Beethoven’s Piano Sonatas.”

            “Brendel! Yes! He is magnificent. But for me, it is Claudio Arrau. He is the one. He is perfection. His Beethoven. His Chopin. But mostly, his Schubert. Do you know these?”

Claudio Arrau

            “I have listened to the Beethoven. I’ll check out the Schubert.”

            “Yes, you must.”

            I venture into what I assume will be safe territory. “And Horowitz. He’s…”

            “Horowitz?” He scoffs. Then shrugs. “He is okay. Well, sometimes I will give him that he can be playing a piece and of course, it is nice enough, but then all of a sudden, he plays a phrase and….” The Pianist pauses, shakes his head, “…and you think, what did he just do? Where did that come from?”

            “Yes, I know what you mean,” I agree. And I do. Listening to Brendel I am often stopped by his exquisite artistry.

            “What is your name?” he asks me now.

            “Carol.”

            “Franco.”

            “Nice to meet you,” I don’t shake his hand. Covid is still in the air. And while we’ve been chatting without masks on the last few minutes, we are outside, there is the bay breeze and we’re at least 6 feet apart. He leaning on the battered Volvo station wagon. Me standing in the middle of the quiet street.

            And more quiet now without his piano.

            “I will miss your piano playing,” I say.

            “Really?” But he likes the compliment. Even though I’m sure he’s used to them.

            “Yes. Good luck to you with your move.”

            “Thank you.”

            He stands for a moment, expecting more Piano Talk, but I have to go. Got a ton of things on my to do list. The first being practice Beethoven.

            The second, find a recording of Claudio Arrau playing Schubert. https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=R1lJqD82R8k

 

Bad Dog!

 I heard all the barking before I see its source. I’m not paying too much attention. I’m on a block where dogs have never been a problem. In other words, no barking, no sightings, no warnings.

            I’d been telling my mom the night before how there were new warning signs on a fence that I knew was a barrier to dogs. They barked at me all the time. Ferocious and relentless, even when I passed, even when I crossed the street. The new signs said: “Beware of Dog. Not responsible for injury or death.”

            What? That’s pretty ominous, isn’t it? I mean, aren’t dog owners responsible for their dogs’ doings? If a dog kills someone, isn’t that the owner’s responsibility?

            Mom had narrated a harrowing story of her own.  A warning about fences not being as much of a barrier as you think. One morning, while she was on her usual early morning jog, she heard barking, but the barking culprit was behind a pretty substantial fence. Or so she thought. Cuz the next thing she knew, the dog had jumped over the fence and was coming after her. Scared for her life, she ran. (Good thing she was a runner!) The dog was closing in on her when she spotted a lady getting into her car: “Please! Let me get in your car! That dog is after me!” Fortunately, the lady let her in the car; mom slammed the door shut just in time as the dog barreled against the window.

            Close call!

            So, this morning, when I heard the barking, her story was fresh in my brain. Yet, I knew I wasn’t in the usual dog territory, so like I said, I wasn’t paying much attention.

            Then I saw the situation. And what unfolded happened very fast.

            A lithe and loose Pitbull was wandering on the sidewalk ahead of me, barking. A woman was coming out of the house, holding a baby, and yelling at the dog: “Get in here! Get back here! Bad dog! Bad boy!”

            The dog ignored her. Completely. At this point, it was just hanging out on the sidewalk, barking.

            Then another lady parked her Prius, and got out. I had seen her before. Garden Woman. I’d complimented her on her garden once, a rich and lush one with succulents, Lillies, wind chimes, and butterflies. She hadn’t been very receptive to my praise. I decided I wasn’t gonna talk to her again. She was cranky.

            Today, though, when she got out of the car, she made eye contact with me as the Pit continued to bark, making its way toward us.

            I had stopped my walking, planning to cross the street at this point, but when I turned around, there was a big black fluffy retriever hiding behind me. Where did he come from?
            “Hey, boy,” I cooed. Maybe I’m naïve, but I don’t usually connect retrievers with attacking.

            The dog continued to slink behind me, brushing up against my legs, before darting away into the lush garden.

            “Was that your dog?” I asked Garden Woman.

            “Yes, he’s scared of that other dog!” She was miffed. I could tell.

            “Me too!” I said. “I think your dog wanted my protection though.”

            Meanwhile, the Pit had decided to run at me. I just froze. And before I knew it, he was next to me. Nosing my hand. He had a gold chain on. A wet nose. And stood about to my hip level. He had stopped barking. Was checking me out. Was I a threat? Prey?

            I stared down at him. Didn’t pet him. Just stood there.

            He took a final sniff and then turned and trotted back the way he had come. Honestly, I didn’t have time to react. Not even time to feel scared.

            Garden Lady actually smiled at me as I started across the street. “Thanks for protecting my dog.”

            “Sure,” I waved, not certain at how much protection I had been.

            “GET BACK HERE!” Baby Lady was still yelling at the Pit, who was still completely ignoring her. Lingering on the sidewalk, sniffing the dead grass. “BAAAD DOOG!!!”

            As I continued down the block, I thought about how what had just happened could have gone so differently. The Baby Lady had NO control over the Pit. What was she gonna do if the dog had attacked any of us? (Garden Lady, Black Dog, Me) Throw the baby on the lawn and run after the dog?

           I don’t think so.

            I’m glad this didn’t happen, but I have to wonder (and I often wonder this) how some people just should not be dog owners. I mean, dogs are dangerous and can kill people.

            Just look at the signs.

            Listen to the stories.

            And Beware of Dogs!