A Moment of Grace

Cindy Ord, Getty Images

“I’m so sick of a country where everyone just cares about themselves!” Ian and I are puffing up the first hill of Wildcat Canyon (Gawd, I notice the difference in my breath from not swimming regularly!). A battalion of young women is marching down the hill toward us. No one has a mask on. They are talking politics? But whose side are they on? (And aren’t we all on one side or the other? The unfortunate duality of our present day as Kamala Harris has written about)

            These women seem to be on the side of who cares about anyone else since no one is wearing a mask. But, yet, they seem to be complaining about the current administration and its selfish, egotistical sinister leader, Donald Trump. Who also doesn’t wear a mask. Or at least he didn’t till he caught the Virus.

            Yet, these young women don’t seem concerned about catching the Virus. “It’s young people,” Ian says later.  “They think they’re invincible.  That they won’t catch it. Or if they catch it, they won’t be very sick.”

            “Yeah, tell that to my young healthy 28-year-old student from last term who almost died from COVID.”

            “Exactly,” Ian nods, then continues on talking about how he can’t get some BBC theater show on Hulu cuz his computer is too old and he’d have to pay for it. I tell him to get a new computer. He can afford it. Then he can watch HULU for its free trial. Or even better, find another theater show other than this one. There are hundreds of them out there cuz of COVID.

            But I get his frustration too. You just want to watch something on the computer. Or listen to something. Or Zoom someone. And, the technology foils you. It’s so aggravating! Our world is so full of petty annoyances that get blown out of proportion cuz we’re in the Pandemic and everything just seems impossible.

            And it’s not. But I get how it seems that way. I feel that way about swimming. Last month I just gave up. It was just too hard to get a reservation. I’m not a resident of Berkeley or El Cerrito. So, I have to wait 48 hours after the residents sign up. By the time I can sign up, all that’s left is the Dive Tank at night or a cancelation in the middle of the day. It’s so upsetting. And no end in sight. The vaccine rollout is slow and mismanaged. And now there’s a new strain of the virus. It’s more virulent. Who knows if the vaccine works on it? Then there’s a group of healthcare workers in San Diego who all had an allergic reaction to the vaccine.

            It just goes on and on.

            So being out in Wildcat Canyon to celebrate Dr. King feels freeing. Except when a battalion of unmasked young women barrels toward us.

            This passes though. And we walk on in the dimming light of the sky. The hills are greener now even with the damn drought. When we reach our destination, we pause, and I gaze up at the golden light on the green green hills, the cows mooing and grazing. They’re not worried about COVID or politics or the drought or massive racial injustice!

            It’s very calming to stand on the hill and watch the light change. I see a couple, very far away, on the top of the hill in the golden light, a white dog running ahead of them full of puppy abandon. I sigh deeply as I turn to watch Ian march up the hill to join me. He’s puffed.

            We gaze at the cows for a few moments before heading back, the sky a murky purple blue now. As we near the hill where the unmasked women had nearly tramped over us only an hour before, I see a large square dark shape emerge from a tree up in the dusky sky. It’s flying low over me: silent and purposeful. Its eyes are big and watching.

            An OWL!!! I stop Ian and point. We both stand for a moment in awe as it passes over us, off to its nightly rounds.

            “Was that an OWL?” I ask him, when obviously it was.

            “Yup.”

            “WOW! I’ve never seen one up close like that!”

            “No, it’s not usual. You hear them, but you rarely see them. When I lived on St. Jude Road, there were owls out at night when I walked Dundee, but I rarely caught a glimpse of them.”

            “That was special for us, wasn’t it Ian?” I’m so thrilled. I mean, when nature graces us with her treasures, it’s such a treat.

            “Yes,” Ian agrees, “it was pretty special.”

            I hug him. He holds me up. We grin and grin.

            Till we hear a group of noisy walkers coming up behind us. “Let’s get out of here,” I say, heading down the final hill. Ian nods. We stomp down the dark, gravely path. A "Whooo whoo whoo whoo" echoes in the night. I wonder if it’s Our Owl: sure, mysterious, magical.

            We had our Moment of Grace. With nature.

            I will never forget it.

 

           

Wavy Gravy???

            “WHOA! That’s quite an outfit!” Tall, grey-haired

white guy in golf leisurewear hails me from the sidewalk. I’m in the middle of the street on Clinton. Having given him a wide berth---no mask. What is up with that at this point in the Pandemic? Is he just clueless? Or entitled? Or vaccinated? Though has anyone gotten the vaccine yet? Here in Richmond? I highly doubt it.

            Yet, here he is, sans mask, staring at me openly and commenting on my outfit. What’s up with that?

            He’d been staring at me as we approached each other and then, when I gave him the half-moon wide berth street social distancing, he continued to stare at me. I thought at first that I knew him. Or he knew me? Lots of my neighbors know me from walking. And, I might not know them. But this guy? I’ve never seen him before.

            So, what’s his deal?

            “You look just like Wavy Gravy!” he hollers at me, leering at me stupidly.

            “Uh….?” I had no idea how to respond. I look like Wavy Gravy? Isn’t he some old hippy-dippy ugly dude from the 70s? I seem to recall that he was famous back then. For what I don’t know. And I did always wonder why he was called Wavy Gravy. Was it a dance? Or was he just a big vat of gravy with waves coming off him?

            In any case, hell, it’s not a compliment to call some little old lady on her Pandemic Pacings Wavy Gravy! And, what’s wrong with my outfit?

            I look down at it as he passes and I hurry on.

            I’ve got on my blue hat with red earmuffs. Did Wavy Gravy wear hats and earmuffs? And then, I’ve just got on my orange sweater with my blue shirt underneath and my big beige jacket tied around my waist, covering up my non-descript black pants. And then my pink tennis shoes.

            Maybe I’m colorful? Or disheveled?

            I dunno. It’s a weird thing to say to someone you’ve never seen before. Maybe he thought he was making a joke. Ha ha ha! Dude! You are so damn funny!

            And who is he to cast aspersions at my outfit? Sure, he looked clean-cut and tidy with his maroon golf shirt and khaki slacks, but he was wearing NO mask! This in and of itself makes him doubly abhorrent.  Who does he think he is?

            I wonder. Is it just white privilege? This is a term that is so bandied about that it has started to lose its meaning. Until it doesn’t. In this case, it does seem that way. He’s above wearing a mask. He’s entitled to call little old ladies nasty names when they are just out on their pandemic walks, trying to maintain some semblance of sanity.

            His comment doesn’t help my sanity. And in fact, it pisses me off. But what can I do? I can’t run after him and hurl insults, can I? No. first off, this would take way too much energy. And second off, I’m a small old woman and he’s a big old man. (Yes, he is old ---the grey hair gives this away) Also, what would I say? I could scold him for not wearing a mask. Ask him what he thinks about infecting any and all passersby with COVID even if he doesn’t have any symptoms.

            Like he would care! He just seems like the type to not give a shit about anyone else.

            See how many judgments I can make when someone insults me.

            I walk on, down Roosevelt and turn at the first street, 34^th, to get away from him. Glance behind me. He’s long gone. I start to breathe easier as I head down the street, feeling the chill of the evening as the sun has set a few minutes ago.

            Another day. Gone. It’s all so strange. What would Wavy Gravy say about the Pandemic? About Leisure suit man?

            “Groovy, man. Let’s dance and smoke some pot, forget the world and live in the moment.”

            Hell, I have no idea. But as I turn up Roosevelt for the final block, I think how I have to do some research on Wavy Gravy. Maybe it’s not an insult at all. Maybe Wavy Gravy is a good looking smart colorfully dressed man who…

            Well, hell, he’s a man. Right there it’s insulting!

            I march up my street, wave to Rosa who’s taking Buddy out for his walk, and wonder if she’s been called Wavy Gravy too. What’s Spanish for Wavy Gravy?

            Here let me look it up:  Salsa ondulada! That’s so much better! Everything sounds better in Spanish! 

 Even insults? Maybe, but honestly, if I ever see this guy again, I'm gonna walk clear of him. I don't know what Wavy Gravy would do, but since I only look like him, I can do what I want. 

            

Walking Sticks

 

Walking Sticks

 

They look like walking sticks!” Ian exclaims.

And I have to agree

As I pause and watch as one

Methodically plods across the sticky wet path

Its prehistoric claws almost mechanical in their

Focused determination to cross.

Once I waited too long to move the garbage can

It was dark and damp, like tonight

When I did

There was one!

Its rubbery form freed from

The weight of weeks of trash.

Tonight, it’s Christmas Day

The trees dripping with rain

The dampness and the dark

Here at Wildcat Canyon envelop

Them in their migration to where?

Is it time for tea?

Or maybe a beer?

The salamanders aren’t saying

I screamed in shock when I moved the trash that night

But this evening I only smile

As I step carefully over one walking stick after another.

 

Twins

 They say everyone has a twin. And, while I know this is predictably true on The Young and the Restless, (the current twin is Hillary’s long-lost sister, Amanda), it’s weird when it happens in real life.

            Or is it only my imagination?

            This morning, Christmas Eve Day, I’m walking my usual route, avoiding the barking dogs that I know are lurking behind the high red fence with the lemon tree in front, when I see Evie and Nash. Or I think it’s them. I see them on the dog barking side of the street, and I’m ready to greet them with a hearty, Merry Christmas, when I stop myself. They’re closer now and I can see that it’s not Evie. But her twin. Or from a distance she looks like a twin. But really, it’s the dog that fooled me—that grey Pitbull with his hangdog aspect is a dead ringer for Nash.

            But he’s not Nash.

            And, she’s not Evie.

            We just exchange quiet “Good mornings” before going our separate ways. And I remember how I have had many instances of being a twin myself.

            On my pandemic pacings, a few times, this woman has stopped her Blue Rav-4 and hollered out her window at me, “KENDALL! HEY, Kendall!!!!!”

            This has happened a couple of times, so I must really look like Kendall. I’d like to be Kendall. She was such a great character on All My Children. Did she have a twin on that show? I can’t remember, but she was a force to be reckoned with as Erica Kane’s daughter.

            I have had to tell the Kendall Lady that I’m not Kendall a few times now. She is always so embarrassed and disappointed. “Oh…. I’m so sorry…. you look just like her.”

            I think, how can that be? I think I’m unique looking with my big turquoise hat, red ear muffs, and sticking up blond hair. But evidently, there’s someone else in my neighborhood with the same ensemble.

            Or when I was teaching in China many many many years ago and my students said I looked just like Jennifer Lopez. Okay, sure, I wish I looked like J. Lo, but I’m about as far from her twin as two women could be. With her sexy Latina swagger and dramatic persona, well, a blonde professor from a private university in California is hardly her twin. Yet my students continued to say this the entire time I was there.

            All non-Chinese look the same?

            That could be part of it I suppose.

            Who knows? But I do like the twins I’m mistaken for, Kendall and J. Lo. I mean, who wouldn’t?

            My real ‘twin’ is my younger sister, PJ. When we went on a vacation to Cabo Del San Jose and performed water ballet antics in the pool with the swim-up bar, everyone thought we were twins. And yes, this was a bit closer. We are sisters after all and we did have identical match turquoise blue suits.

            Yet, we’re not really twins. We are our own unique selves.

            Twins. Let’s stick to the ones on the soaps. Hillary and Amanda. Cassie and Mariah. Adam and Stewart.

            Now there’s a classic twin! I miss that AMC.

            As I march down 29^th street wondering what the twins I just passed are doing for their holiday, I have to grin to myself. No one is doing anything for the holiday this year. We’re all just walking the dog.

            Even if we don’t have one.

            Merry Christmas!

Our Everything

I spot her a block up ahead of me. A small red-clad figure coming toward me? Or away from me? It’s hard to tell. My strategy for walking depends on this projected direction. If coming toward me, then I’ll definitely cross the street to avoid contact. If going the same direction as I am, well then it depends on the speed. I could catch up if the person is slow-moving. And then, I’d have to cross the street anyway.

            Ugh. I am so sick of it. All the effort it takes to avoid contact. Not that I’m big on contact in the first place. I am not one to frequent crowded situations: concerts, (unless it’s Trifovov playing Rachmaninoff with the SF symphony); shopping venues (I have to go to Safeway every week, but I’ve always loathed it); elevators (don’t even get me started on being trapped in a jammed elevator!). So, when I have to maintain my distance from people during this pandemic, I mostly am okay with it.

            Still…it’s exhausting. Having to analyze your next move to avoid people.

            Now I see I’m gaining on the red clad figure. It’s small and hunched over with bright orange yellow hair. A dye job gone bad. Is it Mrs. Claus?

            I’m going to just call her that. I’m distracted for a moment by a swooping sparrow, landing in a tidy little bush with pink flowers. It chirps and rustles in the bush, busy with its bird day. I glance back up the street. See Mrs. Claus has disappeared. Where’d she go? Off to make some cookies? Wrap some gifts? Wake up Santa?

            Nope, she’s just in the driveway of one of the nondescript homes of 32^nd street. A dead lawn as the front yard, the trees sad sticks, leafless in the pale December morning light, the house itself a boring grey or beige paint job.

            “C’mere you!” I hear her call out as she squats down to peer under a parked car.

            The Tabby scurries away, its eyes bright with terror. I’d be scared too if Mrs. Claus was calling for me and all I wanted to do was hang out, groom my ears, watch the birds.

            I wave, smile, laugh a little.

            “He’s a Scaredy Cat!” Mrs. Claus announces.

            “Yes, well, he’ll come back,” I assure her, not sure at all that this will be the case as the cat takes off for the house next door.

            Is it her cat? Or the neighbor’s cat? Or actually, as all of us cat owners know, he is his own cat!

            Unlike dogs. They belong to their humans. The other morning, I ran into Evie and Nash, the two I’d announced Biden and Harris’ victory to last month.

            “How ya doin’, Sweetie?” Evie calls out, friendly as ever. She stops for a moment, socially distanced, of course, to chat. I love it that she calls me Sweetie!

            “I’m okay,” I grin, glancing at Nash with his muzzle on. He looks miserable. But he’ll put up with it for her. Dogs. They live to please their owners, right? Or at least this is the general consensus. I smile at the dog, “He’s so cute,” I lie, not telling her how he really looks miserable.

            “Yeah, he is,” she says, bending down to give him a big side rib rub. The dog responds with a weak tail wag. “Our animals are Our Everything!” she proclaims.

            “Oh, yeah,” I agree. “Even when they are little terrors. I have a cat at home who is a menace!”

            She chuckles. “Me too! Nash and I have to get out of the house and take a walk just to get some peace from her!”

            We both laugh, “Yes, well, I understand. Even though pets are our everything, sometimes we need a break!”

            “Ain’t that the truth!” she chuckles, starting to walk on. Nash turns his head to watch me, mournfully eyeing my start in the opposite direction. Or am I just anthropomorphizing? Maybe he just wants me to pet him or talk to him or play with him? Somehow, he doesn’t look up for play time.

            “Have a great day,” I call after her.

            “You too, Sweetie, you too,” she answers, pulling out her phone and beginning to scroll.

            I could write about the phone scrolling phenomenon on walks, but that’s another story. Today it’s all about the animals. And it’s true. Where would we be without them?

            Very lonely. Very bored. And dare I say, very purposeless?

            Yes. It’s true. And while caring for an animal isn’t life’s only purpose. It’s one of the more joyful purposes of life.

            Besides walking.

            And writing.

            And swimming.

            And….?

            You fill in the blank. What gives you joy? Purpose? In this pandemic, it’s often easy to forget the little things that keep us going.

            I press on, turn the corner at McBryde and march up the street, another busy bird swooping in front of me, landing on a branch, and taking up song.      

Child of the Maharajah

“Helloooo! Hellllooooo! Hellllooo!!!!”

At first I think it’s a cat. The sound has a meow quality to it. But then I see a dark curly head popping out of the sunroof of a parked car.

            It’s a kid, not a cat. And a little one at that!

            Weird day. Weird wind blowing furiously, hot and angry. Red Flag Warning. COVID 19 surges overrunning the hospitals. Only a small percentage of ICU beds left in the Bay Area.

            Yet, still I walk. Like I’ve said before, what else can I do?

            The kid continues to call out to me. His little voice floating through the dry winds. I’m across the street. Keeping my distance. Yet he’s undaunted: “Heeellloooo! Hellloooo!”

          

  The car is parked in front of the Maharajah Residence. Of course, the Maharajah Residence of Richmond is a little different than the one in India. The Taj Mahal it ain’t. Yet there is a royal presence to it, Richmond Style. Two-story imposing grey rectangular structure with “Maharajah Residence” written on a plaque over the front door.  A heavy, burgundy front door adorned with bright flowers and wiry sculptures. There is no front yard, only a driveway fronting the 3-car garage. For months, I’ve been walking past it, noting the imposing edifice of this palace, but have never seen anyone there. Not out front taking in trash cans. (Oh, I’m betting the Maharajah of Richmond probably has servants to do this!) Not anyone getting in or getting out of the parked cars, which are a blend of nondescript understated wealth---Nissans, Lexus, Mercedes….

            Till today, with the child.

            No one else is around. The kid is just standing up on the front seat of the white Lexus, poking his head out the sunroof. His hellos don’t ring of distress, but merely of greeting.

            But where are its parents?

            Of course, the car has tinted windows when I slow my pace and try to see if anyone is in the car with the kid. I don’t see anyone.

            The kid continues to greet me.

            “Hellloooo! Helllooo!”

            He’s a stuck record. Finally, I respond, “Hello!”

            He stops his mantra and grins at me. I wave at him, wondering what the hell he’s doing out here by himself. Is his mom inside just gathering her purse, keys, and other stuff before heading off on some errand? Yet with the Surge, today is the first day of the new enforced restrictions. No one is supposed to be out unless it’s essential.

            I’m out. But my walk is essential!

            Should I go over and investigate? See if the child is okay?

            He seems fine. Grinning broadly at me.

            Maybe he’s got COVID and the Maharajah is keeping him quarantined in the Lexus? This doesn’t seem likely, but hell, these are strange times.

            But would the son of royalty be banned to a quarantine in a car on the streets of Richmond? Wouldn’t he have his own private palace to quarantine in, with servants in beautiful masks and plenty of streaming entertainment and video games?

            Who knows? Once again, I encounter a small situation on my walk that I’ll never know the answer to. Yet the child by himself does seem wrong.

            What can I do?

            I could go over and ask the child where his parents are. But he’s a little kid. The only word he may know is ‘Hello’. Or I could knock on the door and see if anyone is home and are they aware that the child is out in the car by himself. Maybe he’s an escapee?

            This seems unlikely too. Like I said, he’s little. And, I’m afraid. Of COVID. What a world we live in now, where we won’t even knock on someone’s front dear for fear of death!

            I’m assuming the keys aren’t in the ignition! A flash of some highly inappropriate car commercial pops into my brain. Two kids are in separate cars, racing and sideways driving. I don’t know how this will sell cars, but it struck me as highly wrong. Kids driving cars. Isn’t that a bit, I dunno, STUPID!!!!????

            I have to think that this kid hasn’t the keys to the vehicle. Or if he did, he’s too little to figure out how to operate the car. That he’s just hanging out waiting for his mom to gather her stuff to take him with her for some essential errand.

            I walk on.

            “Goodbye…goodbye…goodbye!”

            He does know more than one word. Hello. Goodbye. What more do you need?

            Especially during a pandemic. These two words kinda cover it.

            Unless you want to include Apocalypse.

            “GOODBYE!” I wave, tromping on. His voice floats after me, “HElllooooo! Hellooo! Goodbye…Goodbye…..”

            I cross Esmond and it fades away, the wind gusts in my face, and I walk on.

           

 

 

Polo Jacket

 

“Do you know anyone who wants a Polo Jacket?” He thrusts a bright blue puffy jacket up into the air, toward me. His partner is silent, her heavily masked head making no acknowledgment of his offer or my presence.

            I’d seen the pair of them up ahead, meandering down the center of 31^st street, dressed in black. Oh, shit, I’d thought to myself. More interactions with strange people.  Am I biased at this point? You bet I am! All I seem to encounter lately on my pandemic pacings are strange people. And these two, him with the Polo Jacket offering, and her with her detached aspect, swinging an old-fashioned black purse at her side, her bright white socks in her sandals the only lightness, are no exception.

When I spied them, I thought not only were they strange, but there was really no way to avoid them. Sure, I could have turned around and marched back down the street, but frankly, this gets so tiresome. Avoiding people. I mean, I already have to avoid everyone cuz of the pandemic, crossing the street, maintaining that social distance. Do I really want to heighten this avoidance?        

Besides, it’s a story.

Back to the Polo Jacket. What is a Polo Jacket even? Something you wear when playing polo? And who plays polo in Richmond? Isn’t it one of those upper-class British sports where they ride around on horses on lush green lawns with a stick and a ball? Like hockey for rich people?

Or am I, as usual, just being too literal? Maybe it’s just called a polo jacket and it has nothing to do with polo at all.

Or maybe he’s just got the name wrong?

Or who cares what it’s called?

Yet, the name adds to the weirdness of the exchange. He didn’t just show me the jacket and ask if I needed a coat? No, he was very specific. Did I know anyone who needed a Polo Jacket.

Well, I don’t. And I told him so.

He continued to amble toward me with his offering. But he was moving slowly. I quickly marched past the two of them, wishing them a good rest of the day. They continued on down the middle of the street. No following here. And I think to myself, where did the jacket come from? Did he find it on the street? (It had that look to it.) Or was he cleaning out his closet and didn’t want to make a trip to the Goodwill? And, was he giving it away or selling it?

So many questions that I’ll never have the answer to. Yet as I walk on, the morning too bright with sun and heat for December, I think to myself, they have a day ahead of them. Wandering the streets of Richmond trying to pawn off a Polo Jacket.

My life is such a breeze compared to this, right? I have a house with a cat and many jobs and friends and family that even though I’m relegated to seeing them on ZOOM, I’m grateful to have. Not to say that this pair didn’t have all of this, too. I can’t make that assumption that they don’t even though they’re wandering down the street with a polo jacket mission.

I turn the corner at McBryde, admiring the bright yellow Ginkgo tree booming, its leaves still on its branches, its light still intact. 

Thinking about the day ahead, I breathe in the too dry air. Today is another day, another one with the pandemic raging and the pools closed. But at least I’m not wandering the streets of Richmond with a Polo Jacket offering.

Though when I think about it, since I’m always so cold, maybe I do need one.

A neighbor is rolling out his garbage bins; he doesn’t notice me. What a relief, I think as I continue down 32^nd street, the sun on my back and the breeze in my hair.