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.

Surprise!

Image by Christopher Salerno

            It appears out of nowhere. Slinking up behind me after I turn the corner at Downer and 29^th. I’m mostly off in space, thinking about the woman I just saw dressed entirely in apple red—red sweat pants, red sweatshirt, red sneakers. Except for her sparkly Black Lives Matter black mask. I’d wished her a good morning. She’d said something to me about the sidewalk. “Get off the sidewalk?” Who knows? She could have been talking on the phone, too. And not have seen me at all. 

            And, then I’m just distracted by the birds and the clouds and the trees. As I turn this corner, though, I’m wary of the dog yard. I’ve got these pretty well mapped out. I know which tall fences around specific houses hide the barkers. The one on this corner is always full of barkers. Sometimes I’ll cross the street to avoid being barked at. Yes, I know this is what dogs do. I just get sick of it.          

Today, though, I don’t cross the street, but just stay on the shady side, keeping my eye on the fence, a small hole dug through its bottom.

            I feel It before I see it or hear it. When I turn around, I scream. Loudly. The big black dog looks at me, shocked. Its brown eyes wary. It backs away from me.

Photo by Pixabay

            I scream again; yes, even though the dog has retreated, but only slightly, I can’t help myself. I’ve been bitten one too many times. And the fear just yells out.

The screams don’t deter it. It hasn’t run away. Just stands about 6 feet away, cowering a little. At least he’s socially distant!

            And I wonder. Where the hell is everyone? Here’s a lone woman, standing in the middle of the sidewalk, screaming at 10 a.m. on a Monday morning and NO ONE peeks out their window let alone comes out onto their porch to see if I’m okay.

            What the hell are they all doing? I know they’re not at work. Or if they are working, they’re working at home cuz of the Pandemic. They’re all inside Zooming with their clients, or watching The Price is Right, or playing video games.

            They are NOT looking out for me.

            Immediate panic hits me as I quicken my steps. My heart is pounding. The dog seems submissive, but who knows? I can’t be sure. And it’s out on its own. An escapee, obviously.

As I hurry down 29^th, I turn at Grant instead of heading straight on like I usually do, trying to stay out of the dog’s eye view. I glance down Grant. Another dog is trotting up toward me. This one is a Shepard. He’s on a mission and that mission seems to be me.

            Do I scream again? Do I run? I haven’t run since I was in high school playing on the tennis team. And even then, I loathed running. It gave me such a side ache. Today, 45 years later, I doubt I could run at all.

            Though I would if I had to.

            The Shepard doesn’t give me a second glance, but turns up the street toward the black dog. They greet each other. In doggie conference? Planning their mutual collaboration of snagging the little old lady on her morning walk?

            But no, they decide against this, I guess. Together they trot up the street away from me.

            I breathe. Slowing my step now, but still shaking. A man with a Pitbull is walking toward me. The Pit is on a leash at least. “There’s a pair of stray dogs up 29^th,” I warn him. “Be careful with your pup.”

            The man stares at me, baffled, then comprehends. “Oh, thank you. Yes, I will,” before walking on.

            As I turn down 30^th street, heading home, I think how fraught pandemic walking is. How much dog drama have I encountered in my neighborhood walks the last 10 months?

            A lot!

            Like I’ve said before, it’s exhausting to always be on guard during a seemingly banal activity like walking. Whether it’s a mad dog, a creepy man, or an unmasked kid, the walks are hazardous to my physical and mental health.

            But what can I do? I can’t stop walking. It’s all I have right now in the way of a physical outlet. My swimming options are limited to the Dive Tank once a week because of too many swimmers and not enough lanes available.

            So, I will walk. And I will try to be more aware.

            But this morning. That dog literally came out of nowhere!

            Did he drop out of the sky? Had he crawled under the fence? Did he have anyone who cared for him?

            Or, is he just wandering the streets of Richmond, looking for some companionship?

            Who knows?

            At least he has a buddy. They can go terrorize some other walker. But from now on, I will avoid this corner. Turning up Roosevelt, I begin to calm down. A couple of crows caw caw at a piece of trash on the road before one of them grabs it in its beak and flies away.

          

  And, I watch them soar into the blue sky, their black wings flapping in strong even strokes, I continue my march down the street. The sun on my back, the breeze soft in the trees, the neighborhood quiet and orderly.

            Till the next dog appears....

Nature’s Fury

 

Image by Vinayak Varlikar

Bending over my lawn, scooping up all the daggers fallen from the dagger tree, I think to myself how lucky I am. My trees all seem okay after last night’s devastating wind and rainstorm. A few daggers on the lawn is nothing.

            “Hi, Carol!” my next-door neighbor calls out from her car window as she does a U-turn in front of my house.

            “Hey, K, how’s it going?”

            “That was quite a storm last night!” she exclaims, shaking her head.

            “Yeah, it was,” I agree. “I just have a few daggers to pick up this morning!”

            “Nature’s pruning!” she grins, rolling her car window up and finishing her turn.

            And, I think, okay, yes, maybe so. But really, after the raging winds last night, I would be more inclined to call it Nature’s Fury.

            I finish picking up the daggers, tossing them in the green bin, before heading up the street for my morning walk. The sky is blue with puffy clouds, a gentle cool breeze blows, a yellow-bellied bird flits in front of me.

Image by Wang Teck Heng

            You’d never know that the night before was ravaged by the winds until....

            I stop in front of my neighbor’s yard, two doors down from me. Oh...My...GOD! The beautiful tropical palm had been uprooted by the winds. It must have been at least 3 stories high. Swaying in the wind all of these years that I’ve lived here. A little bit of Hawaii for me in Richmond.

            Till today.

            Lying on the lawn now, its trunk severed from the bottom, it stops my heart. What a death for this beautiful tree! Not to mention that on its way down it smashed through my neighbor’s fancy silver Honda parked in the driveway. 1000s of dollars of damage there.

            Shit.

            I stand for a moment just staring. Wonder if I should take a picture. Why? To document Nature’s Fury? Like folks don’t know about it?

            I decide not to take the photo and continue on my morning Pandemic Pacing, pulling my mask up and over my nose as a lady with a little runty dog passes by on the other side of the street. She waves, shyly. I wave back, still shaken by the fallen palm.

            Why? It isn’t like it fell in my yard, on my car. I can’t imagine. I’d be devasted. But every time these wind storms strike, I worry about my huge avocado tree in my backyard. What if she fell? She’d smash my house. Or my neighbor’s house. And, yes, this neighbor has been hounding me to trim the Avo for years now. I resist. We even had a Tree Guy come out and assess the tree. He said the tree was healthy. Had been there about 60 years. He didn’t think it’d be a risk, but he couldn’t guarantee this.

            And so, I just worry while doing nothing. These storms are so violent. More so than I recollect. It’s like there’s no winter for months with temperatures in the 80s and then wham, the next week, it’s 39 degrees with gusts of 70 miles an hour, and buckets of rain. And we NEED the rain! The rainfall amounts are anemic in the Bay Area with most places registering only 20-30% of their average rainfall.

            Climate Crisis. It’s real. Thank goodness, at least, Biden is president and acknowledges the science of this. Unlike his predecessor. Who didn’t. So much time has been wasted. Is there even anyway for humans to reverse the crisis at this point?

            I don’t know. I hope so.

            I walk on up 31^st street, a light rain has begun to fall. I can’t help but smile now. Rain rain rain. I love love love it!

            I stick my tongue out to capture a few drops.

            For a few moments, I’m 5 years old again.

            And it feels so good.

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.