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.

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....