In no particular order of importance, some snapshots from our recent trip to London to visit Amanda and Michael:
It's very disconcerting to be in a country where they speak English, although sometimes it sounds like a foreign language, and drive on the wrong side of the street. You never know where to look for oncoming traffic when you are walking. And when you are a passenger in a car it seems equally confusing figuring out where you are headed and where the round-abouts are really directing y ou.
Amanda and Michael's flat is on Kensington Gardens Square, near Bayswater, Hyde Park and a 15-minute walk from their old flat in Notting Hill. It's a first-floor flat which means that you look out their living room picture window that's at least five-feet high with white wooden shutters that fold into the wall right onto the sidewalk and narrow street that amazingly accommodates parked cars, city buses, delivery trucks and cars sometimes simultaneously. Two doors down is this hip neighborhood bar and restaurant where you can get eggs, coffee and pastry in the morning and martinis and tapas at night. The laundromat is less than a block away and there are a series of hair dressing, waxing, nail places within spitting distance. Across the street is Nandos where you can wave at the person taking your grilled chicken order over the phone.
It's, as they say, bustling with a steady stream of Moslem women in scarves , everyone talking on cell phones and a lot of people smoking.
As Michael says, there's a lot of energy. You could literally sit at the window and watch an all-day drama. It's like a day at the beach without the sand and sunscreen.
You can step out their front door and most times of the day can hail a taxi within five minutes.
You can also walk down the street and take the No. 23 bus and be on Bond Street next to Sufridges, the large, local-favored department store, within 10 to 15 minutes.
I now can identify the Marble Arch from a bus window two blocks away.
Last year we went to the races at Ascot, a sublimely British thing to do.
This year we went to the last night of the Proms at Hyde Park where Barry Manilow was the headliner. Really.
Think the 4th of July meets tailgating at a Steelers/Bears game. Thirty-seven thousand people with their picnics spread out on blankets (some had brought tables, tableclothes, candelabras , sliver, china and crystal) most waving the Union Jack flags, sipping champagne and ale and dipping into salmon pates, cheese plates and other nibblies. By the end of the evening, which celebrates music and patriotism -- you heard this random mix of Handel's Water Music, Copacabana and Auld Lang Syne.
At the end there were fireworks and this unforgettable scene of a park full of Brits -- we were with alumni of USC -- singing a full-force rendition of Britannia, God Save the Queen and then linking arms and singing Aud Lang Syne.
At the end, magically there appeared black plastic garbage bags near each blanket pad. People bent down, grabbed a bag and began disposing of their rubbish. All very civilized, sensible and efficient. Brilliant.
Friday, September 25, 2009
Sunday, August 30, 2009
Winston's nervous breakdown
The other day we took our dog to the vet and asked, in addition to the examination, if they could keep him overnight so we could sleep.
Winston, our basset of some nearly 10 years, is having a nervous breakdown. Or at least a very severe anxiety attack.
Even the pills many people give their dogs during monsoon season to sedate them during thunderstorms don't work. He spends his days and nights panting, pacing, whining and trembling.
I think this summer of detox, pain pump surgery and the subsequent trial of rejiggering Ken's pain med mix have taken their toll on Winston.
He's always been very emotionally sensitive and needy, like the rest of us.
He's been the steadfast, tail-always-wagging, emotive dog that follows Ken's every move and could sit beside him 24/7 having his back scratched or his head petted.
But lately, he's taken a turn and it's not been good. His tail is frequently down, not wagging. He has poddy issues, as in he goes on the carpet. Frequently. Yesterday he couldn't even gather the wherewithal to jump up on the couch, something in the past he would have done enthusiastically. He spent the day panting, whining and staying as underfoot as he could as we followed us from room to room.
The vet concurred that he's got something that in canine language is akin to anxiety. He's on some kind of doggie Xanex that won't probably really take hold, if it does, for a month. He gets it twice a day.
But, as with Ken, there is progress. Teeny, tiny progress.
And I've decided rather than homicide, I will be understanding and reassuring.
Last night, he was able to jump on the couch, although he stood up on the cushions and faced away, not even understanding that it's customary to sit on a couch, curl into a nice ball and/or lay your head on your mistress's lap.
Eventually, hours later, he assumed the normal dog-on-the-couch position. And for a while quit shuddering.
Last night he slept through the night. He only paced and panted for a few minutes.
This morning, as if he forgot that he's suffering from anxiety attacks, he wagged his tail and for a moment was the old, happy-go-lucky, happy-to-see-you-and-be-alive-in-this-world Winston. Then he remembered and began panting, the sight of a doggie bone being offered him too much to cope with.
We're a house of healing this summer. Stepping our way to healing one little jump-up-on-the-couch at a time.
Winston, our basset of some nearly 10 years, is having a nervous breakdown. Or at least a very severe anxiety attack.
Even the pills many people give their dogs during monsoon season to sedate them during thunderstorms don't work. He spends his days and nights panting, pacing, whining and trembling.
I think this summer of detox, pain pump surgery and the subsequent trial of rejiggering Ken's pain med mix have taken their toll on Winston.
He's always been very emotionally sensitive and needy, like the rest of us.
He's been the steadfast, tail-always-wagging, emotive dog that follows Ken's every move and could sit beside him 24/7 having his back scratched or his head petted.
But lately, he's taken a turn and it's not been good. His tail is frequently down, not wagging. He has poddy issues, as in he goes on the carpet. Frequently. Yesterday he couldn't even gather the wherewithal to jump up on the couch, something in the past he would have done enthusiastically. He spent the day panting, whining and staying as underfoot as he could as we followed us from room to room.
The vet concurred that he's got something that in canine language is akin to anxiety. He's on some kind of doggie Xanex that won't probably really take hold, if it does, for a month. He gets it twice a day.
But, as with Ken, there is progress. Teeny, tiny progress.
And I've decided rather than homicide, I will be understanding and reassuring.
Last night, he was able to jump on the couch, although he stood up on the cushions and faced away, not even understanding that it's customary to sit on a couch, curl into a nice ball and/or lay your head on your mistress's lap.
Eventually, hours later, he assumed the normal dog-on-the-couch position. And for a while quit shuddering.
Last night he slept through the night. He only paced and panted for a few minutes.
This morning, as if he forgot that he's suffering from anxiety attacks, he wagged his tail and for a moment was the old, happy-go-lucky, happy-to-see-you-and-be-alive-in-this-world Winston. Then he remembered and began panting, the sight of a doggie bone being offered him too much to cope with.
We're a house of healing this summer. Stepping our way to healing one little jump-up-on-the-couch at a time.
The last brother
Saturday morning I watched Ted Kennedy's funeral from 7 a.m. until maybe almost noon. All of it. Even the dead TV time when the rain spattered the streets of Boston outside that big, solid Catholic church that looked much more splendid inside than outside.
I noted the new brick and slate sidewalk approaching the church steps and then all the unlikely mix of people extending themselves to each other the way you do at weddings and funerals when strangers or adversaries or exes wind up sharing a pew or a dinner table because celebrations and mournings eclipse, even now, grievances and positions.
And my heart felt a familiar sag remembering earlier Kennedy funerals. A kind of televised history we baby boomers share from the time many of us were in junior high and watched Jackie, Bobby and Teddy walk -- the two brothers in mourning suits -- behind JFK's riderless horse-drawn casket (with the riding boots in the stirrups backwards.)
I -- forgive me Catholics -- rolled my eyes at the priest's lame, hollow-sounding, self-important homily and found it not surprising that people leave this institution although at the same time I respected the Kennedy family's embrace of the faith and the church.
I tried to sort the faces and names and stories of the Kennedy clan, noting the sweetness of the children each asking for Ted Kennedy's passions: a health care system that worked for all and a people who embraced one another or at least respected one another regardless of gender, nationality and who they chose to love. We all prayed Hear our prayer -- those unlikely seatmates (Hillary next to George. Bill grabbing face time with Barack. Nancy Pelosi talking to Jimmy Carter and Rosalyn (still seems such a sourpuss.)Orin Hatch. Caroline. The Smith boy who was accused of raping the girl. That whole sordid moment. Jean, the last sibling. Was that Joan Bennett Kennedy? The blonde with the sort of unfortunate facelift. I had these catty thoughts while transfixed and sad at the passing. The careful watching of Vicky whose countenance seems to deserve a more noble name.)
And then Obama's eulogy, pitch perfect.
And when the family walked out beside the casket of the man who was father to too many of them I wondered where Vicky would sleep that night.
I noted the new brick and slate sidewalk approaching the church steps and then all the unlikely mix of people extending themselves to each other the way you do at weddings and funerals when strangers or adversaries or exes wind up sharing a pew or a dinner table because celebrations and mournings eclipse, even now, grievances and positions.
And my heart felt a familiar sag remembering earlier Kennedy funerals. A kind of televised history we baby boomers share from the time many of us were in junior high and watched Jackie, Bobby and Teddy walk -- the two brothers in mourning suits -- behind JFK's riderless horse-drawn casket (with the riding boots in the stirrups backwards.)
I -- forgive me Catholics -- rolled my eyes at the priest's lame, hollow-sounding, self-important homily and found it not surprising that people leave this institution although at the same time I respected the Kennedy family's embrace of the faith and the church.
I tried to sort the faces and names and stories of the Kennedy clan, noting the sweetness of the children each asking for Ted Kennedy's passions: a health care system that worked for all and a people who embraced one another or at least respected one another regardless of gender, nationality and who they chose to love. We all prayed Hear our prayer -- those unlikely seatmates (Hillary next to George. Bill grabbing face time with Barack. Nancy Pelosi talking to Jimmy Carter and Rosalyn (still seems such a sourpuss.)Orin Hatch. Caroline. The Smith boy who was accused of raping the girl. That whole sordid moment. Jean, the last sibling. Was that Joan Bennett Kennedy? The blonde with the sort of unfortunate facelift. I had these catty thoughts while transfixed and sad at the passing. The careful watching of Vicky whose countenance seems to deserve a more noble name.)
And then Obama's eulogy, pitch perfect.
And when the family walked out beside the casket of the man who was father to too many of them I wondered where Vicky would sleep that night.
Tuesday, August 18, 2009
Cool mornings
This morning I sat in my garden with a cup of coffee and the morning pages I've been doing fairly faithfully since Margot and I went to a conference in Sedona with the Artists' Way writer, humorist and sage, Julia Cameron. (She was married to Martin Scorcese, something that somehow added a great deal of heft to her words.)
And to my point: it was cool. Sweet, sweet cool air with just a hint of moisture. The sky, of course, was cloudless blue and the sun bright. But the air was cool. Refreshing with a promise that this back-breaking heat was finished. The afternoons may be in the triple digits, but the mornings were cool and cool mornings make all the difference. It allows for a time to regroup, gather your energies and be still.
The heat 24 hours is relentless. When they say it saps your energy, it's true. There's no regathering time.
Soon, we'll be able to eat dinner outdoors again. But for right now morning coffee in the garden is sufficient.
And to my point: it was cool. Sweet, sweet cool air with just a hint of moisture. The sky, of course, was cloudless blue and the sun bright. But the air was cool. Refreshing with a promise that this back-breaking heat was finished. The afternoons may be in the triple digits, but the mornings were cool and cool mornings make all the difference. It allows for a time to regroup, gather your energies and be still.
The heat 24 hours is relentless. When they say it saps your energy, it's true. There's no regathering time.
Soon, we'll be able to eat dinner outdoors again. But for right now morning coffee in the garden is sufficient.
Saturday, August 15, 2009
38 Years
Yesterday we observed our 38th anniversary. Ken bought me black pearls. A 72-inch strand of black pearls purchased from the neighborhood jewelers from a catalogue they seldom ordered from.
The jewelry lady was impressed that the pearls at that price looked this good. They do. I appreciated the story about how impressed she was that you could get 72-inches of black pearls at "that price'' because we'd agreed, or I had stated, that we weren't getting any presents for each other.
A card would do.
And it would have.
But it's 38 years. Thirty-eight years. This summer has felt 38 years long.
So last night we packed Ken's walker into the car and made it to the 7 p.m. showing of 500 Days of Summer. We had movie theater popcorn for dinner. Perfect. And we watched this very clever movie about love. Unrequited love. (You learn that from the outset so it's not a spoiler.)
One of the lead's friends has known Robin, his girlfriend of years, since they were in elementary school. There's a line he says, which I can't recreate, that describes the girl of his dreams. She has fuller breasts, likes sports more and something else. But that in the end Robin is better b/c that's who he loves.
Ken and I met in 2nd grade. It's a tale I have told at a lot of dinner parties. I offered him a quarter to draw me a squirrel. He had sketched an amazing pencil squirrel. Very detailed and perfect, especially for a second grader. And a quarter was a high price given the times and that I didn't have an allowance. It was my ice cream money. He refused. One of what would be only a handful of times he would refuse my request. But he was smitten with Patsy Crarey at the time and couldn't be bothered.
But we were in second grade together. We had Miss Kraner, a first-year teacher whose classroom was completely out of control. Ken and I dated in our sophomore year of high school, but I didn't really like him. Then we began dating in earnest our senior year. I had to really work hard to woe him. I walked him home after school -- something you did in Kokomo, IN, in 1966 when only about a dozen kids in high school had their own cars. We were not among those.
We journeyed down memory lane last night. Not back to second grade but to our wedding day. I'm in contact with all but one of my four bridesmaids. Amazing really. Ken is in contact with two of his. We wondered at his choice of groomsmen. We remembered who he'd asked to be ushers. That Melissa Moore and Beth Shagley had served cake, a disaster because they thought they had to dissemble the tiered cake to cut it. We remembered the Phi Delt fraternity brothers who'd come and who had seranaded me when we returned to my parents' home for an after-reception reception where we could serve wine and beer since you couldn't do that at the First Presbyterian Church where we'd had the reception in the fellowship hall. That Ron and Sandra had been there. Sandra in black pants, a first for a Kokomo wedding and something probably still rememberd in some circles. Our children's godparents and such a fixture in our lives now and then merely wedding guests.
And I thought that then both of our fathers had been alive and my grandmothers and great-grandmother. And that these souls -- Amanda and Lucas -- who would enter our lives three and seven years later and transform them -- were not even in our imagination.
The jewelry lady was impressed that the pearls at that price looked this good. They do. I appreciated the story about how impressed she was that you could get 72-inches of black pearls at "that price'' because we'd agreed, or I had stated, that we weren't getting any presents for each other.
A card would do.
And it would have.
But it's 38 years. Thirty-eight years. This summer has felt 38 years long.
So last night we packed Ken's walker into the car and made it to the 7 p.m. showing of 500 Days of Summer. We had movie theater popcorn for dinner. Perfect. And we watched this very clever movie about love. Unrequited love. (You learn that from the outset so it's not a spoiler.)
One of the lead's friends has known Robin, his girlfriend of years, since they were in elementary school. There's a line he says, which I can't recreate, that describes the girl of his dreams. She has fuller breasts, likes sports more and something else. But that in the end Robin is better b/c that's who he loves.
Ken and I met in 2nd grade. It's a tale I have told at a lot of dinner parties. I offered him a quarter to draw me a squirrel. He had sketched an amazing pencil squirrel. Very detailed and perfect, especially for a second grader. And a quarter was a high price given the times and that I didn't have an allowance. It was my ice cream money. He refused. One of what would be only a handful of times he would refuse my request. But he was smitten with Patsy Crarey at the time and couldn't be bothered.
But we were in second grade together. We had Miss Kraner, a first-year teacher whose classroom was completely out of control. Ken and I dated in our sophomore year of high school, but I didn't really like him. Then we began dating in earnest our senior year. I had to really work hard to woe him. I walked him home after school -- something you did in Kokomo, IN, in 1966 when only about a dozen kids in high school had their own cars. We were not among those.
We journeyed down memory lane last night. Not back to second grade but to our wedding day. I'm in contact with all but one of my four bridesmaids. Amazing really. Ken is in contact with two of his. We wondered at his choice of groomsmen. We remembered who he'd asked to be ushers. That Melissa Moore and Beth Shagley had served cake, a disaster because they thought they had to dissemble the tiered cake to cut it. We remembered the Phi Delt fraternity brothers who'd come and who had seranaded me when we returned to my parents' home for an after-reception reception where we could serve wine and beer since you couldn't do that at the First Presbyterian Church where we'd had the reception in the fellowship hall. That Ron and Sandra had been there. Sandra in black pants, a first for a Kokomo wedding and something probably still rememberd in some circles. Our children's godparents and such a fixture in our lives now and then merely wedding guests.
And I thought that then both of our fathers had been alive and my grandmothers and great-grandmother. And that these souls -- Amanda and Lucas -- who would enter our lives three and seven years later and transform them -- were not even in our imagination.
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