Tuesday, May 19, 2015

I sacrifice my loquats



to a higher being. Can you see him now?



The family is WESTERN TANAGER. Thanks to CP for the ID. Another species where Mom and Pop split parental duties, enjoy family vacations. Though perhaps Mom or Dad looked at the map upside down, took a hard right, thus missed their usual riparian holiday and ended up in Altadena.

"Oh honey, where are we?"

"Hell if I know. Just tell the kids it's Disneyland and they drained the pool. Eat some fruit; call Aunt Martha because we're flying to Ventura."

"In that case, better give me the map."

Wednesday, May 13, 2015

Inflation



I wonder in which decade the expression "I feel like a million bucks" lost its currency. Not the 70s. My mom used to say it all the time. Well, not all the time, but whenever her kids got good grades or hadn't been arrested. I suppose back then, a million bucks made people sit up and take notice; a million bucks threw some serious weight around.

Today, a million bucks means a mortgage and a migraine. Not that I'm speaking from experience. Except, I do have a mortgage, and sometimes my head hurts, but I'm just wondering -- what's the monetary simile for feel-good these days? Do we feel like $3.5 million, $4 million, or am I still low-balling this thing. In my middle-class way.

The longer I've lived, the more I've grown to disbelieve in Fitzgerald's "the rich are different from you and I." They're not, really, other than knowing which fork to use. (It's from the outside in, generally speaking, but not always. I learned that one the hard way. And the fork-thing is stupid, anyway; a fork is just a glorified spear, meant to transport food to its ultimate destination. But now I digress, only because I really fucked up on a fork series last week. To which, I say, take that pastry fork and stick it where the sun don't shine.)

Where was I? I've totally forgotten, because I'm still stuck on the pastry fork, and my gaffe.

OK, it was a dinner party. I don't even know why I was invited. But after I kind of figured out the salad fork (easy), and which one for the meat, and which one for the fish, when it came to the pastry, I got all confused. The cocktails, aperitifs, and wine were no help at all.

So the rich aren't different from you and I, it's just knowing how to handle a situation, gracefully. If you're confused as to which is the pastry fork, or at some point, can't with precision find any fork at all or even the top of the table with some degree of confidence, just pat your stomach, dab the napkin to your lips, and say, "Oh this was lovely, but if I eat another bite, I'll heave."

Works like a charm. And you'll get port. The good stuff.

Thursday, May 7, 2015

And not a drop to drink



I received a notice from my local water board today. All residents in my area are required to reduce water use by 20 percent.

But here's the thing: the drought is old news. I've been conserving water for the past three years. I ditched the lawn and shovel-pruned the tropicals. I recycle my grey water, and shower with friends. If water levels sink from worse to worst, which it appears they will, the only further contribution I can make is to hang out at Devil's Gate and spit in the aquifer.

There was a time when the California climate was such and water flowed so plentifully, we could pretend to live in England, or on the East Coast, or in the Mid-west -- really, pretend to live anywhere but California -- and plant and grow whatever we deemed aesthetically pleasing. Or, let's be honest here, whatever the whole rest of the world considers aesthetically pleasing. Back in the not too distant day, green wasn't a state of mind or a philosophy or a mandate, green was a color, the color of our Bermuda grass and Dichondra.

It hurts to wake up and leave the dream behind.

Sure, we can still grow things, twig-like plants that know how to shrivel without dying, and practice this trick for most of their lives.

I understand we should be good sports. We should heap praise on the twigs, or say something nice, at least. Like, "Would you call that brown-brown, brownish-beige, or taupe?" or "I'll just bet there's life in there, somewhere." But the difference between what we had and what we'll have is the difference between a Dickensian prime rib Christmas dinner and a sack lunch.

Still, what are you going to do? Either accept the new California reality, or move. I'm trying the former, because I'm not ready for the latter. Not yet.

Tuesday, April 28, 2015

Boyz gone wild

To their great surprise, Dad and Tony outlived their wives.

This turn of events caught them flat-footed, each with a "Now what?" look on their face. They were men without women.

That wasn't the plan.

The plan had been, the husbands would get the grabber sometime after retirement, leaving money enough for the wives to survive to a ripe old age -- enjoy bridge clubs, shopping, and luncheons, grandchildren and whatnot. Whatever it was wives did.

For a year or so, Tony and Dad digested the news; mourned, in their own way -- called their children with an alarming frequency, bought new cars, took up photography, lifted weights, started listening to NPR. Developed a thing for Sylvia Paggioli.

Then it dawned on them, they were men without women, yes, but they were men with money, men without women with money to burn and time on their hands.

Dad and Mom and Tony and Eleanor had been friends since the 50s. Before me, even before my sister. I believe Tony and Dad forged a friendship based initially on a business-type relationship. Something to do with timber and plywood, buying and selling. By the time I arrived on the conscious scene, there was no business, just the friendship.

While we lived in California, we'd visit the Sommers quarterly, for Sunday dinner. Prime rib -- I remember that, because we never had it at home. Tony would carve, scrape the knives, make a big production of it, at the head of the table. But of the four, Eleanor was the alpha. I think Mom deferred to Eleanor's 10 or 15-year advantage, but Dad and Tony loved her because Eleanor treated them like naughty boys.

Dad and Tony would tell inappropriate jokes at the dinner table, Tony's inappropriate because they included sexual innuendos, and Dad's inappropriate because his grasp of English idioms made his jokes pretty much incomprehensible.

"Stop it, you two," Eleanor would scold in her high breathy voice. A voice I could imitate to this day, should anyone ask, should the request ever arise. "You're terrible, just terrible. Worse than the children." No one messed with Eleanor. Even I didn't mess with Eleanor. And Dad and Tony would look disingenuously abashed, and giggle.

The Sommers were our rich friends. They lived in an eight-bedroom, four-bathroom mansion; music room, conservatory, theater, TV rooms-- one for kids, another for adults. A pipe organ. Peacocks perched on the river rock walls. A terraced lawn led to a two-level stone pool, adjacent to the LA Arboretum. And when left to our own devices, we kids would sneak into the Arboretum, like it was our own backyard.

Aside from the dinners, I remember we all took a camping trip one time, and one time only. While my family hit the trail, Tony set up a hammock, read Life Magazine, and drank cocktails. Eleanor had brought a battery-operated vacuum, so she vacuumed the dirt. Their son John stayed in the tent and sorted through his comic books.

We lost touch with the Sommers at some point, other than a yearly Christmas card. Dad uprooted the family on a regular basis as job promotions required, and Eleanor and Tony were very involved in the SoCal social scene -- under Eleanor's direction, no doubt, still, Tony loved a good party, good food, and expensive booze.

So, ok. The wives died, And after a year of mourning, Tony and Dad became the best of friends, once again. Tony flew to Seattle, Dad to LA, on a regular basis. They took cruises and trips, to Europe and South America. With their girlfriends in tow.

Tony hit the dating scene first, of course. And would set my dad up. Every woman they dated seemed to be in the hair-dressing profession.

This I know, because I'd drive out to Arcadia from time to time to meet them, to do a good deed and my daughterly duty, take the gents out, spring for a nice dinner for three. Instead, I always ended up springing for a nice dinner for five.

"You're lovely," the girlfriend of the day would say, squinting an eye. "But you don't color your hair, and you should."

Whether consciously or unconsciously, I think Dad and Tony chose girlfriends who were utterly different from their wives so any sense of competition couldn't enter the picture, so it wouldn't feel like cheating.

At the turn of the last century, Tony decided Dad and he should take a train trip through Siberia. Apparently, Tony knew someone who knew someone who could get them passage on a freighter. No girls. This time, men without women, on purpose. They made it sound all very Doctor Zhivago-ish, with plank boards for beds, straw on the floor, and gypsies. Maybe I should have worried a little, but knowing Tony's love of luxury, I didn't really believe the description for a second.

In any case, Dad died a month before the trip. So it was men without women, and Tony without Dad.

Tony didn't come to the funeral, and I don't blame him one bit. I don't like any ceremonial rite of passage, I can't explain why -- maybe it's because I see life as more circular than linear, or maybe it's flat out denial. Anyway, I hate funerals the most.

I took Tony to dinner a month or so later. At Dino's, his choice.

My sister, who is every bit as bossy as Eleanor ever was, had given me Dad's funeral pamphlet with the directive, the order, I was to pass it on to Tony. It was in my pocket.

"Yeah, yeah, I'll give it to him."

"Make sure you do."

Tony didn't bring a girlfriend, he brought his son, John. We'd always considered John rather a drip. And for the life of me, I can't remember why. Maybe because he was a year younger than me? Maybe because he had his own TV room? Because he didn't want to hike? Anyway, John was now a handsome man, utterly kind, extremely solicitous when it came to his father's comfort.

We talked, we swapped memories. We ate, and drank a lot of wine.

Tony was jovial; Tony was always and forever jovial.

And yet, I figured Tony knew as much about loss and losing someone as anyone. I saw it in his face, a reticence that I might somehow, or that my intention was, to end the evening on a sad note.

Maybe death, loss deserves an exclamation point, or a question mark, or a period. But not from me. We kissed good-bye and I crumpled the pamphlet in my pocket.