Ron & Amy's Geriatric Valentine Adventure Weekend

As a Christmas gift, our children gave us a weekend getaway at the Coast in the form of a Groupon deal. To use the gift, we had to figure out what a Groupon is. I thought it was a fish at first, but it turns out it’s a cross between a coupon and a group. I guess that explains it. Whatever it is, it worked like magic when I called to make the reservation and I didn’t have to pay the inn anything. What will people think of next? There was one catch, however, in that Ron is currently on crutches recovering from foot surgery. The bubbly woman at the front desk who helped me with my reservation on the phone assured me that the room was accessible to someone non-ambulatory.

We drove to the Coast on Friday. Originally we planned to leave right after lunch to arrive at check-in time. But it took Ron several hours longer than he had expected to pack all his medications and figure out which pair of sweat pants to wear. I, on the other hand, had my Ugg boots, Birkenstock’s, and leggings thrown into a bag in 15 minutes. I do confess that it took me another 45 minutes to unload my refrigerator into coolers and Trader Joe’s shopping bags (seriously, who trusts restaurants to cook decent food these days?). Even so, I had a couple hours’ edge on Ron in terms of being packed and ready to roll. He settled on the periwinkle sweat pants, by-the-way, and he looked swashbuckling and debonair in them.

We only had to stop once to use a restroom on the drive, which made us both feel fit and bladder-sturdy. As we wound our way down the incomparable Northern Cali coastline, Ron gazed at the ocean and I ate seaweed snacks. I reckon that the proximity to the Pacific gave me a hankering for Nori. The torrential pouring rain was picturesque and soothing to our drought-withered souls, but a bit tricky to drive in.

We arrived at the inn before sunset and soon discovered that there was a considerable gap between the cheerful innkeeper’s concept of accessibility and ours. They had booked us into the most accessible room in the complex, which was down a flight of five stairs. Thank goodness we brought the crutches and not the wheelchair. I tried to keep my temper and not act like a grouch, but I did tell the innkeeper in no uncertain terms that it would be challenging for Ron to get into the room and she replied that it was challenging building the inn on a cliff. I refrained from pointing out that they seemed to have managed to build the parking lot without stairs for the cars to maneuver. Fortunately my umbrella did not turn inside out while I was assisting Ron down the slippery slope and stairs.

The room was advertised as having a fireplace, but I had failed to ask if it was a real working fireplace, which it turned out it was not. But it was warm, had a lovely glow, and, as Ron pointed out, he didn’t have to chop wood to use it. So we were OK with it. As I threw together a romantic digestion- favorable dinner of vegetable crackers, goat cheese, kale chips, red wine, and gluten-free soaked cashew substitute cheesecakes from the depths of my Trader Joe’s bags, Ron stared into the synthetic flames of the programmable fire. I reckoned he was trying to work out exactly what produced the heat and the vaguely holographic flame. By the time I had the meal laid out on napkins (I forgot to bring plates), Ron had been watching the fake fire for quite some time. “I don’t think those are real flames,” he said. “I think they have a repeat pattern to them.” I asked him where he had found the hallucinogens and if I could have some.

After ascertaining that Ron was not in danger of having an epileptic seizure from staring at the fake fire, I proceeded to assess the room for tiny LED lights that would need extinguishing in order for me to sleep later. These blinking, flashing, and glowing demons keep me awake at night. I unplugged the hair dryer (who needs a light on a hairdryer, seriously?), the clock radio (which was useless because it only got one station and the programming consisted of the surf report, a cattle swap, and accordion music), and the phone; covered the TV control panel with a washcloth; put a Band-Aid over the smoke detector light; and hid the digital wine bottle opener under the bed.

After dinner, we played a frustrating and interminable card game, called Spite and Malice, which is not always interminable and frustrating, but this particular one was since neither one of us was getting the right cards and because the cards kept sliding off the bed. The red wine made it all seem funny and the more wine we drank, the more perplexed we were about that fake fire and the less concerned about how many cards were under the bed. The remainder of the evening was more relaxing as I had a long soak in a bubble bath in the enormous tub, listened to an entire Keith Jarrett album, and engaged in some unmentionable activity with my one-legged husband. It was all legal, I assure you.

The next day we decided to go on an outing to the nearby casino for a meal. The casino, it turned out, was hardly bigger than our garage, and if you didn’t count the slot machines then it had less stuff in it than our garage does. From the outside it looked like a barn. We ordered simple omelets and salads in the restaurant and I promptly put too much Tapatío sauce on my eggs and choked. The security guard stopped by to make sure I was alive and we had a lovely chat with him once my eyes stopped watering. After our meal, I thought I’d try my luck at one of the slot machines. I’m not a gambler and I can’t remember the last time I was in a casino (which, at my age, means nothing as I may well have been in one just last week and already forgot). I sat down at a 25¢ slot machine, with a quarter in my hand, and attempted to insert said quarter into every conceivable orifice in the machine. Apparently a 25¢ slot machine does not take quarters. I should have realized at that point that I was not prime casino material and that I would not be able to win enough money to pay off my mortgage by playing a 25¢ slot machine. But I am a pretty determined person. I asked around and learned that I had to put a  whole dollar in the machine. Doing the math, that gave me exactly four chances to win. It was thrilling but short-lived. I pulled the handle four times, won nothing, and lost my dollar. I still had my quarter, however. I can’t figure out if I came out ahead because I have shockingly poor math skills for someone with a graduate degree. Ron spent three dollars at a blackjack game but quit because the dealer was an interactive videotape of a woman and she refused to show more cleavage even when Ron asked her politely.

After the excitement at the casino, we were ready for more gluten-free soaked cashew desserts, so we drove to a natural food store where I could forage for such delicacies at my leisure. I left Ron in the car observing two dubious characters loitering on the street near his window. Ron kept his finger on the “lock” button of his car key just in case he needed to lock himself inside for his own protection. The dubious characters appeared to be discussing a pile of potentially combustible clothing left out on a nearby wooden table, free for the taking, I presume. You never know what mischief country people can cook up with a table of free clothing. Ron was prepared.

Back at the room we caught up on some reading, watched the spectacular rain and the waves that rolled in on the shore visible from our window, Ron took some photographs of said rain and said waves, we ate our finger-licking coconut/lemon/vanilla gluten-free treats, and played cards again (sensibly spreading the game out on a table instead of the bed this time). I know these illicit activities I have mentioned have made you blush, but I’m determined to give a true account. I will, however, spare you the details of later Bacchic revels of the evening.

The next morning dawned sun-soaked and diamond-clear, offering us a brilliant view of the Pacific. We packed up our leftover kale chips and apples and hiked the cliff-side steps to our car. Before heading home we paid a visit to the Point Arena Lighthouse because, let’s face it, old people love lighthouses. They remind us of bygone days when we could check into hotel rooms using cash, there were no LED lights to stifle so night was dark, the fireplace was real and completely non-hallucinatory under normal conditions, and the radio not only worked but brought fine music and extraordinary programming. Even as times change, the ocean, it seems, never does. I could watch it forever and it always brings me peace and renewal. 

Point Arena Lighthouse Off the Coast of Mendocino County in Northern California.

My Nutrition Studies

As many of you know, in the fall I enrolled in the Bauman College Holistic Nutritionist Certification program. I’ve been learning loads of interesting, valuable, and applicable things about health and how our bodies work. Since the course is distance learning, I can go at my own pace. You might imagine that means slow and easy; but I have a habit of devouring information, so my “own pace” is more of the swiftly and intensely variety. I appreciate being able to move along quickly, not being held back while waiting for other students to catch up with me.

I have discovered in the course of my studies that the founder of Bauman College, Ed Bauman, has a sensibility much in sync with my own. Although he delivers all the audio lectures that I have “attended” in my distance learning, and although I have learned a great deal about him through the lectures, he knows nothing about me. We have never met. Perhaps I will visit the Bauman College campus in nearby Penngrove one day and meet him in person.

I want to share some basics about the Bauman approach, called Eating for Health (E4H). The E4H Model is not a diet but a way of life. Bauman describes E4H as “a relationship to food based on consciousness, gratitude, sound science, and positive energy.” E4H stresses that the most nutritious food is seasonal, organic and whole, unadulterated by toxins, and locally grown. E4H encourages consumption of a diversity of foods from seven food groups daily. Take a look at the E4H Model, provided below. It doesn’t look like the Food Pyramid or My Plate or any of the standard “food group” models we are accustomed to seeing.

Notice what Bauman refers to as booster foods, which I believe are an innovative feature of the E4H Model. When consistently added to the diet, booster foods increase energy, detoxify, and reduce inflammation. These regenerative foods enhance the healing of tissue damaged by toxicity (caused by environmental contaminants, stress, and trauma) as well as malnutrition (caused by previous poor eating habits including eating poor quality food).

The specific constellation of food eaten following the E4H roadmap will look different for each individual person. The individualization inherent in the application of the E4H Model is my favorite aspect of this approach to nutrition. What we eat and how we eat is personal and must correspond with our own unique physiology, culture, taste, and spirit. E4H would be used to improve health through transformation of food choices, eating habits, and philosophy about nourishment and wellbeing. From this glimpse into my course, perhaps you can see why I am so excited about my studies and the new directions opening up before me.

Another Perspective on Stopping to Smell the Roses (or to Listen to the Violin)

In January 2007, the Washington Post set up an experiment to see if people take the time to pause and appreciate the beauty that they stumble upon unexpectedly during the course of their everyday lives. The Post enlisted world-famous violinist Joshua Bell, who parked himself in a metro station in Washington, DC during rush hour and played six Bach pieces. They were some of the most complex musical pieces ever written. His free metro performance lasted 40 minutes. Just two days prior to his subway performance, Bell played to a sold-out theater in Boston (cost of a seat averaged $100). The violin on which he played in the subway was worth $3.5 million. Passers-by tipped him a total of $59 during the course of the 40 minutes of music.

The Post filmed Bell’s subway performance and you can find it online if you are curious. Those who set up the experiment wanted to see if anyone would stop to listen to this exquisite musical performance, if anyone would recognize the superb beauty in the moment and take advantage of it. No one paused to listen for the entire performance. Quite a few children who wanted to stop were hurried away by their parents. Over 1,000 people passed Bell as he played. Only six of them stopped for more than a minute to listen. One woman recognized him and she left $20 of the $59.

After the event, when the Post ran an article about it, those who set up the performance described it as “a social experiment about perception, taste, and priorities of people.” They claimed they sought to answer the questions:  “In a commonplace environment at an inappropriate hour, do we perceive beauty? Do we stop to appreciate it? Do we recognize the talent in an unexpected context?” After running the experiment, those who set it up concluded that if we don’t take a moment to stop and listen to one of the best musicians in the world playing some of the best music ever written, then there are certainly many other things of beauty that we encounter but which pass us by. True dat.

I am absolutely certain that I would not have stopped for 40 minutes to hear him play if I had been one of the 1,000 people. If I needed to be somewhere, if I was in DC on business, I would probably not have paused at all. If I was in DC on vacation, I would like to think that I would have stopped to listen for a while. But 40 minutes? No way. The reality, for me and most other people, is that our lives are mapped out and scheduled. We schedule time to listen to music, we make it a special event. We schedule time to go to an art museum or the theater or to walk in the woods. We listen to music in the car or during a night out dancing or in bed at night. Just because we don’t stop in a subway to listen to a brilliant violinist doesn’t mean that we fail to appreciate the beauty that graces our lives.

Perhaps it’s spontaneity that we lack. Or a more flexible sense of time. We are harnessed to a rigid system of measuring time by the clock. I have often wondered how life flowed before watches were invented. But I live in the now. So be real, Washington Post experimenters:  Bell played during the early morning rush hour. People were on their way to work. How many employers or bosses would be understanding if I was 40 minutes late to work because I had stopped to hear an impromptu violin performance by Joshua Bell? I must remember that excuse for a tardy arrival.

I get the point of the experiment, I really do, and it does remind me to remain open to life, to allow myself to pause for the magic that sometimes happens, to make time for unexpected beauty that may reveal itself, transforming the ordinary into the extraordinary. But I would like to see less judgment and more sympathy for the hurried harried workers who live in a world that does not give one permission to take time for unscheduled beautiful music.

In the metro.

In the concert hall.

Drought

Living close to the land like I do, I can’t bear this lack of rain. This unprecedented, frightening, woeful lack of rain that has gripped Cali. Here on the North Coast, the wells are beginning to run dry. The lakes and reservoirs are disappearing. We ended 2013 with about ¼ of the usual amount of rainfall for this time of year. The Catholic bishops of Sacramento have called for people of all faiths to pray for rain. A formal call was not necessary:  people are holding spontaneous rain chants, prayer circles for rain, and rain dances. There has been less rainfall in Cali this winter than any winter since weather recordkeeping began. The snow pack in the Sierra Nevadas is 17% of the normal measure for this time of year. The bears at Mammoth Lakes are coming out of hibernation already (three months early), and man will they be hungry when they discover no food out there. The Coho and Chinook salmon are trapped in the Russian River, cut off from access to major waterways, stuck in the small streams where they have gone to spawn. Willits, just to the north of Ukiah, has established a mandated limit of 150 gallons per household per day because the city’s reservoirs contain only enough water to last for three months. But the meteorologists predict little or no rain until at least March. Whoa.

The hills, usually green this time of year, are dead gray. I often walk behind Lake Mendocino and it has been surreal watching it vanish. Maybe about 25% of the lake is left right now. People are able to walk across much of the bottom of the lake; but we wish we couldn’t. (Akili keeps begging for photographs of Lake Mendo because he can’t wrap his head around the idea of it emptying out like this.) There is a possibility that Lake Mendo could dry up entirely by mid-summer. This lake supplies drinking water to many surrounding communities. Obviously I am not planning a veggie garden for the coming summer. What do we do when the water runs dry?

I have heard the drought blamed on a high pressure system off the coast, which is preventing sweeping winter storms over the Pacific from making landfall, but the real cause, the one no one will speak about, is climate change. Can we actually convince ourselves that this unprecedented lack of rainfall is not the new shape of life as we know it?

Perhaps I’m taking the drought too personally. Today I find myself wondering about the fact that this drought coincides with the year that I have chosen to take a break from my creative writing projects. From one perspective, I’m on sabbatical. People do that from time to time; they give it a rest. But from another perspective, I’m living a year of creative drought. Come a little deeper into this Twilight Zone with me, my friends. The name of the novel I set aside for my sabbatical year is Guardians of Water. Seriously. It’s an ecological post-apocalyptic sci-fi romance. It would have been visionary if I had completed it soon after I started making notes for it in 2005. The way things have gone in the world has detracted from the scope of the visionary aspect since the imagined future I invented for the book is beginning to unfold for real in some respects. Water is the new gold. The water theme is only one piece of the larger novel, but this drought has me pondering the wisdom of pausing in my work on Guardians of Water to complete this nutrition certification program at this point in time.

Maybe it’s just that I’m feeling particularly drought-stricken today both literally and figuratively. Although I am kept busy with things I enjoy (I love my nutrition studies), I miss writing fiction. And I feel ill for the want of rain. Am I picking up a vibe from the thirsty trees and scorched greenly growing things now dry and gray? Maybe I need find a way to make time to resume work on Guardians of Water. Especially so if this drought is the new normal. In that case, I need to work on my novel to exorcise my fears for the future. Oh please let it rain. Quench my thirst. 

Snow pack in the Sierra Nevada Mountains in 2013 compared to 2014. Yikes.

Family Whispers from the Past

My baby brother, Dan, and his family traveled to Israel over the winter break. They spent time with Wachspress relatives living there, some of whom Dan had not seen in over 40 years and some of whom are in the younger generation (so he has never met them). One of our relatives was a military leader during the Six-Day War and he was among those who retook the Temple Mount. Dan sent me a scan of a page out of a history book that relates a story about our cousin, depicting him running to rescue wounded soldiers with his pipe clenched (and smoking) in his teeth.

Upon Dan’s return, he sent a family photo of the group to me and I forwarded it to some of my cousins with whom Dan is not in touch. The web of reconnection has taken off and blossomed and the latest development is that this morning I found a link to my brother’s photos of his Bar-Mitzvah in 1972 in my in-box. So here I sit, with a million things on my plate to accomplish this weekend, and I keep thumbing through these photos with heaps of images of my parents’ contemporaries in their prime. I could spend several hours pulling down pictures of the older generation and sending them to my peers. Not just my cousins, but friends and acquaintances with whom I remain in touch who would get a smile from seeing these photos of their parents and the older generation. Our ancestors.

In September I visited my aunt and uncle in the senior community where they live near Chicago. My uncle (now 90) is a techno-geek and an accomplished photographer. During the week that I visited him, he was in the process of digitizing “home movies” he had taken in the early 1950s. He fetched his laptop and played film footage for me of my grandparents (and my paternal great-grandparents). This was truly like seeing ghosts. In one of the films, my mother and father and my mother’s parents sat around a table outdoors with a number of friends and relatives eating a summer dinner. My grandmother (so like me) loved to entertain and to cook a beautiful meal for friends and family. I saw her on film at the head of the table with my grandfather, at that time much younger than I am now, and before any of her grandchildren were born. I saw her in her prime, stunningly beautiful even in an offhand setting. So happy. My grandfather laughing, sitting beside her. I could have watched that film a million times. My parents, so young, early 20s, my mother younger than any of my children are now, sitting at the table. Just starting out in life. I recognize that house and the yard and the people at the table. A long-ago time. Captured.

My uncle also showed me a home movie of my father’s family at a dinner party, a family gathering after a Bar-Mitzvah. My father’s father died when I was two weeks old. In this film I saw him in motion. I saw him with my grandmother and she was so busy in the kitchen, preparing food. She, too, loved to cook and to entertain. She was a brilliant cook. The images of her in the kitchen, the way she bustled around, well, it could have been me. I have seen film footage of myself doing the same at Thanksgiving-time, moving in the same manner. And to see my paternal grandmother’s parents, themselves immigrants from Eastern Europe, in action, moving, talking. Ghosts captured.

These people, these moments, they stay with us somehow, somewhere. They stay imprinted on the universe somehow. They are in the past but they have left a residue. It is in my DNA. It is in my children’s DNA. It is in the air we breathe, this disintegrating air that is of lesser quality, that is loaded with carbon emissions, that will probably do away with humans eventually. Even when people have dissolved into the distant past so that no one remembers them anymore, no one remembers even the slightest shred of them, there remain traces of them. Just because we cannot see something does not mean it does not exist, did not. Generations of ancestors are imprinted in unknown ways in the landscape of today; humming in my blood, whispering in my spirit.

1972 Photo:  On far right is my great uncle Saul, my Grandma Mildred's brother, and directly behind him is Grandma Mildred her always elegant self. The woman in the middle front is Saul's wife Sylvia. Counterclockwise from her and the woman furthest to the left is Grandma Mildred's sister Hattie.