tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-56670397977701255972023-11-16T03:39:18.087-08:00Pearls and LemonsTales From House and GardenWendy Partridge Crowehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17064039413435368424noreply@blogger.comBlogger147125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5667039797770125597.post-37852760285801609472021-01-25T09:01:00.005-08:002021-02-02T15:22:39.046-08:00Baby Boy - Adventures With Finn<p><span style="font-family: helvetica; font-size: medium;"> </span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: helvetica; font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEihMVJF1kC6UJc4fjgNfNdXntnPnP5MFZb2TxSbnsoTpsIPOXnnCMHjgQwX3ZWZmBixC6IonkFYSEduWE5_SXeIKvTn4c57N4UvSAc_o-iUEmKCeD5jPkPEym_4yY4O8Y7zS2YI8wzxj7E/s2048/unnamed+copy+13.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2048" data-original-width="1536" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEihMVJF1kC6UJc4fjgNfNdXntnPnP5MFZb2TxSbnsoTpsIPOXnnCMHjgQwX3ZWZmBixC6IonkFYSEduWE5_SXeIKvTn4c57N4UvSAc_o-iUEmKCeD5jPkPEym_4yY4O8Y7zS2YI8wzxj7E/w300-h400/unnamed+copy+13.jpg" width="300" /></a></div><span style="font-family: helvetica; font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: helvetica; font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: helvetica;">Everyone is a beneficiary (or victim) of their circumstances. Each person that comes into our lives rides in on their own wave of time and space. The most recent important person to enter my life is Finn. He is an extraordinary child born into challenging times. Finn was born September 29, 2019. He weighed in at 4 pounds, two ounces and was eight weeks early. </span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: helvetica;"><br /></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: helvetica;">Finn is my grandchild, the fourth born within three and a quarter-years. Of the four, three were born premature. Finn is the son of Lucy and Greg and little brother to Lila. Finn is a lucky boy, because he is dearly loved. All babies born should be exactly this lucky. </span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: helvetica;"><br /></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: helvetica;">Though Finn arrived at 32 weeks, he had to be stopped from making an appearance even earlier. Mom spent a fair amount of time in the hospital in the weeks leading to his birth, which was hard on everyone concerned. I still have an emotional reaction when I think about going to that hospital before and after his birth. Finn had some struggles in the first few weeks and even popped a hole in his tiny lung. </span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: helvetica; font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: helvetica; font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhLvWlRBz7Qio9qfZKopDPJM1nBJ-zS3mKbxcOWWUwrWHyLll4CmCfnV-puivtrXLnC3Lh3ywy3Zw6Lzr6ZLnHEnYc9c6IWEknqJAX5Flpwpgmm1p4x0OLOUCZ0tIezWhn-_q6BBAB79Bw/s2048/unnamed+copy+11.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1536" data-original-width="2048" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhLvWlRBz7Qio9qfZKopDPJM1nBJ-zS3mKbxcOWWUwrWHyLll4CmCfnV-puivtrXLnC3Lh3ywy3Zw6Lzr6ZLnHEnYc9c6IWEknqJAX5Flpwpgmm1p4x0OLOUCZ0tIezWhn-_q6BBAB79Bw/s320/unnamed+copy+11.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg8KWEuCuFWtVTuAS7Z_j7CxPlmuAhwWvYXqFoJjEP6odnE-4g_jww2daz6u_eBDHzU7VyZTrEH7meXY0RUQAVtFcRGqVhviyYX2edp6FvRCcsBBz5XERazOGUuK5youq1E6n4uGD4hsc8/s2048/unnamed+copy+12.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2048" data-original-width="1536" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg8KWEuCuFWtVTuAS7Z_j7CxPlmuAhwWvYXqFoJjEP6odnE-4g_jww2daz6u_eBDHzU7VyZTrEH7meXY0RUQAVtFcRGqVhviyYX2edp6FvRCcsBBz5XERazOGUuK5youq1E6n4uGD4hsc8/s320/unnamed+copy+12.jpg" /></a></div><br /><span style="font-family: helvetica; font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: helvetica;">One Friday night I went to see him after he’d had a rough day in the neonatal intensive care. The wastebasket in his room was filled with medical waste from one day in the NICU. That night was really hard. I sobbed when I drove back over the bridge towards home. I felt so cheated. Why did we have to have another baby with an extended hospital stay? Why couldn’t it be a joyous occasion without all the stress and worry? I’d had one grandchild I could hold after she was born. For the others, it took weeks. We don’t know why these kids were early. They just were and we had to cope.</span><span style="font-family: helvetica;"> </span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: helvetica;"><br /></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: helvetica;">Finn was safe and got excellent care. Soon, he began to thrive. Although he did not know it, the world roiled outside the hospital doors. All four of my grandkids lived through the Trump regime. Finn was also born in California wildfire season. In response to the deadly Camp Fire in 2018, the utility company proactively shut off our gas and electricity. While Finn was in his hospital tower in San Francisco, across the bridge in Marin we went without heat or lights or cell service for 76 hours. I bought gas when I visited him in the City and charged my phone in his room. There was also a small earthquake while Finn was in the NICU. Just another day in Northern California in 2019. </span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: helvetica;"><br /></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: helvetica;">Finn was discharged in late October. He was home with his family for his first Halloween. He was tiny, but healthy and we knew the drill about how to care for him, which was mostly scrupulous care about germs and keeping him warm. He did get a cough which lasted a long time, but it may have been exacerbated by reflux. Other than that, he was on the glide path to crushing all his tiny baby goals. Then the Coronavirus hit. The pandemic would change Finn’s life, along with ours. </span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: helvetica;"><br /></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: helvetica;">In February we started to have a niggling sense of fear. In the middle of the month Aunt Allie (known to her nieces as Lili) turned 30. Finn came on a girls’ getaway in Sonoma to celebrate. He spent his first night in a hotel. We expected there would be many more such nights when Mom returned to work in April. Trips to New York and Hawaii were on the horizon. Allie had dozens of cross-country flights scheduled for 2020. She had numerous work trips planned and many friends who had scheduled weddings. I was supposed to go to Palm Springs in March for the BNP Paribas tennis tournament and New York in April to see my dying friend. Our Hawaiian vacation was scheduled for August. We know what happened. None of the flights were taken. Other things, some of them very good, happened, but none of it was what we expected.</span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: helvetica; font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: helvetica; font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgC3a64zkinTfUfoe3mahKIMwI0MpsjJuDlfHuY1lSmf98q6WTvKpJyeCTTXpySAz4aaxgsEh0bxJqhCLmEcmt-9WA8K8fSvNeJRlF0mGuxzM_LEVlUdmw4baHPBK-6IMoe_BYLZeAkvhQ/s2048/unnamed+copy+8.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2048" data-original-width="1536" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgC3a64zkinTfUfoe3mahKIMwI0MpsjJuDlfHuY1lSmf98q6WTvKpJyeCTTXpySAz4aaxgsEh0bxJqhCLmEcmt-9WA8K8fSvNeJRlF0mGuxzM_LEVlUdmw4baHPBK-6IMoe_BYLZeAkvhQ/s320/unnamed+copy+8.jpg" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">With Great Grandma Judy</td></tr></tbody></table><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiY-LrLGkd-OcoBPlqrSKdq1fFjht60z3Jso_HIK9utlwKYtUZtPq4BJM6ht7pwg1ZifKwHhYRZ3b-7nywxYE_iOGkRFjt2BQsklNxqlwPT9AcZbCmk7fCEMhs5GnUYvjWi49OKx8H6erM/s2048/unnamed+copy+6.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"></a></div><br /><span style="font-family: helvetica;">At almost 16 months, Finn has yet to get on an airplane. By this age his sister was a frequent flyer, logging a trip to London and numerous trips to the East Coast. Finn has only been able to go to a playground recently. For months they were all closed due to the pandemic. And yet, he has developed beautifully. He was an early walker and started saying quite a few words just after one. He’s wiry and strong. When you look at him in the tub he’s absolutely ripped. He’s a towhead with the bluest eyes and only four teeth – two top and two bottom. The top two look like they belong to a china doll. The bottom teeth resemble a beaver. He climbs on everything, like it or not. He seems to be mechanically inclined with his mother’s perseverance. Prior to Finn, I’d never seen a toddler figure out how to unlock a baby gate. </span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: helvetica;"><br /></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: helvetica;">It may be a wild ride with this one, but what a sensitive boy. He is devastated if reprimanded, but still goes back to touch the hot stove time and again. He wants to behave, but the urge to experience is far too strong to control. It’s best to redirect him, since this is an internal conflict he’s too young to sort out. It’s been a long time since I’ve spent this much time with a boy this age. I think of Finn as a baby even though he can walk and has begun to speak. Emotionally, he’s more baby than toddler. He rarely stops moving, but when he needs a cuddle, he really needs it. Interestingly, in the last week he’s reverted to crawling a bit. I’m not sure why. Maybe he’s tired of tripping and falling. </span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: helvetica; font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhev7fqeON_EX21DPgnta_QSnsg2vKdA8COhk-MVtXMSuj9CN8lvDj1Nq34yMkqN2sMzuwxMe4XKXLbQXUtD9hO3_QnicwkocQJgpV5AWsxAnYJc5eNUAoUfEjHlq9_H7NLy_6SiiVZvik/s2048/unnamed.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2048" data-original-width="1536" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhev7fqeON_EX21DPgnta_QSnsg2vKdA8COhk-MVtXMSuj9CN8lvDj1Nq34yMkqN2sMzuwxMe4XKXLbQXUtD9hO3_QnicwkocQJgpV5AWsxAnYJc5eNUAoUfEjHlq9_H7NLy_6SiiVZvik/w150-h200/unnamed.jpg" width="150" /></a></div><span style="font-family: helvetica; font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: helvetica;">Watching Finn develop has made me think of the expression that children are not short adults. Of course not! Far from it. And little boys are not little men. Every time I hear the expression “little man” or “my little man” I cringe. You don’t hear people refer to tiny girl children as little women, except in a Louisa May Alcott book. </span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: helvetica;"><br /></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: helvetica;">There is such an expectation for boys to be strong. “Big boys don’t cry”, is the worst thing you can say to a little boy. Of course they do, and if they don’t they really should! And little boys are going to cry many, many times because they are physically hurt or their feelings are hurt. When I worked with kindergarteners sometimes a little boy would be crying so hard that I couldn’t figure out what was wrong. I found it helpful to ask if they were physically hurt or if their feelings were hurt. More often it was their feelings, but answering the question helped them figure out their emotions. </span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: helvetica;"><br /></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: helvetica;">Finn is a little dude, for sure. He’s a guys’ guy and he definitely gravitates towards men. He LOVES his daddy and his Poppy and constantly wants them to hold him, partly because they’re tall and he can see more of the world, but that’s not all. A few months ago, Finn spent the night at our house and Greg came to get him. When Greg picked him up Finn put his head down on Greg’s chest for the longest time. It was so sweet. Being at grandma’s was fine, but dad was home. </span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: helvetica;"><br /></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: helvetica;">What is it that makes a man a man? What makes a boy a boy? I guess it depends on the man and the boy, but grown men hopefully have acquired some traits that we won’t likely see in boys, especially baby boys. A man is patient and wise. A man can think through problems and take the long view. A man can exhibit strength through tenderness. Men are surprisingly sensitive, but often don’t feel like they should be. A man knows how to share. A man knows right from wrong. A man is kind and loyal. A man can control his impulses. A man has empathy. A good man is everything a little boy is not.</span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: helvetica;"><br /></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: helvetica;">It’s a privilege and heavy responsibility to help raise children. Everything matters and everything counts. There are no do overs. Each child has one childhood, and all the influences and environments mean something. Every time he looks into your face and sees a warm smile is a little building block for the future. Kids really are like little monkeys, imitating what they see you do and say. <div class="separator" style="clear: both; font-size: large; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; font-size: large; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhZXGpwhLSV3Y-c1PXH9pnZ6MHaS_3o6MjCQ3l3zHc-SWKeMKT0XgOMEa1BYXodMHuS02LvNo_dshHYcFSnxktha2PdRosw-mCpImt2Cl4qq2fYqUDB7cAdDfyTaxpyDik72AuwvRnFFEA/s2048/unnamed+copy.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2048" data-original-width="1536" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhZXGpwhLSV3Y-c1PXH9pnZ6MHaS_3o6MjCQ3l3zHc-SWKeMKT0XgOMEa1BYXodMHuS02LvNo_dshHYcFSnxktha2PdRosw-mCpImt2Cl4qq2fYqUDB7cAdDfyTaxpyDik72AuwvRnFFEA/s320/unnamed+copy.jpg" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; font-size: large; text-align: center;"><br /></div></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: helvetica; font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: helvetica;">Finn is a quirky little kid. I play "calming classical" music when we are in the car. He "sings" along at the top of his lungs like a little Pavarotti. He also loves to hold something. Last summer, when he wasn’t even crawling yet, he would hold a big spoon that you use for cooking. Lately, he’s gotten into that again and calls it “cook”. He will hold it all day long – even for naps and walks in the stroller. I’ve never seen anything like it. He also very into the Swiffer which he likes to drag around the house. </span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: helvetica; font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><iframe allowfullscreen='allowfullscreen' webkitallowfullscreen='webkitallowfullscreen' mozallowfullscreen='mozallowfullscreen' width='320' height='266' src='https://www.blogger.com/video.g?token=AD6v5dz7LI5NCCEHy_POMqPqE63Ajzb2bmgzXLewPFSXCnVOp4s5bS118Crl8Uyne_LQKenZ-ya4P_lfJGgFNfqklA' class='b-hbp-video b-uploaded' frameborder='0'></iframe></div><br /><span style="font-family: helvetica; font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: helvetica;">I’m not sure if this is a boy thing, but this little one is an accident waiting to happen. As his mom says, he approaches life with 110 percent effort. Just this week he stuck a bobby pin into a socket and gave himself a shock. Then he did a face plant outside on a walk and got a lump on the forehead. A couple hours later he tumbled headfirst into the tub, fully clothed, while I was running a bath for him. He poured hot coffee on himself. Last night he tripped while swiffering and got a bloody lip. It sounds like he’s running around unsupervised, but someone has been with him the whole time. He has no sense and tons of drive. Keeping him safe is clearly going to be a challenge. </span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: helvetica; font-size: large;"><br /></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgrhMAQUs5QYjmkkZVykkJD7ZJwOex0VLjFHhaSM-ME1DRig3GpWHwEq_6qgtYRw3Ebu58wzwNwUSpoSRYTJLhQ2cFi2o1S-9ZH5-ItP3dEUOdTbrAp14sAEJsQVjAhbW5_kogJ2gyEnss/s2048/unnamed+copy+15.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2048" data-original-width="1536" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgrhMAQUs5QYjmkkZVykkJD7ZJwOex0VLjFHhaSM-ME1DRig3GpWHwEq_6qgtYRw3Ebu58wzwNwUSpoSRYTJLhQ2cFi2o1S-9ZH5-ItP3dEUOdTbrAp14sAEJsQVjAhbW5_kogJ2gyEnss/w150-h200/unnamed+copy+15.jpg" width="150" /></a></div><span style="font-family: helvetica; font-size: large;"><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg8u9UNHLcDWlpKEASCueaipFLLVPGyIjwFDi_IYNJVj1uhZ_jLbOAexuJJGXAhWHyzcYJRx5dvOq8IHeFGCcvpsLqvUcfaSnA_X1-GhP6zyxj7UyM-98u4gH2pXBVqQ6DpF9wwmnXbuSk/s2048/unnamed+copy+16.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2048" data-original-width="1536" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg8u9UNHLcDWlpKEASCueaipFLLVPGyIjwFDi_IYNJVj1uhZ_jLbOAexuJJGXAhWHyzcYJRx5dvOq8IHeFGCcvpsLqvUcfaSnA_X1-GhP6zyxj7UyM-98u4gH2pXBVqQ6DpF9wwmnXbuSk/w150-h200/unnamed+copy+16.jpg" width="150" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"></td></tr></tbody></table><br /></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: helvetica;">It’s such a treat to watch Finn grow. You can just see his little mind working and he’s learning like crazy. He’s mostly happy and it’s wonderful to see how Lila has come around to being a fine big sister. Finn is lucky to have her and we are so very lucky to have Finn. There will be many years for Finn to be a man, and I expect he will be a good one. In the meantime, we will cherish the baby boy. </span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjPJ19tCp4DG3NP8aWjvzWrWA6eHkXt5q54LVyq_AS3K7aVcO_HSNLsdsTIUQU9BoEOrCeDXV6jpjNM1AfRk-KEhkDpRAwAjtRdg-z1qrqqBvghhpAVlh-vO3mprgFipwPcOQsrKuuyd-Y/s2048/unnamed+copy+20.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2048" data-original-width="1536" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjPJ19tCp4DG3NP8aWjvzWrWA6eHkXt5q54LVyq_AS3K7aVcO_HSNLsdsTIUQU9BoEOrCeDXV6jpjNM1AfRk-KEhkDpRAwAjtRdg-z1qrqqBvghhpAVlh-vO3mprgFipwPcOQsrKuuyd-Y/w240-h320/unnamed+copy+20.jpg" width="240" /></a><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg1vJ_964Xv3MXvAiYAU9zT4j09slDMilFxJLNN2N1XJnhXXXsQM5tH10wHPwkiWB91oRwW0JAhk017JFC611bjTYJ2sOr_Fz1A6AfNQVfOlRTS6nEtj2GWy2t0Bm2lUExDidFjI5A8c8A/s2048/unnamed+copy+19.jpg"><img border="0" data-original-height="2048" data-original-width="1536" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg1vJ_964Xv3MXvAiYAU9zT4j09slDMilFxJLNN2N1XJnhXXXsQM5tH10wHPwkiWB91oRwW0JAhk017JFC611bjTYJ2sOr_Fz1A6AfNQVfOlRTS6nEtj2GWy2t0Bm2lUExDidFjI5A8c8A/w240-h320/unnamed+copy+19.jpg" width="240" /></a></div></div><br /><br /><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEicPrAChRgz5xxd-2-pAyHRkkektEDm6xtkqJVPfE9P3PEbipg9k4BCQ_j9v06nrFygMDcUXbh8g6JR65mYnEsTweloabds2QFDBEp3HUYeA1I7AYBvN5pqriVoP10pJP2D9MWF3VLAlSM/s2048/unnamed+copy+14.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2048" data-original-width="1527" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEicPrAChRgz5xxd-2-pAyHRkkektEDm6xtkqJVPfE9P3PEbipg9k4BCQ_j9v06nrFygMDcUXbh8g6JR65mYnEsTweloabds2QFDBEp3HUYeA1I7AYBvN5pqriVoP10pJP2D9MWF3VLAlSM/s320/unnamed+copy+14.jpg" /></a></div><br /><div><br /></div></div><p><br /></p>Wendy Partridge Crowehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17064039413435368424noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5667039797770125597.post-27676119123896217482020-08-26T11:10:00.003-07:002020-08-26T11:15:11.857-07:00Home Buying<div class="separator"><br /><br /><br /><img border="0" data-original-height="2048" data-original-width="1536" height="410" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgYl-zooENUoYf5LpO8Y58F5sBgCQLHD5DCFTgQ67FsriDoHcQe8tCWcFAXPeKSwl1pttQ527Uvm1I3KoMuplmDcBJ35YmlpMh-gdyP44ppg97MTxga916p8rjM9YsDou9UfQlzaiREkqo/w307-h410/unnamed-3+copy+5.jpg" style="text-align: center;" width="307" /><span style="font-family: arial;"><br /><br /><br /><span>I am 62 years old. We are five months into the global coronavirus pandemic. Life is different in almost every way imaginable. We don’t travel. We don’t take airplanes. We stay at home. We shelter in place. Until this, I didn’t even know the government could order us to shelter in place, let alone for months at a time. It’s nerve-wracking and anxiety provoking and socially isolating. We think we had the virus in March, but we’re not certain. We both ended up on inhalers for a time. I still use mine sometimes. Initially, we were excited by the idea that we might be immune. Now, it seems it may be possible to get it again. This virus is evil. It’s very good at what it does.</span></span></div><p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: arial;"><o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: arial;">In addition to selling real estate, I help out with my granddaughter while</span><span style="font-family: arial;">Lucy and her husband work. Childcare </span><span style="font-family: arial;">is tedious and boring and relentless and also incredibly rewarding. If I hadn’t been one of Lila’s main care givers, I probably wouldn’t have seen her very much. Instead, I saw her all the time. We bonded like crazy. When she was a baby we went with Mommy when she travelled for </span><span style="font-family: arial;">work. We went to London once and New York three times. Lila practiced cra</span><span style="font-family: arial;">wling at the Gramercy Park Hotel. She spent her first three years, nine months in art galleries and museums and zoos. She started pre-school and was beginning to have a social life. She thrived on living in the city and loved culture and stimulation.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: arial;"><o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in;"><o:p><span style="font-family: arial;"> </span></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: arial;">When COVID-19 forced employees to work from home Lucy, Greg, Lila and 6 month- old Finn fled San Francisco. They began to shelter in place in Tahoe in March. Lucy was still on maternity leave, but her return to work deadline was looming. We sat at home in Mill Valley doin<span>g jigsaw puzzles, reading and fretting. We watched far too much political news. We drank too much wine. We ate like we were on a cruise ship. At the end of every meal we thought about the next meal. We were nervous about going out to the store. I quarantined the mail w</span><span>hen it arrived at the house. We missed seeing Finn and Lila and our other grandkids, Sally and Leo.</span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: arial;"><o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in;"><o:p><span style="font-family: arial;"> </span></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: arial;">Lucy and Greg were planning to return to San Francisco when Lucy started her new job at Instagram. They had no childcare in Tahoe. They really didn’t want to go back to the city. Everything was closed, including pre-school. Finally, it was decided that we would join them in the mountains and take care of the kids while Lucy and Greg worked. Their house wasn’t big enough for Eric and me, two kids, a dog and two parents working from home. We rented a friend’s cabin. It was rustic, but comfortable. When the snow melted the <span>chipmunks moved into the walls, but it was a short walk to the lake. We stayed there for seven weeks. Lila said it had</span><span>“scary stairs”, but we had everything we needed, and we were fortunate to be able to land there. The lilacs bloomed and then were snowed upon. Spring comes late to Tahoe and it’s subtle. It was a shock to leave my glorious Mill Valley garden with the profusion of roses. There were three colors in Tahoe; green, brown and blue. That’s all.</span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: arial;"><o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in;"><o:p><span style="font-family: arial;"> </span></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: arial;">Luckily for the kids and grandkids, childcare is one of my super-powe<span>rs. I’ve been caring for kids for fifty years. I began babysitting when I was twelve. I was a live-in nanny at the age of fifteen, taking care of Baby Ben while living at the Gate Hill Coop (aka The Land). I moved from New York to Hollywood at seventeen and was Beck and Chan’s nanny for two years. Later I had a licensed home daycare, caring for numerous kids, including my nephew, Zach. When I got a BA, my degree was in Developmental Psych. I worked in a kindergarten classroom for three years. I raised my own three daughters, which was considerably more difficult than taking care of other people’s children. That was an ongoing surprise to me. It’s a lot easier to shape young minds </span><span>when you don’t live with them.</span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: arial;"><span><br /></span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: arial;"><o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in;"></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: arial;">It was a Thursday in late May when Lucy suggested it would be nice if we had a house in their neighborhood. She proposed that we could go in on a property together and to let her know if I saw anything I liked. The time was approximately 6:00 pm. Friday morning I woke up and checked realtor.com for listings in Carnelian Bay. I hadn’t joined Tahoe Sierra MLS yet, so my access was the same as every other non-realtor.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in;"><o:p><span style="font-family: arial;"> </span></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: arial;">I saw a new listing that looked promising. By 10:30 am we were sitting in the driveway on the phone with the agent. By 11:00 we were inside the property with Lucy looking a<span>round. The house was perfect. Beautiful and well-maintained and a short distance from the kids and grandkids. Five minutes to the lake. By 1:00 pm we decided to write an offer and sent it over to the agent. We asked for a response by 5:00 pm the next day, which was Saturday of Memorial Day weekend. On Saturday there were several conversations with the agent who was hesitant to accept our offer because we didn’t have a pre-approval letter yet. We weren’t expecting to find a house so quickly, so we did not have our ducks in a row, which is such a rookie mistake. I bullied the agent a bit and talked about how qualified we were and that we were the righ</span><span>t buyers for the property. We had included a love letter to the Seller. It </span><span>was a full price offer! By 5:15 pm the Seller had signed our offer and we were in contract. Boom! That’s the way you buy a house.</span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: arial;"><o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in;"><o:p><span style="font-family: arial;"> </span></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: arial;">I did reach out to several mortgage brokers that day and got a response from someone I had used for clients in the past. She called me and I explained the situation. She agreed to send a pre-approval letter and follow up with the details later. It helps to have relationships in the business. We were able to send the pre-approval letter over a few minutes after the agent sent me the signed contract, so it gave them peace of mind. The inspections were a breeze, all went smoothly, and we closed in less than 30 days despite the pandemic.<span style="font-size: medium;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in;"><o:p><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;"> </span></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: arial;">I have watched this process so many times with clients, but honestly, I had no idea it was so stressful! Even though I was the agent, representing us as buyers, I was a nervous wreck. I pushed the process along every step of the way, which is what you have to do. It was<span>a bit of a stretch for us to close early, but it was totally doable. The final week before close we were staying in a hotel and our dog was staying at Lucy and Greg’s. We had been in some sort of limbo for over two months and were really ready to be settled. To close on a Friday instead of the following Tuesday or Wednesday was significant.</span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: arial;"><o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in;"></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: arial;"><br /></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: arial;">The timeline got a little tight at the end. A miscommunication between my insurance agent and the mortgage broker needlessly lost us a day. Everything was a scramble after that. We actually signed the loan docs the morning of the close of escrow, still not knowing whether we would go on record and be able to move in that Friday. In twenty years in the business I have never had buyers sign, fund and go on record all in one day, but it worked out. At 4:00 pm we <span>got an email from the title company that the sale was recorded. We bought the house fully furnished, so by 5:00 pm we were moved in.</span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;"><o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;"><br /></span></p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"></td></tr><tr></tr></tbody></table><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: arial;"><span face="" style="font-size: medium; text-align: left;"><br /></span></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: arial;"><span face="" style="font-size: medium; text-align: left;"><br /></span></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj7nyuSMH4y324xOTANzsQIaqHlaj4Z8dQmrvd4A88vZPTuB3ULGYPqtGD6JdikQ9ui58p8jXeDpTK056OO_jWlm3M3vx-vEbayYIgL6rdschk_T3KDYI_GCzd0O2k1xF_UP4ha2PpzpTE/s2048/unnamed-3.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2048" data-original-width="1536" height="328" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj7nyuSMH4y324xOTANzsQIaqHlaj4Z8dQmrvd4A88vZPTuB3ULGYPqtGD6JdikQ9ui58p8jXeDpTK056OO_jWlm3M3vx-vEbayYIgL6rdschk_T3KDYI_GCzd0O2k1xF_UP4ha2PpzpTE/w246-h328/unnamed-3.jpg" width="246" /></a></div></span><span style="font-family: arial; text-align: left;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; font-size: large; text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: large; text-align: left;"><br /></span></div><span>If we hadn’t jumped on this house that very day we would probably still be looking and living in a rental. The market changed right then. Work from home and urban flight has created such demand. The house right behind us went on the market, got eleven offers and </span></span><span style="font-family: arial; text-align: left;">went $150,000 over asking. We were not prepared to compete with that.</span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: arial; text-align: left;"> </span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: arial; text-align: left;">There are some disadvantages to living in the mountains. No newspaper delivery. We miss the Sunday New York Times. I don’t like to read the papers online. I’m on my computer enough. Hell, I would even read the local paper, but they don’t deliver that, either. Also, we don’t get mail. Our Mill Valley house is rented so we had the mail forwarded to Allie’s place which is about half a mile from our home. You may have heard about USPS and how slow they are. It’s ridiculous. Then Allie has to gather the mail and ship it to me via Fed Ex or UPS. It’s a slow process. The next time we are here for an extended period we’ll have to get a PO Box, assuming postal service still exists.</span></div><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: arial;"><o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in;"><o:p><span style="font-family: arial;"> </span></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: arial;">Deliveries are another challenge. Amazon does not deliver here, which is fine with <span>me because I don’t like supporting Jeff Bezos, richest man in the world who does not pay taxes. Target may or may not be able to accomplish getting a product from Point A to Point B. It’s kind of hit or miss. The most recent order was most definitely NOT delivered. I went on the website and got a refund for all the items. Shortly thereafter, I got an email from Target. “Your package has been delivered!” Well, actually it hadn’t. And you already cancelled the order and refunded my money.</span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: arial;"><o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in;"><o:p><span style="font-family: arial;"> </span></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in;"><span><span style="font-family: arial;">Bed, Bath and Beyond has been great. Same with Wayfair and Home Depot. I’m still waiting for my contact lenses and two dresses that I ordered from China on June 4<sup>th</sup>. We have friends nearby who do not exist on any map. They can’t get deliveries at all and have to have their packages sent to Lucy’s. It’s the Wild West in some ways.</span><span face="" style="font-size: large;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi1v-6zTMnAdU5YwgRM4Ager4ZlxD7zZTKY3nJ0SknK7iknNM2fnZFqDzK654R49SIKpifdRNfBfCDbkWcjy7IY-JAujhdmS2CDv3ny3JS8EH0exQ4KRUtTLysEMKzaapi_JL1NFZ_f0pU/s4032/IMG-7157.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4032" data-original-width="3024" height="328" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi1v-6zTMnAdU5YwgRM4Ager4ZlxD7zZTKY3nJ0SknK7iknNM2fnZFqDzK654R49SIKpifdRNfBfCDbkWcjy7IY-JAujhdmS2CDv3ny3JS8EH0exQ4KRUtTLysEMKzaapi_JL1NFZ_f0pU/w246-h328/IMG-7157.jpg" width="246" /></span></a></div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /><br /></span><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiLp51mLQeY-F2M6PnOggjRAVNpdH2MJ-1K6RKIihkXkehz1vbtkzNJIuXi4yzRxFmLIHsL-gCouNiOVlCT2zMZQyS0dL_Toi9Qchx-dbw5OM_BlbvuwiLwV_DRJCADXbO0uEDAp2w_uT8/s2048/unnamed-3+copy+2.jpg" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2048" data-original-width="1536" height="328" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiLp51mLQeY-F2M6PnOggjRAVNpdH2MJ-1K6RKIihkXkehz1vbtkzNJIuXi4yzRxFmLIHsL-gCouNiOVlCT2zMZQyS0dL_Toi9Qchx-dbw5OM_BlbvuwiLwV_DRJCADXbO0uEDAp2w_uT8/w246-h328/unnamed-3+copy+2.jpg" width="246" /></span></a></div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /><img border="0" data-original-height="2048" data-original-width="1536" height="328" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhZOYB9fMih26lWLEuHUwjdxTrv2ouCj9A-M9kDKDfJRjxcELfF4nkgDeckdPmtIHDpp4Nyr5INyxXFggowK3UNss796V_Ix9NLYsgJTE1o3XH81q1XjmUYd6skNcHTPiisgTGw3udNlp4/w246-h328/unnamed-3+copy+6.jpg" width="246" /></span><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhlcZNh_PCRHHAoGbClOE7f_RHOFvs4XTzaVoL5rcv5KItzcMSPwGoWDizEal4Vbgu8yOFSlQn-b9g6ltZvT5VZWVgIYNQVDqQXHWPxtPIsFCP3xG105o1wm80HQxmBHj-KSPU0LDF1GXU/s2048/unnamed-3+copy.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2048" data-original-width="1536" height="410" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhlcZNh_PCRHHAoGbClOE7f_RHOFvs4XTzaVoL5rcv5KItzcMSPwGoWDizEal4Vbgu8yOFSlQn-b9g6ltZvT5VZWVgIYNQVDqQXHWPxtPIsFCP3xG105o1wm80HQxmBHj-KSPU0LDF1GXU/w307-h410/unnamed-3+copy.jpg" width="307" /></span></a></div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span><div><span style="font-family: arial;">This is a summer house for me. I haven’t had a real summer since I left New York in 1975, and I’ve loved every bit of it. Every single morning the sky is blue, and the sun is shining. There is no fog. I get up and put on a bathing suit. Most days I take a swim in the lake. I’m a fair-weather gal. I like to visit places with snow, but I wouldn’t want to live there. I’ll be out of here before the first snow falls.</span></div><div><br /><br /><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2048" data-original-width="1536" height="262" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhd5xv2jy6nmwCutDZmPM2bpCzakDlEWOvC3oupqi0LZYjZQHT4jyFT0Re5PUDoKHW1KaRdCeA2iIwnIGaCoxwMC42ZkDSC3dv88L4LpqOxUQTbBgEkCpVtEQvqz9zWYLdweYCXRqv9FKY/w197-h262/unnamed.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;" width="197" /></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><br /></td></tr></tbody></table><br /><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: arial;">We’ve been helping Lila ride a bike. She is still using training wheels, but she is confident and strong and sure. The steering and balance will follow. She only just turned four. She’s been learning to swim in the l<span>ake, and I’ve taken her out in the canoe. We played in the Truckee River and Lila rode a horse. We do whatever we can given Finn’s baby schedule. We paint and draw and listen to music. Then there is rest time. It’s camp. I never went to camp. Now I have a camp: Base Camp Gigi.</span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;"><span><br /></span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;"></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgUcK3zmKvELKbrAm25oYcPA_US3RdyMq_gU3jOOToICGUXBaGruYsH2MjUUaZatoSLtkKAOYqiLW9IyWjdAi20kcvLlgNwVG9qa81kA646LTxFsJgjNWULKY2SnbYdi43SjQykHpL-4EI/s2048/unnamed-3+copy+8.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1525" data-original-width="2048" height="306" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgUcK3zmKvELKbrAm25oYcPA_US3RdyMq_gU3jOOToICGUXBaGruYsH2MjUUaZatoSLtkKAOYqiLW9IyWjdAi20kcvLlgNwVG9qa81kA646LTxFsJgjNWULKY2SnbYdi43SjQykHpL-4EI/w410-h306/unnamed-3+copy+8.jpg" width="410" /></a></span></div><span style="font-family: arial; 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margin: 0in;"><span style="font-size: medium;"></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><br /><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></p><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: calibri, sans-serif; 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margin: 0in;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 12pt; margin: 0in;"><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 12pt; margin: 0in;"><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 12pt; margin: 0in;"><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 12pt; margin: 0in;"><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 12pt; margin: 0in;"><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 12pt; margin: 0in;"><br /></p><br /></div>Wendy Partridge Crowehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17064039413435368424noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5667039797770125597.post-78364580818759052712020-08-26T10:04:00.000-07:002020-08-26T10:04:16.137-07:00Thank you<p><span style="font-family: arial;"></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: arial;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjKyS1_gRXgiI4tVwOnh4w5hSgpplikBBXmJ6mCdwIhStHbT6EkcrkfHQBR1NFw4688d0QNJ_7IwCWP1-pyy0AO8KUDnSanWSEkncFirmrXBskhocYICAA4PvP86-YH5z5sL1wZZ34xLSM/s1249/unnamed-3+copy+9.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1249" data-original-width="1127" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjKyS1_gRXgiI4tVwOnh4w5hSgpplikBBXmJ6mCdwIhStHbT6EkcrkfHQBR1NFw4688d0QNJ_7IwCWP1-pyy0AO8KUDnSanWSEkncFirmrXBskhocYICAA4PvP86-YH5z5sL1wZZ34xLSM/s640/unnamed-3+copy+9.jpg" /></a></span></div><span style="font-family: arial;"><br />Thank you to everyone who called or sent me comments about Allie and Denzel and the Black Lives Matter post. The conversations are happening. Awareness is growing. The protests are continuing. There is momentum. However, we have such a long way to go. The officers who killed Breonna Taylor have not been arrested. Jacob Blake was shot seven times in front of his three little boys. Now two people have been killed during protests over his shooting in Wisconsin. It's shameful. Change cannot come soon enough. </span><p></p>Wendy Partridge Crowehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17064039413435368424noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5667039797770125597.post-11014230538320617712020-06-17T18:42:00.000-07:002020-06-17T18:42:54.402-07:00Black Lives Matter<div class="MsoNormal" style="font-size: 12pt; margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt;">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 12pt;">I left town in the midst of a global pandemic. I returned to a revolution. Shelter In Place had been instituted for almost six weeks when we packed the cars and headed to Lake Tahoe on April 21, 2020. My best friend of forty-one years, Sally, had died of cancer the day before. I organized what I thought we would need for at least a month, while a shroud of shock and grief hovered all around me. As I packed a bin of food, I had the strongest feeling that although this was the first time, I would pack to live in Tahoe for the summer every year for the rest of my life.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">When we returned to Mill Valley in early June to sell the car and prepare our house to rent, I returned to a different town. The Pandemic was still there, and most everyone went about their daily business wearing masks, but there was something else. It was so strong and powerful. There were signs all over town saying, “Black Lives Matter” and “Silence is Violence” and “No Justice No Peace” and “I Can’t Breathe”. Within twelve hours of arriving I joined a protest in Mill Valley. As I entered the downtown where I have lived for over forty years, much seemed the same. The Redwood trees were as regal as ever. Mt Tamalpais loomed in all her glory, but there was an energy I didn’t expect. There were so many people streaming in from every direction. Families with dogs and children holding signs: SAY HIS NAME. GEORGE FLOYD.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">A cold-blooded, broad daylight, killing by cop of yet another unarmed black man, so egregious that it literally shocked the world out of complicity or compliance or complacency. Choose the word that fits you. None of us can escape this. We are all on the continuum somewhere between the victim and the brilliant white people who thought it was right and just to throw off the shackles of King George and build a new land using slaves. This new land is four hundred years old now and it is exploding with grief and fear and rage. No justice, no peace. No justice, no peace. No justice, no peace.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">A killing by cop that was so blatant, so inhumane and so filmed. Racism isn’t worse now; it’s being documented. Since George Floyd’s death the world has changed. It’s about time. I have done many protest marches in my life. I started demonstrating as a child with my parents in the 60’s. We marched for Civil Rights. We protested against the Viet Nam War. We walked in our county. We marched in Washington DC. In recent years I have walked across the Golden Gate Bridge with Moms Demand Action.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">It’s hard for me to chant phrases like: No More Silence, End Gun Violence. It always makes me emotional and I start to cry a bit when I’m saying the words. The Mill Valley protest was no different. We walked down Miller Avenue. My daughter, Allie, and her partner Denzel live on Miller. Denzel is one of the few black men who live in very white Mill Valley. As we walked past their apartment we chanted: BLACK LIVES MATTER. I cried even more than usual. It seemed so obvious. I wonder why we even have to say these words?<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">We have to say them because we all fall somewhere on the continuum. We all have bias even if we’re not overtly racist. We all have work to do. We need to face the uncomfortable truths about white privilege and what it means to be a black or brown person in our community. We need to do better. We can do better. We must do better.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">When Allie and Denzel got together eight years ago I was happy for them because they were in love and they are a well-suited, compatible, dynamic couple. They’re both no drama, happy people. They have lots of friends. Their natural tendencies are to avoid confrontation, but there is no avoiding this moment. In our family we all want them to get married and have children when they’re ready, but I have had worries about their future because they’re a bi-racial couple. Not because of them, but because of the world. I thought about it in the same way I would if one of my children were homosexual. I love you. I support you. You love who you love, but I’m afraid your life is going to be harder in ways.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">I worry about Denzel. I know his Mom worries about him even more. One night, years ago, we were all walking around New York City after a late dinner. It was chilly and Denzel put the hood up on his sweatshirt. Inside I was saying, no, don’t do it! But then I thought, oh how ridiculous. But it’s not ridiculous. He is always in potential danger because of the color of his skin. How disturbing is that? When they have children Allie will most likely be the safest person in their family because she’s white. How wrong is that? There are places they can’t safely go because monstrous Americans with their guns take the “law” into their own hands. How frightening is that? I worry that the town where Allie was raised, and where she and Denzel have chosen to settle and start a business, won’t be welcoming. How unsettling is that? It’s all of the above - disturbing, wrong, frightening and unsettling.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">When Allie and Denzel were still living in New York they took a weekend getaway to New Hampshire. I was petrified to think of them in pick-up driving, gun-toting, white New England. Apparently, the hotel they chose was not some backwoods, scary place. Allie texted that Cynthia Nixon and her wife and children were in the hot tub with them. Exhale. If lesbians were ok there, Denzel and Allie were probably fine. But seriously, what a way to have to think and what a way for too many Americans to live.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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Wendy Partridge Crowehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17064039413435368424noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5667039797770125597.post-46420343643230915902020-03-25T12:45:00.000-07:002020-03-28T15:12:18.784-07:00Waste Not Want Not<div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 12pt; margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt;">
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<span style="font-size: 14pt;">My dinner diary seems to have gone by the wayside. I know we’ve eaten, but I can’t really remember what we ate when. Self-isolation (or in this case marital “isolation”) has made time a bit blurry around the edges. With no schedule and no routine, time is a slippery concept. It’s frightfully easy to lose track of the day, let alone the time. We seem to be going to bed early and sleeping late. I don’t stress about waking up at night because it doesn’t matter if I’m tired the next day. There is nothing I have to do. I just read for a while and eventually go back to sleep. This must be what it’s like to be retired, but most retired people usually have some sort of schedule of volunteering and or exercise.</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 14pt;">Truth be told, current circumstances are a bit distracting. It’s hard to stay away from the news, and the news is pretty scary. We were supposed to fly to New York on April 2</span><span style="font-size: 15.5556px;">nd</span><span style="font-size: 14pt;"> to visit my friend, Sally, who has advanced cancer. She also recently had open heart surgery. New York now has nearly 30,000 cases of corona virus. We can’t risk traveling and possibly taking infection to Sally. It’s too dangerous to her, and wouldn’t be wonderful for us, either. It makes me sad that we can’t go, but what are you going to do? Now I don’t know when we will be able to see her.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 14pt;">Rockland County, New York, is where I grew up. They have over six hundred reported cases and five people have died, and that’s news from a couple days ago. In Marin County it’s gotten ever closer. A man we know who lives several blocks away has just recovered, but it wasn’t pretty. He went on a ski trip to BC for a 50</span><span style="font-size: 15.5556px;">th</span><span style="font-size: 14pt;"> birthday with ten guys. Nine of them came down with COVID-19. There is still a lack of testing here, so we really don’t know what we’re dealing with yet.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 14pt;">Before this all started the idea of being on house arrest sounded appealing. I even went so far as to say that being stuck at home for fourteen days (while not being sick) sounded like heaven. Be careful what you wish for. This scenario messes with your mind. There’s an expression that says: if you want something done ask a busy person. I am a busy person, not in an hysterical, stressed out way. In a one foot in front of the other, let no grass grow under my feet sort of way. I get shit done. Currently, I play on several tennis teams and captain another. I am House Director at the Outdoor Art Club which takes a fair amount of time. I’ve logged almost sixty volunteer hours so far this year. I have a large family, including three adult daughters, one stepdaughter, and four grandchildren under the age of four. I have siblings and nieces and nephews and an elderly mother. I have a husband and dog. I work as a realtor, as I have for twenty years. I have clients who need and want things. My commitments are not nothing.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 14pt;">Now it has all stopped, and it’s very strange. The hardest part, emotionally, is not knowing when the great American timeout will end. Our president says we should all be fine by Easter. That sounds GREAT to me. However, it’s probably wishful thinking. I’m glad we live in California where our governor is taking this seriously. It’s the only way to flatten the curve of the pandemic. We will do what needs to be done, like it or not.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 14pt;">We’re limiting trips out, even to the store. Last week we spent four hundred dollars on groceries. It didn’t feel like we were eating high on the hog, but we had food in the frig and the freezer and some back-up stuff in the pantry. We ate what we had and tried to be creative about not wasting any food. By last night we’d had enough of “catch as catch can”, and decided to support a local restaurant. We ordered a take-out bucket of fried chicken from Bungalow 44. The sides of garlic mashed potatoes and salad we made at home, but oh, what a treat. It was scrumptious.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 14pt;">We’re all coping in our own ways. By last Saturday I was getting stir crazy at home. And when I say, “stir crazy”, I am ever mindful of the fact that I’m not trying to entertain little ones at home without the usual resources. I am beyond grateful that I’m not trying to wrangle teenagers. That was hard enough when they had school and sports and could hang with their friends. But, still, I was ready to feast my eyes on a new landscape, so I headed out to the beach which ended up being an unwitting faux pas of major proportions.</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 14pt;">Eric had gone out twice during the week and he’d had such a nice time. He neglected to tell me that the beach parking lots were closed, which might have given me pause. Instead, I started driving over the mountain and could not believe what I saw. It was a mob scene. People were walking all over the place and every place a car could be parked, a car was parked. It was like the Fourth</span><span style="font-size: 14pt;"> of July, although I would never dream of going out to the beach on the Fourth </span><span style="font-size: 14pt;">of July. The traffic was ridiculous, but once you’re on the narrow, winding mountain road there is really no turning back, so I forged ahead. None of the usual spots were available so I proceeded to the large parking lot. The gate was locked which explained the mass of cars all the way up the hill.</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 14pt;">I had driven all the way out there and was determined to find somewhere to park, which I eventually did. I walked onto the beach and it was as beautiful as ever. There were lots of small groups, but everyone seemed to be maintaining appropriate physical distance. I nestled into a sand dune with my book and was at least fifty feet from the nearest other person. It was only later that my outing was revealed to be not so benign. The locals were furious that so many people had descended on the coast towns. They felt overwhelmed and frightened and worried about their own safety. I get that, but I also understand that many people live in small apartments with no outdoor space. They’ve been cooped up with their families without fresh air or exercise. To me, the beach felt like a safe place. There are no hard surfaces. I was able to park, sit on the beach, take a walk and smell the sea air without a risk to me or endangering anyone else.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 14pt;">Other people were lined up for ice creams at The Parkside like it was a summer Saturday. The restrooms were closed. The infrastructure couldn’t deal with the demand. Later, I understood all this, but in the meantime, I decided to take a side trip to Bolinas, which I almost never do. I was on my way home and wanted to stretch out my excursion a bit, so I went in search of a cup of coffee. Bolinas was its usual welcoming self. The first large sign read, “This is a pandemic, not a vacation. Now go home.” Around the next turn another hand-painted sign was tacked to a tree: Bernie, We Believe. And finally, in downtown, one said: Respect the elderly. Now go home.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 14pt;">I don’t know about you, but I don’t like being told what to do. I wasn’t some tourist from San Francisco. I’m a forty-year resident of the county. I’m not endangering anyone by getting a coffee. I sanitize my hands every time I get in or out of the car. I’m extremely careful about germs, even under normal circumstances. I went to the Coast Café and ordered a coffee. I bought a cinnamon donut to go with it. I was happy. The fresh air and change of scene had done me good. I sat on a curb in front of a parked truck to enjoy my treat.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 14pt;">About eight feet from where I sat another pick-up truck rambled in. It had bumpers held together by band-aids and duct tape. You get the idea. The driver was an older, wild looking, white haired man who looked like he wouldn’t say no to a drink. He got out of the truck and came straight for me. I couldn’t understand what he was saying, at first, but I did catch something about you may not be from around here. It was Bolinas! Of course, he would lead with that. He got so close he stood over me and I stood up and backed away. It seemed he was worried I could get hit by a car (or truck?) since I was sitting on the curb, but I don’t believe he was worried. He wanted to agitate about something. I kept saying thank you as he moved towards me and I moved away. Finally, I pointed out that he seemed to be worried about my safety, but he wasn’t keeping a safe distance from me. I took my coffee and went back to my car. I sanitized my hands and tried to let it roll off me. The experience definitely took the joy out of sitting in the sun on the curb with my coffee and my donut.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 14pt;">We’ve had some strange adaptations to the quarantine in our neighborhood. One neighbor began to fly his American flag and suggested others do the same. It hasn’t really gone viral. Others suggested putting Christmas lights back up and many people chimed in that they would, as well. Noooo! Some people have literally just taken them down. The fact that all the holidays are blending together is a major pet peeve of mine. It used to be that we would decorate for one holiday at a time which was wonderful. Now people layer the decorations. They don’t take anything away. First come the pumpkins and gourds and Indian corn in the fall. So far so good. Autumn wreaths go up for Thanksgiving. Then Christmas arrives and the pumpkins remain on the porch with the poinsettias. There’s no “out with the old, in with the new”. I’m not sure what good Christmas lights will do now that it’s staying light so much later, and we don’t go anywhere at night, anyway. How are we to see them?<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 14pt;">The strangest new ritual has been the human howl. At eight pm every night people all around town are going outside to howl at the moon like a pack of wolves. I cannot believe this has caught on. There must be a LOT of frustrated extraverts out there looking for connection. Do what you have to do, but I find it a little creepy. Carry on, stay safe. As for me, I’ll be here sort of dreading eight o’clock.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<br />Wendy Partridge Crowehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17064039413435368424noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5667039797770125597.post-49455955864251082542020-03-18T12:37:00.003-07:002020-03-19T08:30:07.470-07:00Food Glorious Food<div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 12pt; margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt; text-align: left;">
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<span style="font-size: 12pt;">“Food, glorious, food, hot sausage and mustard.” I believe those are lines from the play, Oliver, or at least a close approximation. Food has been top of mind since we’re been on coronavirus house arrest. Our quarantine started five days early, due to Eric’s upper respiratory illness. Lucky us. We went out to dinner for my birthday on Wednesday, March 11</span><sup>th</sup><span style="font-size: 12pt;">. The next morning Eric woke up sick and we’ve been eating at home ever since.</span></div>
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Unlike many of our friends and neighbors, we normally eat home for most of our meals. We both can cook, and don’t usually have dinner out more than once a week or so. We also get burritos for takeout and have Sol Food in the neighborhood which has great Puerto Rican food. We don’t have food delivered with the frequency of city dwellers. A couple months ago my daughter (who had a new baby) and her three-year old were both sick. I went to San Francisco to help take care of them. For dinner, my son-in-law ordered Indian food, and had it delivered. The next afternoon Dad was at work and Mom was napping. My granddaughter and I were resting and watching a video when the doorbell rang. It was 4:40 pm. Lila picked up her head, looked around and asked, “Is dinner here?”<o:p></o:p></div>
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That made me laugh so hard and I have relayed the story numerous times. It’s so different from the way I grew up and from the way my children were raised, but it’s her life. She lives in a city with two working parents and that’s how it’s done. Dinner arrives at the front door. Lucy likes to cook, and tries to when she can, but it’s mostly weekends. She wants her kids to be aware that food is made in kitchens, but one must do what one must do.<o:p></o:p></div>
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Now what we must do is eat at home. Breakfast, lunch and dinner. What we are going to eat for dinner has become a sensitive topic in our house, of late. Honestly, I think we’ve been in a bit of a rut. I cooked a lot for a long time. With three growing girls and all their friends streaming in, I was good at cooking for a crowd. When I started in real estate it became a lot harder. All my plans, dinner and otherwise would go out the window when I had to show property or write an offer at the last minute. The girls were up and out or on the way. I became single and it was much easier for me to pick up something pre-made than to cook for one.<o:p></o:p></div>
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When I met Eric he led with how much he loves to cook. He claimed it was his only creative outlet. I disagree with that. He can write a damn good suspense novel when he puts his mind to it. I think he mostly wanted me for my kitchen which I designed myself. With ten-foot ceilings and lots of light, it also has a six burner Viking, an island, a walk-in pantry and LOTS of counter space. He made himself right at home. Truthfully, sometimes it feels like he took it over. When the kids were little and I was trying to make dinner, I would request (beg, plead, demand – call it what you will) for them to stay outside of the “invisible lines”. Now that Eric has proprietary interest in the kitchen, I feel like I’m the one being asked to stay outside the lines.<o:p></o:p></div>
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My regular schedule isn’t very conducive to cooking. Two days a week I’m not home from San Francisco until 7:00 pm, and my weekends can still go sideways with work demands. It took me a while to realize that I missed cooking. Being in the kitchen grounds me. I like to make my old favorite recipes. Now that we’re sheltering in place there is plenty of cooking for everyone. Here is our food diary: Week One.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<u>Wednesday 3/11</u> – Dinner out at Gravity Tavern, Mill Valley. Delicious.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<u>Thursday, 3/12</u> – I made Lentil Soup made from The Greens Cookbook by Deborah Madison. I’ve never eaten there, but Greens is a legendary vegetarian restaurant in Fort Mason, San Francisco. I kind of defeat the purpose of the vegetarianism by adding ham hocks, but it really adds to the flavor. I also brighten it up with a bit of balsamic vinegar. Soup is great on its own or paired with a salad.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<u>Friday, 3/13</u> – Eric was still sick, so I got to control the kitchen. He likes a lot more meat than I do, and I figured he’d want some meat after not quite vegetarian lentil soup. I got good ground round from Mill Valley Market and a bun for the man of the house. I eat mine bun-less, because it seems that carbs are not my friend these days. I also steamed some broccoli with garlic salt and sesame oil.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<u>Saturday, 3/14</u> – We started thinking about our local restaurants and decided to order two small pizzas from Vasco in downtown Mill Valley, which is our go-to neighborhood place. We got one Margarita and one sausage and mushroom which totaled $34. Eric made a salad. To be honest, the togetherness wasn’t wearing well, and we ended up eating in different parts of the house, which was fine with me. <o:p></o:p></div>
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<u>Sunday, 3/15</u> – I was busy watching the Democratic debate and Eric had full reign in the kitchen. He made amazing short ribs with polenta. Since our salad wasn’t eaten Saturday night, we ate it on Sunday.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<u>Monday, 3/16 </u>– Shelter in Place until April 7th was announced. We made shopping lists, and both went out to stock up. Eric went to his favorite, Safeway, and I went to my favorite, Mill Valley Market. Normally, I’ll do a big shop at Trader Joes and fill in produce and meat at MV Market. Under these circumstances I didn’t want to bother with Trader Joes. My only complaint with MV Market is that they don’t make it easy to sanitize the handles on the shopping carts. The other markets have the anti-bacterial wipes out front so you can wipe off the cart handles before you touch them. I made a request for this, but it wasn’t done. Instead, the employees began wearing latex gloves. I brought my own wipes, but this really is a fail, especially since the place was crawling with the elderly, frantically loading up on supplies. <o:p></o:p></div>
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I made spinach, cheese and bacon quiche for dinner which really hit the spot. The recipe is one I’ve been using since I began cooking forty-two years ago. It’s from “Joy of Cooking” and the book is literally falling apart and broken open to the quiche recipe. We had some cheese that was going to get too old and I wanted to use it. I also didn’t want to use two cups of our fresh milk, so I used one and a half cups evaporated milk and the remainder was fresh. We both really liked the way it tasted. My childhood experiences of large family, little money really kicks in when it’s required. I know how to “make do”. This hunkering down may be my time to shine.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<u>Tuesday, 3/17</u> – St. Patrick’s Day. No celebrations, obviously. I’d bought a cooked chicken on Monday. Eric used it and other items we had on hand and made a wonderful Chicken Taco Salad.<o:p></o:p></div>
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There you have it. One week of eating at home. My stomach’s growling. I think I’ll head down to the kitchen for some avocado toast with a fried egg on top. Stay safe, everyone!<o:p></o:p></div>
Wendy Partridge Crowehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17064039413435368424noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5667039797770125597.post-74412257060094894632020-03-14T11:51:00.001-07:002020-03-15T10:06:12.525-07:00It's Corona Time<div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt; text-align: left;">
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<span style="font-family: "century gothic" , sans-serif; font-size: 12pt;">It’s been a wild and wooly week here on planet Earth. The World Health Organization categorized the COVID-19 outbreak as a pandemic. Yesterday, our government declared a state of national emergency. We’re all on lockdown in one form or another. The stock market has tanked. Other than that, everything’s coming up roses.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "century gothic" , sans-serif;">The response to this health crisis has unraveled in a confusing manner. We literally do not know what we’re doing. We’ve watched the way the viral epidemic has unfolded in other countries and we are trying to learn. We have learned too slowly and now it’s said we are about eleven days behind Italy, which is a frightening scenario. The official response is now calling for “social distancing”. As an introvert, this is music to my ears. Everything is being canceled? That’s absolutely wonderful.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "century gothic" , sans-serif;">Our life began to change several weeks ago when I contemplated our upcoming trip to the BNP Tennis Tournament in Indian Wells. I started to think about the close contact one has with thousands of people who come from all over to see the matches. We get grounds passes, which gives you access to many courts and you go from one court to another depending on who is playing. While you are waiting to get seats in one of the stadiums you stand in a crowd, literally shoulder to shoulder, with dozens of others. You are stuck waiting there until the changeover, which could be ten minutes or more. I cannot emphasize how intimate the contact is. It’s like being in a crowded elevator, except that it’s outdoors and on stairs. People bang into you unknowingly with their backpacks. You have someone’s butt in your face. It’s very claustrophobic under the best of circumstances<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "century gothic" , sans-serif;">That train of thought was the end of this year’s tournament for me. I had splurged for two nights at La Quinta and then we were supposed to stay with friends for three nights. Fortunately, La Quinta was gracious when I told them my elderly mom had been in the hospital and wasn’t doing well. While that was technically true, and fortunately she is doing better, it seemed like the way to go. I was afraid that if I canceled due to the coronavirus they would be less sympathetic. The airline tickets were non-refundable. That’s what you get when you book with Cheapo-Air. At least they were cheap, and we saved a bundle by not taking the trip. About a week after we decided not to attend the whole event was canceled. I can’t imagine the economic ripple effects throughout the desert. The two weeks of the tournament are a boon for the area. This year it is clearly a bust. Magnify that by the worldwide economy and it's just unfathomable. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "century gothic" , sans-serif;">Now the local schools are closed. All pro basketball, baseball and hockey games are on hiatus. The annual Dipsea Race, which was scheduled for June, has been called off. People are working from home or not working. I’m on the Board at the Outdoor Art Club. With heavy hearts, we canceled all events for the remainder of March and the month of April, even the beloved Teddy Bear Tea. Life is definitely different.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "century gothic" , sans-serif;">My birthday was on March 11th, which fell in the middle of this surreal week. I was supposed to take a two-hour horseback ride in Pt Reyes, but canceled it because I hadn't been sleeping well and was tired. Clients contacted me at the last minute and wanted to see property, so it worked out better, anyway. It was a nice day. The weather was gorgeous. I took a swim and played tennis. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "century gothic" , sans-serif;">We went out to dinner at a local restaurant and the place was almost completely empty. The atmosphere was lovely, and I definitely felt like I was upholding the six foot from strangers mandate, but it was quite eerie. After dinner we took a walk around town and the other restaurants were so quiet as well. If possible, we should support our local restaurants by buying gift certificates or having takeout. We want them to still be standing when this is all over. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "century gothic" , sans-serif;">Personally, I looked ahead to an empty calendar with glee. Being quarantined at home would mean time to read, write and catch up on my sleep. I could work in the garden and swim at the pool. Now it’s raining and the pool has been shut down until the end of March. My not so young husband has gotten sick, so we canceled a trip to Tahoe. We were planning to stop by to see my mother on the way, but then Eric got a sore throat and plans changed again. It seems to be a nasty cold, and nothing more, but we are taking no chances. As of now, I feel absolutely fine and plan to remain that way.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "century gothic" , sans-serif;">It doesn’t yet feel like a stay-cation. It’s hard to block out the news, such a temptation to tune in and get distracted. Watching presidential briefings where everyone in charge of our COVID-19 response is clumped together, shaking hands (good lord) and sharing microphones is quite compelling. How can you NOT watch this?<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "century gothic" , sans-serif;">I’ve also been taking trips to the grocery store to procure food while not touching anything, checking Eric’s temperature and bringing him beverages so he’ll stay hydrated. I realized the dog hadn’t gotten any exercise in two days, so late yesterday afternoon I took her for a good, long walk. I was griped at by an elderly gentleman because Ruby peed on a patch of grass on the street side of the sidewalk in front of his house. Sheesh. Get a bigger problem! I guess we’re all a bit tense and manifest it in our own ways.<o:p></o:p></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "century gothic" , sans-serif;">We've been through our share of disasters here in Northern California. We've had earthquakes, mudslides and catastrophic storms. One year our whole neighborhood flooded on New Year's Eve and our garage and everything in it was covered in mud. More recently we've had the firestorms and putrid, toxic air for weeks at a time. We had the PG&E mandated power outages which were the most frustrating of all. So far, house arrest has been easier and more pleasant than previous scenarios, but it's early times. Check back in a week or two.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "century gothic" , sans-serif;">I’m happy to help “flatten the curve”. I’ll work from home unless I have to show property. It’s an uncertain time in the real estate business, which is never very certain. Thankfully, I have buyers who got out of the stock market while the getting was good and are ready with cash down payments. Interest rates are low and going lower. Real property suddenly seems safer than investments. At least you can live there. One can’t crawl inside their 401k and take shelter from the rain. Still, prices are so high. Are home values going to drop twenty or thirty percent? I don’t think so, but what does any us of really know until it’s behind us? Nobody wants to be the one who buys at the top of the market.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "century gothic" , sans-serif;">So, on this gloomy Saturday I look out the window at our majestic Mt Tamalpais, saturated by a lovely Spring rain, and shrouded in wisps of fog and I can’t help but wonder where we are headed. Will we all be here at the end of the pandemic? Will we feel more anxious and less secure or will we be calm and gracious and just plain grateful? I don’t know.<o:p></o:p></span><br />
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Wendy Partridge Crowehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17064039413435368424noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5667039797770125597.post-63656507024931607452020-02-26T09:19:00.000-08:002020-02-26T09:19:10.790-08:00Old, White Men
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UnhideWhenUsed="true" QFormat="true" Name="heading 7"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="9" SemiHidden="true"
UnhideWhenUsed="true" QFormat="true" Name="heading 8"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="9" SemiHidden="true"
UnhideWhenUsed="true" QFormat="true" Name="heading 9"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="index 1"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="index 2"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="index 3"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
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<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="index 5"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
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<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="index 7"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="index 8"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="index 9"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="39" SemiHidden="true"
UnhideWhenUsed="true" Name="toc 1"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="39" SemiHidden="true"
UnhideWhenUsed="true" Name="toc 2"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="39" SemiHidden="true"
UnhideWhenUsed="true" Name="toc 3"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="39" SemiHidden="true"
UnhideWhenUsed="true" Name="toc 4"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="39" SemiHidden="true"
UnhideWhenUsed="true" Name="toc 5"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="39" SemiHidden="true"
UnhideWhenUsed="true" Name="toc 6"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="39" SemiHidden="true"
UnhideWhenUsed="true" Name="toc 7"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="39" SemiHidden="true"
UnhideWhenUsed="true" Name="toc 8"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="39" SemiHidden="true"
UnhideWhenUsed="true" Name="toc 9"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="Normal Indent"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="footnote text"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="annotation text"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="header"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="footer"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="index heading"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="35" SemiHidden="true"
UnhideWhenUsed="true" QFormat="true" Name="caption"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="table of figures"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="envelope address"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="envelope return"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="footnote reference"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="annotation reference"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="line number"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
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<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="endnote reference"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="endnote text"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="table of authorities"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="macro"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="toa heading"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="List"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="List Bullet"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="List Number"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
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<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
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<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
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<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
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<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="List Bullet 2"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
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<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
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<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
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<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
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<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
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<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
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<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
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<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="10" QFormat="true" Name="Title"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
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<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="Signature"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="1" SemiHidden="true"
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<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="Body Text"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="Body Text Indent"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
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<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
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<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
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<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
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<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
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<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
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<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="11" QFormat="true" Name="Subtitle"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
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<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
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<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
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<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
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<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
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<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
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<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
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<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
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<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="Body Text Indent 3"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
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<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
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<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="FollowedHyperlink"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="22" QFormat="true" Name="Strong"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="20" QFormat="true" Name="Emphasis"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
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<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="Plain Text"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="E-mail Signature"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="HTML Top of Form"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
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<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="Normal (Web)"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="HTML Acronym"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="HTML Address"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="HTML Cite"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="HTML Code"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="HTML Definition"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="HTML Keyboard"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="HTML Preformatted"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
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<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="HTML Typewriter"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
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<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="Normal Table"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
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<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
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<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="Outline List 1"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="Outline List 2"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="Outline List 3"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
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<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
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<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
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<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
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<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
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<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
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<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
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<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="Table Colorful 1"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
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<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
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<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="Table Columns 1"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
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<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="Table Columns 3"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
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<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
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<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
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<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
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<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
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<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
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<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
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<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
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<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
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<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
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<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
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<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
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<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
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<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
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<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
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<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
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<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
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<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
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<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
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<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
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<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="Table 3D effects 3"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
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<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="Table Elegant"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
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<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="Table Subtle 1"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
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<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
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<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
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<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="Table Web 3"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
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<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="39" Name="Table Grid"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
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<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" Name="Placeholder Text"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="1" QFormat="true" Name="No Spacing"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="60" Name="Light Shading"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="61" Name="Light List"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="62" Name="Light Grid"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="63" Name="Medium Shading 1"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="64" Name="Medium Shading 2"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="65" Name="Medium List 1"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="66" Name="Medium List 2"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="67" Name="Medium Grid 1"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="68" Name="Medium Grid 2"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="69" Name="Medium Grid 3"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="70" Name="Dark List"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="71" Name="Colorful Shading"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="72" Name="Colorful List"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="73" Name="Colorful Grid"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="60" Name="Light Shading Accent 1"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="61" Name="Light List Accent 1"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="62" Name="Light Grid Accent 1"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="63" Name="Medium Shading 1 Accent 1"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="64" Name="Medium Shading 2 Accent 1"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="65" Name="Medium List 1 Accent 1"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" Name="Revision"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="34" QFormat="true"
Name="List Paragraph"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="29" QFormat="true" Name="Quote"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="30" QFormat="true"
Name="Intense Quote"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="66" Name="Medium List 2 Accent 1"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="67" Name="Medium Grid 1 Accent 1"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="68" Name="Medium Grid 2 Accent 1"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="69" Name="Medium Grid 3 Accent 1"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="70" Name="Dark List Accent 1"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="71" Name="Colorful Shading Accent 1"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="72" Name="Colorful List Accent 1"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="73" Name="Colorful Grid Accent 1"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="60" Name="Light Shading Accent 2"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="61" Name="Light List Accent 2"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="62" Name="Light Grid Accent 2"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="63" Name="Medium Shading 1 Accent 2"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="64" Name="Medium Shading 2 Accent 2"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="65" Name="Medium List 1 Accent 2"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="66" Name="Medium List 2 Accent 2"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="67" Name="Medium Grid 1 Accent 2"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="68" Name="Medium Grid 2 Accent 2"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="69" Name="Medium Grid 3 Accent 2"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="70" Name="Dark List Accent 2"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="71" Name="Colorful Shading Accent 2"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="72" Name="Colorful List Accent 2"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="73" Name="Colorful Grid Accent 2"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="60" Name="Light Shading Accent 3"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="61" Name="Light List Accent 3"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="62" Name="Light Grid Accent 3"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="63" Name="Medium Shading 1 Accent 3"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="64" Name="Medium Shading 2 Accent 3"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="65" Name="Medium List 1 Accent 3"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="66" Name="Medium List 2 Accent 3"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="67" Name="Medium Grid 1 Accent 3"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="68" Name="Medium Grid 2 Accent 3"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="69" Name="Medium Grid 3 Accent 3"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="70" Name="Dark List Accent 3"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="71" Name="Colorful Shading Accent 3"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="72" Name="Colorful List Accent 3"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="73" Name="Colorful Grid Accent 3"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="60" Name="Light Shading Accent 4"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="61" Name="Light List Accent 4"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="62" Name="Light Grid Accent 4"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="63" Name="Medium Shading 1 Accent 4"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="64" Name="Medium Shading 2 Accent 4"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="65" Name="Medium List 1 Accent 4"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="66" Name="Medium List 2 Accent 4"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="67" Name="Medium Grid 1 Accent 4"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="68" Name="Medium Grid 2 Accent 4"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="69" Name="Medium Grid 3 Accent 4"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="70" Name="Dark List Accent 4"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="71" Name="Colorful Shading Accent 4"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="72" Name="Colorful List Accent 4"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="73" Name="Colorful Grid Accent 4"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="60" Name="Light Shading Accent 5"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="61" Name="Light List Accent 5"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="62" Name="Light Grid Accent 5"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="63" Name="Medium Shading 1 Accent 5"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="64" Name="Medium Shading 2 Accent 5"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="65" Name="Medium List 1 Accent 5"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="66" Name="Medium List 2 Accent 5"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="67" Name="Medium Grid 1 Accent 5"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="68" Name="Medium Grid 2 Accent 5"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="69" Name="Medium Grid 3 Accent 5"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="70" Name="Dark List Accent 5"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="71" Name="Colorful Shading Accent 5"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="72" Name="Colorful List Accent 5"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="73" Name="Colorful Grid Accent 5"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="60" Name="Light Shading Accent 6"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="61" Name="Light List Accent 6"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="62" Name="Light Grid Accent 6"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="63" Name="Medium Shading 1 Accent 6"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="64" Name="Medium Shading 2 Accent 6"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="65" Name="Medium List 1 Accent 6"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="66" Name="Medium List 2 Accent 6"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="67" Name="Medium Grid 1 Accent 6"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="68" Name="Medium Grid 2 Accent 6"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="69" Name="Medium Grid 3 Accent 6"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="70" Name="Dark List Accent 6"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="71" Name="Colorful Shading Accent 6"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="72" Name="Colorful List Accent 6"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="73" Name="Colorful Grid Accent 6"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="19" QFormat="true"
Name="Subtle Emphasis"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="21" QFormat="true"
Name="Intense Emphasis"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="31" QFormat="true"
Name="Subtle Reference"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="32" QFormat="true"
Name="Intense Reference"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="33" QFormat="true" Name="Book Title"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="37" SemiHidden="true"
UnhideWhenUsed="true" Name="Bibliography"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="39" SemiHidden="true"
UnhideWhenUsed="true" QFormat="true" Name="TOC Heading"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="41" Name="Plain Table 1"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="42" Name="Plain Table 2"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="43" Name="Plain Table 3"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="44" Name="Plain Table 4"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="45" Name="Plain Table 5"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="40" Name="Grid Table Light"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="46" Name="Grid Table 1 Light"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="47" Name="Grid Table 2"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="48" Name="Grid Table 3"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="49" Name="Grid Table 4"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="50" Name="Grid Table 5 Dark"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="51" Name="Grid Table 6 Colorful"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="52" Name="Grid Table 7 Colorful"/>
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<br />
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<span style="color: #222222; font-family: "Avenir Book"; font-size: 14.0pt; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><span style="background: white;">Go on. Shoo. We've had enough of you. It's not
1992. It's 2020. Wake up and smell the revolution. Hashtag Me Too. Hashtag you
are no longer relevant. You're hanging on by your fingernails.
Although you are in your seventies and eighties and your hands quiver
and your voice shakes, you refuse to release your grasp. Your gnarled
fingers clutch at power that is slipping away. </span><br />
<br />
<span style="background: white;">If you can just hold on a little longer
then you can get more conservative judges approved and your legacy will be
solidified. You can make your mark on two more generations, as if you haven't
already done enough. You’re trying to impose your will on a country that mostly
doesn't agree with your ideas. We are a nation that has evolved past you. Mitch
and Lindsey and Chuck. Your names sound fusty and outdated and from another
time. They suit you perfectly. </span><br />
<br />
<span style="background: white;">You're tone deaf and probably actually deaf, as
well. You don't represent us. We're Americans, women, minorities. We're not
like you and we don't want you deciding what we can do with our bodies. We have
had enough. Enough with the shaming of sexual assault survivors. Enough with
cronyism, enough with paternalism and, "Father Knows Best". </span><br />
<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><br />
<span style="background: white;">We suspect you of being racist. We're certain
you're misogynistic. We understand that you believe being homosexual is a
choice. You're against same sex marriage and you are so adamantly opposed to
abortion that you'd like to make it illegal. Like they say, if you don't
believe in abortion, then don't have one. We've seen photos of conference rooms
filled with white men, mostly older, making healthcare decisions for women.
Memes of boardrooms filled with dogs making decisions for cats followed. It's
taxation without representation. </span><br />
<br />
<span style="background: white;">You may be in favor of tariffs and babies in
cages, or you may just be going along with these schemes so you can get Putin's
puppet to do your bidding. You've got your tax cut for the wealthy, which you
spin like it’s good for the Average Joe. Everyone knows that's a scam and not
any sort of equalizer. What happened to conservative Republican values
like not saddling future generations with massive deficits? What good are you
doing here? Please explain. </span><br />
<br />
<span style="background: white;">You have your pro-life, pro-second
amendment, anti-environment, anti-regulation, pro dark money guy confirmed for
the Supreme Court. Now what? As the song says, "It's too late to turn back
now." You know that Judge Kavanaugh was chosen because of his extreme
views on presidential powers. You know that Attorney General Barr was chosen
because of his extreme views on presidential powers. You know our democracy is
being battered daily by the attacks on the justice department and the press,
yet somehow you can still get up and look at yourself in the mirror while you
cinch that tie over the starched, white shirt. </span><br />
<br />
<span style="background: white;">I've got nothing against men. I've lived with
them and loved them. I've got nothing against old people. They are to be
treasured. I've got nothing against white people. I am one, well aware of the
inherent advantages my skin color has provided to me. I just recently realized
that my hair itself is an aspect of my white privilege. My hair is smooth and
straight and dirty blond with natural (and sometimes unnatural) highlights. I
wash it, I brush it once and I’m good to go. Every once in a while, I get a
twenty-dollar trim. For my age I have very little gray. That’s everything there
is to know about my hair. I don’t have to tame it or straighten it or relax it or
fight with it. I have never appreciated how easy it is to have my hair. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="background: white; color: #222222; font-family: "Avenir Book"; font-size: 14.0pt; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">I've got nothing against rich people, per se,
but the old, rich, white men have got to stop being our leaders. They don't
represent us. My husband is an old, rich, white man, although I don't see
sixty-eight as old and he doesn't see himself as rich. Fair point. We’re chump
changers relative to many in our community, but compared to most people in the
world, we're wealthy. He's not at all racist which is pretty unusual for
someone his age, particularly someone who grew up in the South in the 50's.
It's a perfect example of learning what you're taught. His parents weren't
bigots. He believes in the right to choose and has evolved over time to embrace
same sex marriage. I know a lot of other guys who share our demographic and
they're not clueless or obtuse or racist. </span><span style="color: #222222; font-family: "Avenir Book"; font-size: 14.0pt; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><br />
<br />
<span style="background: white;">But these guys in power, they have got to go.
The mid-term elections kicked their asses up one side and down the other. Don’t
ever forget the power of your vote, except now we can’t even trust our
democracy. We have made some gains against gerrymandered districts, but our
election system is still so vulnerable. When we have a ‘leader’ who only cares
about himself and money and himself and money, we’re in a heap of trouble. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="background: white; color: #222222; font-family: "Avenir Book"; font-size: 14.0pt; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">There has been some speculation that the reason
the current administration won’t address the election fraud problem is
two-fold. If they concede there are problems, then it leads to questions about
the legitimacy of the current commander in chief. Ya think?! Hello, Mueller
report, that big ole witch-hunt. Secondly, if the problems aren’t addressed and
Numero Uno ends up Numero Dos in 2020, he can claim election fraud. Even House
Speaker Nancy Pelosi is now saying that if Democrats don’t win by a large
enough margin in 2020, the orange one will not voluntarily step down. Then
what? <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="background: white; color: #222222; font-family: "Avenir Book"; font-size: 14.0pt; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">In 1966 Robert Kennedy delivered a speech in
which he said this: “There is a Chinese curse which says, ‘May he live in
interesting times.’” The connection to the Chinese hasn’t been verified, but
it’s become a popular expression. If the 60’s were interesting, these times are
fascinating, and not a little frightening. For three years I have closely
followed American politics. In 2016 I consoled my two daughters who were both
pregnant with their first babies. I promised them Trump wouldn’t become the
nominee and later, I promised them he wouldn’t win the election. I was wrong.
What’s a mother to do? <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="background: white; color: #222222; font-family: "Avenir Book"; font-size: 14.0pt; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">I watched with emotion as Hilary became the
Democratic nominee. I went with Lucy and three-month old Lila to the polls to
vote for Hilary, all of us proudly wearing suffragette white. I sat, like so
many others, on election night with the sickening realization of what was
happening sinking into my soul. I cried that night and I cried when I woke up
in the morning and by God, it has been ever so much worse than I thought it
would be. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="background: white; color: #222222; font-family: "Avenir Book"; font-size: 14.0pt; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">I have thought many times about what our
country would be like if Hilary had won. I cringe to think about how the Trey
Gowdy, Benghazi-investigating, email scandal machine would have cranked up
again. The investigations that yielded no indictments. Not one, but that
wouldn’t have stopped them. </span><span style="font-family: "Avenir Book"; font-size: 14.0pt; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<br /></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Avenir Book"; font-size: 14.0pt;">Now
that we are in the throes of the run-up to the preamble to the 2020 election, I
realize how angry I am. We had our first woman president stolen from us. It
took a lot of factors combined to make it happen and right now, I’d like to
point some of those out, as I see them. Thank you, Russia for your troll farms
and bots and fake social media presence.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Thank you, Paul Manafort, for sharing political polling data with
Russia. Thank you, Julian Assange and Wikileaks for hacking into the DNC and
your perfectly timed and coordinated document dumps. Thank you, Jim Comey, for
your October surprise, the non-indictment news conference. Thank you third-party,
voters! Thank you for voting for Jill Stein who had zero chance of becoming
president. Thank you, Bernie Sanders, for not pulling out (when it was clear you wouldn’t win) and supporting the Democratic nominee! How perfectly selfish of
you! <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<br /></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Avenir Book"; font-size: 14.0pt;">I
have followed the politics since 2016 like you would watch a train wreck. You can’t
stand to watch, but you really can’t look away. You know the train is careening
off the tracks, and you know it’s going to crash, but you want to see it with
your own eyes. You want to see how it crashed and why. This has stolen my time,
my peace of mind and perhaps a bit of my mind. It has interfered with my
concentration and my creativity, but these are the times in which we live. I
cannot bear to look away. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Avenir Book"; font-size: 14.0pt;">I’m
not at all excited about voting for a man for president, particularly an old, rich,
white guy. Just sayin’. But I’m clear-eyed and coldly calculating. Climate change is a clear and present danger. We lose one hundred Americans a day to gun violence. Reproductive rights are threatened. The rule of law, and democracy itself are threatened. For once I’m
going to think like a republican. What matters is winning. Everything else is
relatively pointless now. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<!--EndFragment--><br />Wendy Partridge Crowehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17064039413435368424noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5667039797770125597.post-70587125057749223342019-03-31T09:27:00.000-07:002019-03-31T09:30:41.217-07:00Thinking About Jeanie<!--[if gte mso 9]><xml>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiRYqIIWR-8yiYF7xshS4RQ8IxddOxc6x06oAyujRujqSYbYEEuFU1eUi-XH9jS-qzielnEe9xBtphcmaL6ChznTBXKyBlfSA-2-XIPuCQnftxHSunEb5ZJz5lZeKUAuLfbwlr7Y0_QB0Q/s1600/IMG-0325.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1252" data-original-width="1600" height="250" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiRYqIIWR-8yiYF7xshS4RQ8IxddOxc6x06oAyujRujqSYbYEEuFU1eUi-XH9jS-qzielnEe9xBtphcmaL6ChznTBXKyBlfSA-2-XIPuCQnftxHSunEb5ZJz5lZeKUAuLfbwlr7Y0_QB0Q/s320/IMG-0325.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Jeanie and me in her office.</td></tr>
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<span style="color: #222222; font-family: "arial"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><span style="background: white;">It's been hard to keep Jeanie off my mind since
I heard she died. We went through a lot together. I first met her when Lucy was
a baby and I pushed her stroller into Sweetwater asking for a waitressing job.
Jeanie was nice enough, but I wasn't hired. </span><br />
<br />
<span style="background: white;">I did find employment at The Boarding House in
San Francisco. It was the early eighties and nightlife was wild. Cocaine was
everywhere and people drank a lot. In fact, it was company policy. We had table
tents that said there was a two-drink minimum per set. Guess who had to enforce
the policy? The waitresses. You could order coffee or bubbly water, but you had
to order something. </span><br />
<br />
<span style="background: white;">When I started working at The Boarding House the
place seemed to be thriving, although it closed a few months later. We had a
run of Robin Williams stand up comedy shows. I think it was two shows a night
for five nights. At any rate, it was a lot of Robin. He was in a wild phase and
would come bother us in the waitress station. He was very funny and sort of annoying
in a brotherly way. I've met a lot of musicians and entertainers and only asked
two of them for their autographs. Paul McCartney and Robin Williams. Robin
signed a cocktail napkin for baby Lucy. </span><br />
<br />
<span style="background: white;">One night there was a double booking of Maria
Muldaur and Dan Hicks. The Boarding House was not prepared for the onslaught of
Mill Valley fans, who trekked across the Golden Gate Bridge to the show. We
were seriously understaffed and as hard as I worked it was impossible for me to
keep up. Ashtrays were overflowing, empty glasses were everywhere and the
customers were drinking cocktails faster than I could deliver them. At
one point I realized Jeanie was in my station. I was mortified that she would
think I wasn't a very good waitress and couldn't keep up with my section. </span><br />
<br />
<span style="background: white;">Quite the contrary! Jeanie saw how hard I was
working and decided she wanted to hire me after all. She started me off on
Monday nights, which were busy enough in those days to need two waitresses. The
bartender was Buddy, who was old school and scared me a little. It was a big
night for drug dealers to stop by and people paying for drinks would literally
drop cash out of their pockets. I always scanned the floor by the bar when the
lights went up and boy, did I ever score. Many times I found money, often
hundred dollar bills, on the floor. I was twenty-five years old and would
work with Jeanie in various capacities, for the next ten years. </span><br />
<br />
<span style="background: white;">You could tell when Jeanie had arrived at
work, because before you could see her, you could smell her. She had a very
distinctive scent. Maybe it was Shalimar. I can't remember. Jeanie was always
perfectly put together. She was a clothes horse in a jeans and button down
shirt with turned up collar, leather jacket sort of way. She had a dozen pairs
of cowboy boots and wore them often. Her face was beautiful and shiny and her
hair was never out of place, even at two in the morning when we were closing up
after a long night. Jeanie had the most luminous, soulful, brown eyes. She
loved the sun and frequently had a gorgeous, dark tan. </span><br />
<br />
<span style="background: white;">I moved from working Mondays nights to working
all the busiest shows for years, often six nights a week. I slung cocktails
through two pregnancies. After I had my third daughter I'd had enough of
nightlife and worked as Jeanie's assistant in the office in the afternoons. I
also counted the cash registers and did the bank deposits. She trusted me. I
even was a signatory on the Sweetwater checking account.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="background: white;">Jeanie was there when I met my husband, Robert
Lindkvist, who spent some time working the door at the club. She came to our
wedding. She provided a personal reference when Robert adopted my daughter,
Lucy. We shared holidays. We laughed and cried over our kids. Her boys were
probably 4 and 6 when I met them. I was there when she and Jay divorced and
Jeanie moved on to new loves. </span><br />
<br />
<span style="background: white;">Sadly, I was one of the many people Jeanie left
behind when she moved away from Mill Valley. Even though it's been years since
I've seen her, I can still hear her voice in my head. She had some great expressions.
One of them was "Timing and Delivery." It meant that you could say
something negative if you said it in the right way and even if you had
something positive to convey, it wouldn't be received well if you didn't say it
at the right time. Jeanie also taught me the best toilet training trick using M
& M's, which Tro and Taylor called "emens". One M & M for pee,
and two for poo. It was genius. My kids were out of diapers in no time. </span><br />
<br />
<span style="background: white;">Jeanie was a lot of things to a lot of people,
but she was a Mom above all else. How she loved those boys. She would have
Peter Walsh come over to the house on Christmas Eve and read "The Night
Before Christmas" to them. She took a lot of pleasure in attending their
ball games, packing their school lunches and tucking them in when they were
little. Later they liked to just hang out and talk. It's not easy to keep
nightclub hours when you have kids. You get off work at three a.m. and then up
with the kids in the morning. I know, because I was a Mom who kept the
same hours. </span><br />
<br />
<span style="background: white;">When Tro died it was a tragedy, but he'd been in
some trouble over the years, so there was a bit of context. Tro was one of
those kids who thought he could get by on wit and charm. Taylor was the
"good" one. He could do no wrong. When he died it was unimaginable.
All these years later it's hard to believe that Jeanie lost both her
sons. </span><br />
<br />
<span style="background: white;">Jeanie was a prolific note and letter writer.
She would often type her notes, but sometimes they were handwritten. For a
righty, she had the most distinctive backhand, loopy scrawl. I've been going
through my file and reading some of the notes she sent to Robert and me over
the years. She wrote letters about anything she had on her mind: music she
loved, the noise complaints from the neighbors. She felt the Bill Graham
memorial "token" in the Plaza was embarrassingly small. I'm sure she
wrote a letter about that. </span></span><br />
<span style="color: #222222; font-family: "arial"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><br /></span>
<span style="color: #222222; font-family: "arial"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><br /></span>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjyg2HuT34Do0tctOiB03oFf_rjx4xdG4O-PEXwrGkIFIA3FAwMHg4bGyQ5CK2WXHJsSOKIVCljQhMNVkaMiREMzm3-zQMUXwLvN_x-CRJbHub_xhKTOPuFt3k_wYrhSQQgu0xKluoa-nk/s1600/IMG-0309.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="1200" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjyg2HuT34Do0tctOiB03oFf_rjx4xdG4O-PEXwrGkIFIA3FAwMHg4bGyQ5CK2WXHJsSOKIVCljQhMNVkaMiREMzm3-zQMUXwLvN_x-CRJbHub_xhKTOPuFt3k_wYrhSQQgu0xKluoa-nk/s320/IMG-0309.JPG" width="240" /></a><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjY0PuPbTIbwK-FW7SIWnJy3WyMM4UBzJ1ESuXMMcsbJAmn4iBsIuKlWaUTOlGxG_lOXb4IbMy90D0U_2ySZGrfGKTUxInmvmzx0b3RNeuv2vhq6VAL1VwRLlgmsVX8qn0aCfUCJj4NAGg/s1600/IMG-0322.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="1036" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjY0PuPbTIbwK-FW7SIWnJy3WyMM4UBzJ1ESuXMMcsbJAmn4iBsIuKlWaUTOlGxG_lOXb4IbMy90D0U_2ySZGrfGKTUxInmvmzx0b3RNeuv2vhq6VAL1VwRLlgmsVX8qn0aCfUCJj4NAGg/s320/IMG-0322.JPG" width="206" /></a></div>
<span style="color: #222222; font-family: "arial"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><br /></span>
<span style="color: #222222; font-family: "arial"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><br /></span>
<span style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: "arial";">As much as Jeanie was in the public eye at work,
she really was an introvert. She valued her privacy and needed her down time to
recoup her energy. I can relate. I'm the same way. Jeanie could also hold a
grudge. For some reason she got annoyed with Mill Valley Market and for years,
she refused to shop there. Even though her house was literally right down the
street from the market, she would get in her car and drive across town to
Safeway. She wouldn't spurn items from MV Market if someone else, like her
kids, bought them, but she wouldn't go there herself. </span><br />
<span style="color: #222222; font-family: "arial"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><span style="background-color: white;"><br /></span></span>
<span style="color: #222222; font-family: "arial"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">
<span style="background-color: white;">Usually, the musicians could do no wrong, but
there were exceptions. A couple examples come to mind. Etta James cancelled
shows at the very last minute several times and Ms. Patterson was NOT happy.
The "At Last" singer was going to be booked last! There was also a
problem with "Pride & Joy". The party band got their start at
Sweetwater. They crammed onto the tiny stage and played every month or two for
a long time. They built up a following and eventually branched out to other
bookings. At a certain point they didn't want to play Sweetwater anymore. They
said the stage was too small. Jeanie was frustrated and replied that the stage
was the same size it always was. It was just that their heads were too big to
fit through the door. </span></span><br />
<span style="color: #222222; font-family: "arial"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">
<br />
<span style="background: white;">Jeanie had a huge heart and was deeply loyal.
She adored the musicians. I tolerated them. I'd been hanging out with musicians
and bands since I was 16. I'd been with a drummer for 7 years. I'd seen a lot
of the seamy underside up close with his band in Hollywood and when I
worked at The Palms in San Francisco. There was a lot that wasn't pretty, but
Jeanie didn't see it that way. She loved the music so much. She would book a
great act and set her sights on the next performer on her wish list. Then she'd
make that dream come true over and over again. </span></span><br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhgWXfp-raPpHFYAhCTG4kHJs7NKCLRmQgVAcStd_vyc_DaIZr9rziDNka_XQkZGKG44RR0yFcYrU4Ui8HW4eOh2wRS5Pr5sbHDiDSd_nWgFaxQAosovLyD9A2qK511X7YviY-YZ9DJl_4/s1600/IMG-0335.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="908" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhgWXfp-raPpHFYAhCTG4kHJs7NKCLRmQgVAcStd_vyc_DaIZr9rziDNka_XQkZGKG44RR0yFcYrU4Ui8HW4eOh2wRS5Pr5sbHDiDSd_nWgFaxQAosovLyD9A2qK511X7YviY-YZ9DJl_4/s400/IMG-0335.JPG" width="226" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Basement Guest List</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<span style="color: #222222; font-family: "arial"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><span style="background: white;">I was always working so hard during the best
shows, but there were many standouts over the years. Dennis Quaid and his band
brought squealing women lined up the sidewalk. The John Goddard private parties
were legendary and the hottest ticket in town. I loved the Neville Brothers.
Zachary Richard was amazing. Austin de Lone and whomever he was playing with,
and all the Jug Band nights at Christmas time. John Lee Hooker, Robert Cray,
Harry Connick, Jr. and guest appearances by Bonnie Raitt were some
highlights. </span><br />
<br />
<span style="background: white;">My favorite show of all was on a Sunday
afternoon. Elizabeth Cotton, an American blues and folk musician, who was
born in 1893, played a show at Sweetwater not long before she died. She was in
her 90's when she did the performance. Look up "Freight Train" on You
Tube. That's the song I remember best. It will give you chills. Only Jeanie
could have pulled off that special afternoon. I'm grateful to her for that and
her friendship and I'll always miss her. Goodbye, Jeanie. It was good to know
you. </span></span><span style="font-family: "times"; font-size: 10.0pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiz9_gpyrtSptBFCAs8URr9aRMoTCAc0SPQNet2DFT232PJ1cebdZPaxhQ18v-4UQEgg2UEYHLiy_HoFfRYJeSd6guYhPWr7ixxYxovsTjYsfcpWooLuOG7ycdLY0EjBZawgzSOkJpqMBE/s1600/IMG-0315.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="1406" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiz9_gpyrtSptBFCAs8URr9aRMoTCAc0SPQNet2DFT232PJ1cebdZPaxhQ18v-4UQEgg2UEYHLiy_HoFfRYJeSd6guYhPWr7ixxYxovsTjYsfcpWooLuOG7ycdLY0EjBZawgzSOkJpqMBE/s400/IMG-0315.JPG" width="351" /></a></div>
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgxcDP7Z7Ac3JLgiI7OqMZTm0SHIzJUA52fbTcn54y6EMaOvVSlAF8fVmTnL6FktpWwcZojSUSrzNqusFKOPVyJBC-1J46HTuVDAII9b83Wmsf_8VkFKd1M6uHnB4PEWwhRoNkUXuR7f5Y/s1600/IMG-0323.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="1454" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgxcDP7Z7Ac3JLgiI7OqMZTm0SHIzJUA52fbTcn54y6EMaOvVSlAF8fVmTnL6FktpWwcZojSUSrzNqusFKOPVyJBC-1J46HTuVDAII9b83Wmsf_8VkFKd1M6uHnB4PEWwhRoNkUXuR7f5Y/s400/IMG-0323.JPG" width="362" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">In my basement office</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
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<br /></div>
<!--EndFragment--><br />Wendy Partridge Crowehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17064039413435368424noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5667039797770125597.post-90346110466999084072019-03-26T16:24:00.001-07:002019-03-26T16:33:18.406-07:00Miami Vibes<!--[if gte mso 9]><xml>
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<span style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: "arial";"><br /></span>
<span style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: "arial";">After a long, rainy, cold winter there is
nothing I adore more than a sunny, tropical getaway. This trip was a good
impulse buy. We had some Alaska Airline tickets we needed to use, and when we
booked in January the sun sounded so good. Little did we know that Northern
California would receive an additional twenty inches of rain and 30 feet of
snow. Numbers may vary, according to location, but you get the drift. In fact,
it's still raining at home. </span><br />
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<span style="color: #222222; font-family: "arial"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><br /></span>
<span style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: "arial";">This lounge chair, overlooking the ocean, feels
like the perfect place to be. Miami is a fascinating blend of cultures, </span><span style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: "arial";">languages and styles. It's a bargain hunter's Hawaii. You can get an oceanfront room
for half the cost. You also get to </span><span style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: "arial";">mingle with little old ladies with nose
shields, loud old men from Brooklyn (complaining about the price of everything)
and plenty of Russians. In the lower level of our hotel there was a gift shop,
a barbershop, a pizza parlor, and, I kid you not, a synagogue. Chabad of Golden
Beach. </span><br />
<span style="color: #222222; font-family: "arial"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">
<br />
<span style="background: white;">We all know Florida, the Snowbird State, is where
grandparents go to die. If you buy a home here you must assume that at least
one of the prior occupants has breathed their last breath on the premises.
There's nothing like a peaceful ending to a long, well-lived life. One of my
grandfathers died in my sister's home. That was very special. The other died in
Florida. Obviously. </span><br />
<br />
<span style="background: white;">As a child I took quite a few trips here to see
my mother's father. We also visited my stepmother's family in Miami and the
Florida keys. The last time I was here was when I brought Lucy to meet her
great-grandfather. That was thirty-four years ago.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="background: white;">Eric was born and raised here, so for him, it's
coming home. It makes him happy to remember his boyhood and the early morning
paper route along the beach. The memories of your childhood places are so
visceral. The light, the sound, the smells - it's all familiar. I feel the same
way when I get off the plane in New York City. It's an unstoppable tumble
through the tunnel of time. It's trippy and strange and wonderful.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="background: white;">The beach goers and hotel guests are very
comfortable with their bodies. Let's just say that two-piece swimsuits are not
reserved for the fit and buff. You can have a load of belly fat and still rock
a bikini, or so you think. It’s kind of refreshing after the body-obsessed Bay
Area. It reminds me of the beaches in Europe where the women go topless. Not
surprising. It's a pretty international crowd here. </span><br />
<br />
<span style="background: white;">I recently had a thought about body image that I
believed to be rather profound. My idea was that young women strive to look
good naked. They fight cellulite with a vengeance and work hard to be toned.
When women get to a certain age, many of us just want to fit in, and look good
in our clothes. And by clothes, I mean a one-piece bathing suit. </span><br />
<br />
<span style="background: white;">Aesthetics aside, there are practical reasons
for me to wear a one piece. Fewer places to apply and reapply sunscreen. We
knew a kid in California who was bit by a shark when he was in high school. He
went on to be an advocate for the sharks (and later an attorney) and wrote a
book called, <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Don't Fear The Shark</i>. I
don't really fear sharks, but I do fear tropical sun. The worst burns of my
life happened in Florida when I was a child. I remember painful, blistering
shoulders. If we let a kid get burned like that these days it would be
considered child abuse, but things were different back in the sixties. Now that
I'm in my sixties I finally know better. Sunburns are no bueno. </span><br />
<br />
<span style="background: white;">Our ostensible reason for the trip was the Miami
Open tennis tournament. In a new, upscale venue at the Hard Rock Stadium, the
tourney did not disappoint. We've done Indian Wells so many times it's begun to
feel routine. Palm Springs can be great this time of year, but we love the
ocean. Swimming in the Atlantic in the morning is such a treat. The white sand
beach is beautiful, the water is salty and the waves are small and
gentle. </span><br />
<br />
<span style="background: white;">The best move we made was to go the ride sharing
route, although I was not a fan of all the air fresheners. Renting a car would
have been such a pain. It's twenty bucks a day to park at the hotel, forty at
the stadium. That's not counting the cost of a rental car, gas and marital
aggravation. You do the math. Über pool is über cheap here and they only let us
down once. It was very congested leaving the stadium Friday night and the
drivers kept canceling our rides before they arrived. Fortunately, we were able
to share a cab back to the hotel with two Floridians and had an interesting
conversation. One of our fellow passengers, a very pretty, fit woman asked,
"How y'all doing with those taxes and politics in
California?" </span><br />
<br />
<span style="background: white;">Her friend added, "I hear you can kill a
baby before it's born up in New York (pronounced "Jork")."
Mind you she had recently moved to New Jersey and is managing a high-end real
estate brokerage there. This little chat followed an experience I had sitting
in the stands. As I talked with a beautiful, well-dressed, well-educated woman
from India, I got quite an earful from a man sitting right behind us. In his
Southern drawl he kept talking about "foreigners" . He opined that if
Americans broke a string while playing they should be able to stop and get a
new racquet, but if foreigners broke a string they should have to keep playing
with the broken one. Which foreigners? Federer, Djokovich, Kvitova? I know I don't
spend much time out of my bubble, but really? </span><br />
<br />
<span style="background: white;">Most of the tennis-viewing crowd was
knowledgeable, friendly and nicely dressed. These fans wore seersucker, pleats
and a smattering of Lily Pulitzer. The grounds of the tournament were
comfortable, clean and all brand new. Full sized vegetation was brought in.
Palm trees and olive trees adorned the place and Stella Artois had a lounging
area where you could nap on cushions after stressful, tiring matches. </span><br />
<br />
<span style="background: white;">Two Canadian teenagers are the next big thing.
Bianca Andreescu won Indian Wells a couple weeks ago, beating Kerber in three
sets in the finals. We saw Bianca's first match at the Miami Open from the
front row when she played Begu. It was so exciting. Andreescu was down a set
and 1-5 in the second and had match point against her. She dug deep, fought off
match point, won the tiebreaker and the third set. The kid is 18 years old.
Supposedly Bianca meditates and visualizes herself winning. I wonder if it's
too late for me to try that? </span><br />
<br />
<span style="background: white;">The other rising Canadian is Felix Auger
Aliassime. Eric's a huge fan and calls him FAA. Felix is also 18. He turned pro
last year and is in the round of 16 at the Open. Thus far has zero titles, but
he's a sensation and seems ready to break through. </span><br />
<br />
<span style="background: white;">The food and drink were typical tournament
prices. Who doesn't love an eleven- dollar hot dog and ten dollar beer? They
had food trucks so there was nice variety. The same grounds passes were offered
with access to multiple courts and practice matches. The colors were brilliant
and vibrant. Very Miami. I loved the display of Lacoste baseball caps, but at sixty
bucks a pop, I was content with a photo of them.<o:p></o:p></span></span><br />
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<span style="color: #222222; font-family: "arial"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><span style="background: white;"><span style="font-size: 12pt;">For some reason I didn't see the players and
their coaches walking around like you usually do at these events. They must
have come in through a rear entrance. A surprising number of tennis watchers
brought children, toddlers and babies in arms and strollers. I've never seen
that before at any tournament. It seemed like a strange choice given the
heat. To each his own. </span></span></span></div>
<span style="color: #222222; font-family: "arial"; font-size: 12.0pt;">
<br />
<span style="background: white;">All in all, I'd say the rollout was a success,
although on our second day there was quite a line to purchase tickets.
Tournament reps kept coming by insisting we could buy tickets online, but we
were all trying it and failing to get through. The first day we bought grounds
passes from a scalper in front of the stadium. They were twenty bucks and the
guy took Venmo. Nothing could have been simpler. </span><br />
<br />
<span style="background: white;">There was inconsistency in what you could
bring in to the tournament. Only clear backpacks were allowed but some people
had purses. On the first morning I needed to write up an offer for a client and
managed to sneak my computer in, although signage said laptops were banned. The
place definitely needed more charging stations. I lost my husband one
evening because his phone died. I had to sit on the ground by a drinking
fountain while I charged mine. </span><br />
<br />
<span style="background: white;">Our last day in Miami was Saturday and we
decided to swim and sun and then play tourist for the rest of the day. In the
late afternoon we took a car to the trendy warehouse/art district where they
host Art Base. Wynwood Walls was wonderful. It was a an inspirational feast
for the eyes and I wanted to photograph everything. </span></span><br />
<span style="color: #222222; font-family: "arial"; font-size: 12.0pt;"><br /></span>
<span style="color: #222222; font-family: "arial"; font-size: 12.0pt;"><br /></span>
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<span style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: arial; font-size: 12pt;">After we'd seen enough art we took another car
to South Beach. It was week two of three consecutive weeks of spring break.
Ocean Drive was closed, all the sidewalks were cordoned off and there were
thousands of college kids, milling and strutting and peacocking about. It was
unlike anything I'd ever seen or imagined. Fanny flossers are in style, as
are sheer pants, and more often, no pants. Just a lot of bare ass. There
was so much nakedness my husband could barely keep his jaw off
the sidewalk. One of his comments to me was, "I think there is a thong in
there somewhere." </span><br />
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<span style="background-color: white; font-size: 12pt;">What surprised me more than all the young
adults, many of whom looked older than college age, was the police presence.
Cop cars were lined up facing the beach and on the beach facing the shore with
lights flashing. There were police boats in the water facing the beach and even
a huge blimp above with the letters P O L I C E. The energy was cool while
we were there, but I could imagine it getting tense later on. There was a lot
of testosterone and hormones floating around. You could feel it. I hope the cops were decent. I hope
the kids behaved themselves. Last year they set a lifeguard station on
fire. </span></span><br />
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<br /><span style="background: white;">We had an early dinner at an outside table at "A
Fish Called Avalon". The meal was wonderful. The people watching was out of this
world. After dinner we decided to get out of South Beach while the getting was
good and headed back to our hotel. While we were gone there must have been a
wedding, because right after we returned there were fireworks on the beach
in front of our room. It was the perfect ending to our Miami getaway. </span></span><br />
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<!--[endif]--></span><!--EndFragment-->Wendy Partridge Crowehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17064039413435368424noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5667039797770125597.post-48669368533095133202019-02-22T12:21:00.001-08:002019-02-22T12:21:14.306-08:00Little Leo - It's A Boy!<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><span style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-size: x-small;"><br /></span></span>
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<span style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">Another grandchild has entered our lives. Its a boy! I'll repeat that. It's a boy. My daughter, Lana and her husband Rich, had a baby boy. He's a bright eyed little bundle with an eager smile, blue eyes, and features still defining themselves. He's now almost four months old and has the same right cheek dimple as his mother when he smiles. He's getting perfectly chubby.This guy is a cuddly, contented baby. We're so in love with him. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><br style="background-color: white; color: #222222;" /><span style="background-color: white; color: #222222;">From zero to three in two plus years. This one's personal. I now have as many grandchildren as I do children. It's not an error or a fluke. I'm now a grandmother. I realize this has been factually correct since Lila was born in July 2016, but somehow it didn't really sink in until recently. I didn't really feel like a grandmother until I could see how much I was adored by these new little people. As amazing as it is to fall in love with the tiny humans, it's even more incredible to feel how much they love me. </span><br style="background-color: white; color: #222222;" /><br style="background-color: white; color: #222222;" /><span style="background-color: white; color: #222222;">Sally took a while to attach. She was so busy wailing in her first colicky five months that she really didn't have much space for extraneous emotional involvement. It made me a little sad that I was so close to Lila, an extrovert by nature, and Sally was a bit standoffish. I had so much more time with Lila, starting with the month she spent in the hospital after her premature birth. </span><br style="background-color: white; color: #222222;" /><br style="background-color: white; color: #222222;" /><span style="background-color: white; color: #222222;">I knew it would happen eventually, and it did. Sally and I really sealed our bond when her "baby bruddah", Leo, was born. It was a rather traumatic day for both of us. Baby Boy Mason was due at the end of November 2018. He was supposed to be a Thanksgiving baby. Instead, he was just a tiny turkey. I saw Lana on Tuesday, October 23rd. She was almost eight months pregnant and feeling good. The idea that she would have a premature delivery was the furthest thing from my mind. Sally had been slightly overdue so I figured it would be similar with baby number two. I was wrong. </span></span><br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Mama Lana four days before the surprise</td></tr>
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<span style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">I slept late on Wednesday, October 24th. I was tired and didn't have any early appointments, so I turned my phone on silent and didn't set the alarm. When I woke up at 7:45 am I looked at my iPhone. There were eight missed calls from Lana as well as many text messages. Something was obviously wrong. Fear coursed through me. I called her in a panic. </span><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><br style="background-color: white; color: #222222;" /><span style="background-color: white; color: #222222;">Lana was in the hospital. Her water had broken at 4:30 in the morning. Rich had already left for work. He's a chef and was prepping for his busiest week ever. Lana took Sally (almost two) and drove herself to Kaiser Hospital Oakland in the dark. She couldn't reach me or Rich for hours. The baby was five weeks early and breech. They were going to do a c-section, but meanwhile Sally was in the hospital bed with Mommy, while Lana tried to reach us. </span><br style="background-color: white; color: #222222;" /><br style="background-color: white; color: #222222;" /><span style="background-color: white; color: #222222;">It was stressful like the day Lila was born all over again. I needed to get there, but had no idea how long I would stay. I needed to stay calm, to think, to gather a few essentials and get out the door. The traffic was the usual East Bay quagmire, plus an accident to top it off. I called Lucy and Allie from the car. I kept calling Lana to update her and get news. Finally, Rich had arrived. Now they just needed me to care for Sally so Rich could be with Lana during surgery. </span><br style="background-color: white; color: #222222;" /><br style="background-color: white; color: #222222;" /><span style="background-color: white; color: #222222;">I made it to the hospital. I had to wind up through all eight floors of the parking garage to find a spot. I couldn't see the elevator so I ran down eight flights of stairs and across the courtyard to the hospital elevators. By the time I got through security and found Labor and Delivery Lana was headed off to surgery. I saw her with her cap on and her big belly, waddling down the hall to the operating room, with a nurse on either side. I gave her a quick hug, then found Rich and Sally. Rich went off to join Lana. </span></span><br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Gigi & Sally waiting to meet baby</td></tr>
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<span style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">It makes me anxious to think about it, because I was so worried. Was the baby ok? Was Lana going to be alright? Why did her water break so early? Was there an underlying problem? People romanticize baby births, but bad shit can happen. Fortunately for me, Allie was able to come straight to the hospital and work from there while we waited. She grabbed her computer and took BART and two Ubers. I was alone when Lila was born and I didn't want to be by myself again. </span></div>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Baby Boy Mason</td></tr>
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<span style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">Baby Boy Mason was born at 10:17 am. He weighed a respectable 5 pounds, 8 1/2 ounces and all seemed to be well. Until it wasn't. The docs didn't like the way he was working so hard to breathe. He had some fluid in his lungs and they advised he be admitted to Neonatal Intensive Care. We were really deflated, but what are you going to do? They put him in the NICU and started hooking him up to all the equipment we knew so much about because of Lila. It was depressing and I couldn't really fathom it. My mother had five kids and my siblings and I had eight. Not one of them was premature. Now two out my three grandchildren were premies. How could it be? </span><br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Meeting Gigi</td></tr>
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<span style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">On the bright side, the hospital was fantastic, Lana recovered quickly and Sally was a champ. I thought it might be our moment to shine as a duo, and shine we did! She owned that hospital, charming her way up and down the halls. She loves to eat and I kept up a steady stream of food and snacks. She's seriously like a Labrador. She will play ball endlessly and has major food envy. Sally was sweet and affectionate and well-behaved, except for the time she hurled a container of milk at me in the hospital cafe.</span><span style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: x-small;"> I</span><span style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">n her defense, she's got incredible aim.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><br style="background-color: white; color: #222222;" /><span style="background-color: white; color: #222222;">We were all sad that Leo (who took a couple days to be named) couldn't leave the hospital when Lana went home. We adjusted. Rich started his paternity leave and his work just had to cope. I cancelled everything on my calendar and went to help with Sally and be with Leo every day. The one day I stayed home was really hard. It was much better to be there and see the progress in person. Unlike CPMC, the NICU rooms at Kaiser were private. The nurses and doctors were so nice. They really let us be involved in his care and soon we got to hold him and change the tiny diapers. </span><br style="background-color: white; color: #222222;" /><br style="background-color: white; color: #222222;" /><span style="background-color: white; color: #222222;">Leo was a very alert newborn. He would lie there looking around. When I spoke to him he seemed to listen. Something about him reminded me of his aunt, Lucy, when she was born. When Rich would hold him on his chest he opened his eyes wide. After a week Leo had made tremendous progress. They began weaning him off the machines. We were able to feed him breast milk in a bottle and he started to nurse. I was so proud of Lana. She was really strong. </span></span><br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Checking out Dad</td></tr>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Snuggling with Mom</td></tr>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br />Leo was in the hospital for Halloween and big sister Sally's 2nd birthday. Great Grandma Juju also had a birthday that week. She turned 89. Mom had been in the hospital several times during the fall and was finally sprung on October 4th, just a few weeks before Leo was born. I'd spent enough time in hospitals. When the baby was released after ten days in the NICU, we were thrilled. </span><br /><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"></span>
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><br /></span><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><span style="background-color: white; color: #222222;">Right after the baby came home from the hospital the Camp Fire started and our air quality was terrible. Lana </span><span style="background-color: white; color: #222222;">couldn't take the baby outside for even a minute. Not with those tiny lungs. He'd lost weight and was so little. It seemed to take him forever to grow.</span></span>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Leo's 1st Thanksgiving</td></tr>
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><br /><span style="background-color: white; color: #222222;">The day before Thanksgiving we finally had our first rain. Wet, glorious liquid pouring from the sky for the first time in 6 or 7 months. The fires went out and Leo was able to come over for his first Thanksgiving. There were just six of us which was a perfect amount for a premie and his shell-shocked sister and exhausted parents. I did a little too much baby snuggling and not enough keeping an eye on the cooking. It wasn't our finest meal, but it was wonderful to be together. We were all so thankful and very grateful for our many blessings, especially for little Leo.</span></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><span style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-size: x-small;"><br /></span></span>Wendy Partridge Crowehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17064039413435368424noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5667039797770125597.post-5900788401834172802019-02-21T11:03:00.000-08:002019-02-24T11:10:07.756-08:00Mill Valley Realtor, A Life Well LivedArticle by Jim Welte<br />
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<a class="blog-title-link blog-link" href="https://www.enjoymillvalley.com/-blog/longtime-mill-valley-realtor-wendy-crowe-has-covered-a-lot-of-ahem-real-estate-in-a-life-well-lived" style="color: #2073b3; text-decoration-line: none;">For Mill Valley Realtor Wendy Crowe, a Life Well Lived</a></h2>
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<span class="date-text" style="cursor: pointer; float: left; margin: 0px 8px 0px 0px; padding: 0px 0px 4px;">12/19/2018</span></div>
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<a class="blog-link" href="https://www.enjoymillvalley.com/-blog/longtime-mill-valley-realtor-wendy-crowe-has-covered-a-lot-of-ahem-real-estate-in-a-life-well-lived#comments" style="color: #2073b3; text-decoration-line: none;">0 Comments</a></div>
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<span class="imgPusher" style="display: block; float: left; height: 0px; overflow: hidden;"></span><span style="clear: left; display: table; float: left; margin-top: 0px; max-width: 100%; position: relative; width: auto;"><a href="https://www.facebook.com/WendyCroweRealEstate/" style="color: #2073b3; text-decoration-line: none;" target="_blank"><img alt="Picture" class="galleryImageBorder wsite-image" src="https://www.enjoymillvalley.com/uploads/2/5/8/5/25857490/editor/img-8321.jpg?1545253605" style="border: 1px solid rgba(0, 0, 0, 0.13); margin: 5px 10px 10px 0px; max-width: 100%; padding: 3px; position: relative; vertical-align: middle;" /></a><span class="wsite-caption" style="caption-side: bottom; display: table-caption; font-size: 11.7px; margin-bottom: 10px; margin-top: -10px; text-align: center;">Wendy Crowe.</span></span><div class="paragraph" style="font-size: 1em; line-height: 1.5; margin: 0px; overflow-wrap: break-word; padding: 0.5em 0px;">
<strong><a href="https://www.facebook.com/WendyCroweRealEstate/" style="color: #2073b3; text-decoration-line: none;" target="_blank">Wendy Crowe</a></strong> has been in Mill Valley for 38 years, and has lived what can easily be described as an extremely interesting life. As a result, although Crowe makes her living running <a href="https://www.facebook.com/WendyCroweRealEstate/" style="color: #2073b3; text-decoration-line: none;" target="_blank">her own boutique real estate business</a>, she’s widely known around town for a variety of other reasons.<br /><br />Along with her husband Eric, Crowe <a href="https://www.enjoymillvalley.com/-blog/city-begins-long-sought-overhaul-of-boyle-park-tennis-courts" style="color: #2073b3; text-decoration-line: none;">spearheaded the Boyle Park Renovation campaign</a>, a six-year effort that raised $256,000 to help the City of Mill Valley revitalize the courts. For more than 10 years, she worked at the old Sweetwater, first as a waitress and later as owner Jeanie Patterson assistant, a pair of roles that led “to many a night of fantastic music from some of the greats,” she says.<br /><br />Crowe, a mother of three daughters, is also the arts chair at the <a href="http://www.outdoorartclub.org/" style="color: #2073b3; text-decoration-line: none;">Outdoor Art Club</a> and has lately become very involved in the Marin chapter of <a href="https://momsdemandaction.org/" style="color: #2073b3; text-decoration-line: none;" target="_blank">Moms Demand Action for Gun Sense in America</a> organization.<br /><br />“I just really believe in giving back to the community as much as you can,” she says.<br /><br />Born in Grand Rapids, Michigan, Crowe grew up in Rockland County outside New York City. When she was 17 years old, she moved to Hollywood with her then-boyfriend, a drummer in a local band. That drummer had a bandmate who was a friend of a woman seeking a caretaker for her son, so Crowe took on that job. That young boy, Beck Hansen, would grow up to be <a href="http://www.beck.com/" style="color: #2073b3; text-decoration-line: none;">Beck</a>, the mononymous, five-time Grammy-winning musician who is widely considered to be one of the most innovative musicians of the past few decades.<br /><br />The drummer and his bandmates “thought the band would turn into a great success for them,” Crowe says. “It didn’t, but I ended up taking care of Beck and his little brother for two years.”<br /><br />Crowe also studied architecture while living in Los Angeles, a move that would inform her career choice many years later. She also started working for <a href="https://www.ssmovers.com/" style="color: #2073b3; text-decoration-line: none;">Starving Students moving company</a>, the then-fledgling company that has grown by leaps and bounds since its debut in 1973. Crowe and her boyfriend moved up to the Bay Area to open a Bay Area location for Starving Students, living first in San Francisco and later moving to Mill Valley in 1980.<br /><br />“I just fell in love when I moved to San Francisco, and then when i moved to Mill Valley, I was even more in love with this place,” she says. After she realized she didn’t want to be in the moving industry, she began working for Patterson, a dream job.<br /><br />It was around that time that she realized she was in Mill Valley to stay, a decision that was bolstered by each of her family members’ respective decisions to follow her out to California, including her brother, two sisters, her mom and both sets of grandparents.<br /><br />As Crowe had children, she went back to school and garnered her degree in developmental psychology from San Francisco State University. She worked for <a href="http://comfortscafe.com/catering/" style="color: #2073b3; text-decoration-line: none;">Comforts</a> catering and ran her own licensed home day care center, and also created custom stained glass windows.<br /><br />“That’s when I started realizing I needed to make more money because daughter was going to college, so I went into real estate in 1999,” she says, starting with a small firm, then onto a couple of larger firms before launching her own indie firm.<br /><br />Crowe has sold homes all over Marin but in the past few years, she’s branched out into the second home market specifically, helping friends, family and friends of friends find home in places like Lake Tahoe and the Napa Valley. That includes her daughter, a design director at Facebook, whom she’s helped buy second homes.<br /><br />“I go where the works takes me,” she says. “And I love just learning new areas.”<br /><br />Another daughter, who works in public relations, recently moved back to the Bay Area from New York City and helped her boyfriend, Connecticut native <a href="https://www.enjoymillvalley.com/-blog/denzel-allen-opens-strength-den-mv-on-miller-ave" style="color: #2073b3; text-decoration-line: none;">Denzel Allen, open Strength Den MV</a> on Miller Avenue.<br /><br />Crowe says she simply loves the work of helping people find a home.<br /><br />“I’m very sentimental about homes – I’ve lived in the same house for 34 years – and I love finding a home for a family to build memories in – just like I’ve been able to build so memories here.”<br /><br /><strong>The 411:</strong> <strong><a href="https://www.facebook.com/WendyCroweRealEstate/" style="color: #2073b3; text-decoration-line: none;" target="_blank">Wendy Crowe</a></strong> runs her own boutique real estate agency in Mill Valley. <strong><a href="https://www.facebook.com/WendyCroweRealEstate/" style="color: #2073b3; text-decoration-line: none;" target="_blank">MORE INFO</a></strong>.</div>
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Wendy Partridge Crowehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17064039413435368424noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5667039797770125597.post-20772229582789001642018-04-05T11:29:00.000-07:002018-04-05T11:55:50.760-07:00Silly Sally - I Am Loved<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Sally on her 1st Birthday</td></tr>
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<span style="color: #222222; font-family: "arial"; font-size: 9.5pt;"><span style="background: white;">If you see a very chubby one year old, with huge
blue eyes and the world's longest eyelashes, crawling toward you with an
emphatic intensity, you may be seeing Sally. Our granddaughter, Sally Jo Mason,
who was born November 2, 2016 to Mama Lana and Papa Rich. Sally is a fierce
little spirit. Sally is a force.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="background: white;">Sally's arrival followed her cousin Lila's
dramatic, premature entrance by three months. The babies were due five weeks
apart, but Lila was a stinker and thwarted the plan by arriving nine weeks
early. Unlike her mother, Lila is quite easygoing by nature. She's a good
traveller and adapts well to new situations. Sally, unlike her mother, is so
dramatic! Teething, schedule changes, her first cold - it's been very traumatic
for all concerned. Lila is golden haired. Her mom is brunette. Lana was a
towhead. Sally has much darker hair. Clearly these were cousins who were
switched in utero!</span><br />
<br />
<span style="background: white;">It was stressful to have two simultaneously
pregnant daughters. We were thrilled when Lucy shared her news with us. My
first child was going to have a child! Lucy, Lana and I planned a trip to see
my mother and stepfather. Lucy was going to tell them the happy news. When we
picked up Lana I asked her if she'd like to drive. She said the strangest thing
in response. Horrified, she blurted, "I can't drive. I'm pregnant! "
And then there were two. I drove because Lucy was feeling tired and
queasy. I'll never forget how nervous I was out on the highway with two
newly expecting daughters.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="background: white;">Happily, Lana recovered her ability to drive
while pregnant and continued on to have the world's longest pregnancy. At least
that's how it felt to me. Lana and Rich had been trying for a while so it
probably just seemed that way. There was suspense and a little disappointment
each month, usually on holidays. Lana found out that she WASN'T pregnant on
Halloween, Thanksgiving and Christmas.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="background: white;">Then Lucy got pregnant and Lana was sure she was
also pregnant. I grabbed a gestation calendar and calculated that the babies
were due five days apart! WHAT?! That meant they could easily be born on the
same day! How could I be there for them? I'm a good mom, but even I'm not good
enough to be in two places at once. It would be like having twins born in
different locations. Cousins of sisters from different misters.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="background: white;">Lana's "pregnancy" was a false alarm.
Praise the lord! I knew they were a little sad about it because they so much
wanted to get the baby making machine fired up, but I was privately relieved. It
was too much to process at once. However, the next month they did, indeed, get
pregnant and we were off to the races. Sally was on her way.</span></span><br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Lana waiting for Sally</td></tr>
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<span style="color: #222222; font-family: "arial"; font-size: 9.5pt;"><br /></span>
<span style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: "arial"; font-size: 9.5pt;">I got to go to one of the ultrasounds and I'll
never forget the sight of her dancing and twisting inside her mom like a tiny
John Travolta in Saturday Night Fever. Amazing. When it was
discovered that she was a girl we were so happy. We do girls very well in our
family. I'm one of three sisters and a stepsister. I have three daughters and a
stepdaughter. I now have two granddaughters. It's how we roll. It's how Rich's
family rolls, as well. Rich has a daughter, two sisters, one nephew, three
nieces and another niece on the way.</span><br />
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<br />
<span style="background: white;">No child has been more eagerly awaited than our
Sally. I thought Lana would go out of her mind the last few weeks. She
literally could not wait for her baby to be born. Rich took some time off work,
which was great. Lana needed the moral support. We were all hoping the baby
wouldn't be born on Halloween. The very next day Lana went into labor and Sally
was born in the early hours of November 2nd.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="background: white;"><br /></span></span><br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiwDtLwOLZwV44eTyl6jKWEO1sX2c9ytBL8M1NW95iQYW4TVvpPnk2cpI9ufmjOawObiHAlYMGd25lNd5CdwMU9WExJETcwTEL-2NZV8qIeKlsqqUof4Qx3fY6fZfI9EgceBsH2Si2AhGI/s1600/IMG_2154.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiwDtLwOLZwV44eTyl6jKWEO1sX2c9ytBL8M1NW95iQYW4TVvpPnk2cpI9ufmjOawObiHAlYMGd25lNd5CdwMU9WExJETcwTEL-2NZV8qIeKlsqqUof4Qx3fY6fZfI9EgceBsH2Si2AhGI/s200/IMG_2154.jpg" width="150" /></a><br />
<span style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: "arial"; font-size: 9.5pt;">In perfect health other than a little jaundice,
Sally looked like her mother as a newborn. In a foreshadowing of things to
come, Sally wasn't exactly a champ at breastfeeding. As in, she refused to
drink at all from the breast. She drank breast milk from bottles until Lana got
her straightened around. All was well until the screaming began. The poor baby!
Poor mommy and daddy. I've never seen anything like it. Sally had colic and
cried for a large part of five months.</span><br />
<span style="color: #222222; font-family: "arial"; font-size: 9.5pt;">
<br />
<span style="background: white;">Anything could set off the wailing, and once she
started it seemed impossible to stop. It was hard to know how to help Lana and
Rich. One weekend we convinced them to leave Sally with us while they went out
for a beak. Everything went perfectly for about six minutes. I put Sally on our
bed and she began to cry and would not stop. We tried everything. Eventually we
put her in the stroller and Eric pushed while I ran alongside holding the
pacifier in Sally's mouth.</span></span><br />
<span style="color: #222222; font-family: "arial"; font-size: 9.5pt;"><br /></span>
<span style="color: #222222; font-family: "arial"; font-size: 9.5pt;"><br /></span>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhgD-3JjKQnV3lASYxp0Bd8DHgUbqqsvmeiFS4R5Y7Snx-kJL0lntM2d6_oQzywqJcAyDfrDo5nrx6mGkU-AA__D6qKsV74HoDm22WrKkaRNq6o9WdctiS3ouGbLpICNapuF4jGb5YBsUs/s1600/IMG_9613.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhgD-3JjKQnV3lASYxp0Bd8DHgUbqqsvmeiFS4R5Y7Snx-kJL0lntM2d6_oQzywqJcAyDfrDo5nrx6mGkU-AA__D6qKsV74HoDm22WrKkaRNq6o9WdctiS3ouGbLpICNapuF4jGb5YBsUs/s320/IMG_9613.jpg" width="240" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Wearing her "I Am Loved" shirt</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<span style="color: #222222; font-family: "arial"; font-size: 9.5pt;"><span style="background: white;">It's almost difficult to recollect now that it's
over. After many months of being sprawled on Lana' s chest day and night, she's
like a different baby. She's not sad Sally, anymore. She's silly Sally. When
Lana was a baby the pediatrician, old Dr. Brown, took a look at her and
declared, "This one's got a touch of the whimsy." If Lana had a
bit of whimsy, Sally has a lot. She's a goof.</span></span><br />
<span style="color: #222222; font-family: "arial"; font-size: 9.5pt;"><span style="background: white;"><br /></span></span>
<span style="color: #222222; font-family: "arial"; font-size: 9.5pt;"><span style="background: white;"><br /></span></span>
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEit72QAyI6qn4KvqqVApPckrj5yHOBxo8E64dz8fudyOV5PkQGHlBHx6QHr64Icr2mG-TTYCtLSUCI5Gl5dfeDMW90XhPEluUpfKQx31A8wk_OfwR_coGgmFR75TBVj7WWa96vyqfBN8Ag/s1600/FullSizeRender+%252821%2529.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEit72QAyI6qn4KvqqVApPckrj5yHOBxo8E64dz8fudyOV5PkQGHlBHx6QHr64Icr2mG-TTYCtLSUCI5Gl5dfeDMW90XhPEluUpfKQx31A8wk_OfwR_coGgmFR75TBVj7WWa96vyqfBN8Ag/s320/FullSizeRender+%252821%2529.jpg" width="198" /></a></div>
<span style="color: #222222; font-family: "arial"; font-size: 9.5pt;"><span style="background: white;"><br /></span></span>
<span style="color: #222222; font-family: "arial"; font-size: 9.5pt;"></span><br />
<span style="color: #222222; font-family: "arial"; font-size: 9.5pt;"><span style="background: white;">Now Sally is seventeen months old and an
excellent walker. She crawled for the longest time and one day just quit cold
turkey. Crawling was for infants. Sally was clearly a toddler with her sure and
steady footsteps. Sally and I recently had a date. I took her to feed the ducks
in the creek just like her Mommy used to do. I handed her a piece of bread to
toss in the water. She ate it. I handed her another. She ate that one, too. So
much for feeding the ducks.</span></span><br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgShogyfk52OUrQGTUogIeJmNapb8bF7MVyMRGp2SpuaUVGZk7kohrUlu0kwjC7nE4NjWFMDBKkWZBErgilK5491ooJD31eCafv4fUVqMzdz2ZfobIocK3bzgewm1vf-IIAI2MozOZgr6Y/s1600/IMG_3306.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgShogyfk52OUrQGTUogIeJmNapb8bF7MVyMRGp2SpuaUVGZk7kohrUlu0kwjC7nE4NjWFMDBKkWZBErgilK5491ooJD31eCafv4fUVqMzdz2ZfobIocK3bzgewm1vf-IIAI2MozOZgr6Y/s320/IMG_3306.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">With "big" cousin Lila</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<span style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: arial; font-size: 9.5pt;">Sally loves to dance and read books. She loves
to throw balls. The kid has an arm! With her sturdy build and great throwing
skills I'm thinking she could go gold in shot put at the twenty-something
Olympics. Sadly, all the running around has made her a bit more svelte. She
even has definition in her thighs instead of Michelin man rolls. No matter how much she stretches out she
will always be the Chunky Monkey to me. Silly Sally, you are loved!</span><span style="color: #222222; font-family: "arial"; font-size: 9.5pt;"></span><br />
<span style="color: #222222; font-family: "arial"; font-size: 9.5pt;"><span style="background-color: white; font-size: 9.5pt;"><br /></span></span>
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjYaJ0Cga9Var6zc0HBvK2fhp473j86MpqB852iAu-nJRcZ3ubetIo_OfrxRYy4bwdNnaQC-IgnKqlicipIuUrOYbG9dlCAltNF_A_4DGm7_MB8uwPtF1zxXRF_swe9oVuvlxg6QyuSqgI/s1600/FullSizeRender+%252820%2529.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjYaJ0Cga9Var6zc0HBvK2fhp473j86MpqB852iAu-nJRcZ3ubetIo_OfrxRYy4bwdNnaQC-IgnKqlicipIuUrOYbG9dlCAltNF_A_4DGm7_MB8uwPtF1zxXRF_swe9oVuvlxg6QyuSqgI/s320/FullSizeRender+%252820%2529.jpg" width="221" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">And she's off!</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<span style="color: #222222; font-family: "arial"; font-size: 9.5pt;"><span style="background-color: white; font-size: 9.5pt;"></span></span><br />
<span style="color: #222222; font-family: "arial"; font-size: 9.5pt;"><span style="background-color: white; font-size: 9.5pt;"></span></span>
<span style="color: #222222; font-family: "arial"; font-size: 9.5pt;"><span style="background-color: white; font-size: 9.5pt;"></span></span>
<span style="color: #222222; font-family: "arial"; font-size: 9.5pt;"><span style="background-color: white; font-size: 9.5pt;"></span></span>
<span style="color: #222222; font-family: "arial"; font-size: 9.5pt;"><span style="background-color: white; font-size: 9.5pt;"></span></span>
<span style="color: #222222; font-family: "arial"; font-size: 9.5pt;"><span style="background-color: white; font-size: 9.5pt;"></span></span>
<span style="color: #222222; font-family: "arial"; font-size: 9.5pt;"><span style="background-color: white; font-size: 9.5pt;"><br /></span></span>Wendy Partridge Crowehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17064039413435368424noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5667039797770125597.post-37771830585794452532018-03-16T09:17:00.000-07:002018-03-22T09:51:00.705-07:00The Big Six Oh<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">
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<span style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: arial;">My birthdays have come and gone for decades. Precisely
six, to be exact. They have been mostly pleasant, worry-free occasions.
Different ages brought different traditions. In New York State, March 11th fell
smack in the middle of mud season, so sometimes my mother and I would take a
bus into New York City to the Flower Show. I went through a stage where I loved
eating spareribs, and my neighbor, Elizabeth, and I would have sparerib eating
contests, piling up the bones on our plates. One year in Middle School my
friends gave me a surprise party. I was so surprised! I still remember the
dress I was wearing.</span><br />
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgLH7UaJuyN74r0ZKjxhE-0lrDDJF1OZwrsdTtph_mtLYAVYZYtDLiltf_MyzKVbi5AXm-G72ehfX4bFZ94EiTq5Zct9hmf1yrUQ7E-Qj5nx2O-yPVnQbYtf0dYpIhyxCskuKR3vDOkzag/s1600/IMG_2718.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgLH7UaJuyN74r0ZKjxhE-0lrDDJF1OZwrsdTtph_mtLYAVYZYtDLiltf_MyzKVbi5AXm-G72ehfX4bFZ94EiTq5Zct9hmf1yrUQ7E-Qj5nx2O-yPVnQbYtf0dYpIhyxCskuKR3vDOkzag/s200/IMG_2718.JPG" width="150" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">My card from Trish</td></tr>
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><span style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: "arial"; font-size: small;">When the kids were little they would get very
excited about birthdays, and mine was no exception. The drawings, cards and
gifts from them were so precious. They still are. I was always sanguine about
my advancing age, no matter what decade. There was a benefit to the aging; I
had learned something, I was stronger. Life seemed to be as it was meant to be.
I didn't really question it too much.</span></span></div>
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<br />
<span style="background: white;">I must admit I have struggled with the prelude
to turning 60. I've always believed, and often stated, that life is one long
series of identity crises. Cognitive dissonance is the feeling of discomfort
that results from holding two conflicting beliefs. I think I have age
dissonance. My literal age is at odds with my interior life and my vision of
myself.</span></span></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="color: #222222; font-family: "arial";"><span style="background: white;">I am very grateful for my good health. The adage
that every day above ground is a good day makes sense to me, although I'm never
going to go under the ground. I plan to be cremated and have my ashes
scattered. You heard it here, folks. I have learned the hard way that afterlife
choices must be written down. Don't leave it to your survivors to make
choices for you.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="background: white;">I have a lot of associations with sixty-somethings.
White hair, retirement, social security, Medicare, senior discounts,
forgetfulness, going to bed early. Oops. I've just described my husband! He's
seven years older. Nothing personal, but I look at him and think there's no way
I'm going to be like that in seven years! All this talk of "sixty is
the new forty" is the baby boomer way of trying to remain pioneers. Who
are we kidding? We're not invincible. Two of my former flames have already
died.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="background: white;">It's not the number sixty that bothers me, per
se. It's more that you add fifteen years and all of a sudden you're
seventy-five years old. Boom. I play tennis with quite a few lovely women that
age and they are an inspiration. They're in great shape, and because they're
retired they have time to work hard on their fitness. No offense, ladies, but
I'd still rather go back fifteen years to forty-five. I don't think I
appreciated it enough at the time, but now it seems so cute and young! I'm sure
when I'm looking back at sixty I'll feel the same way.</span></span></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjjI3cmeBLZZYxDtHNn-YndaNgvthYlsJz6kRnUyJXcZSlAsu_NotkqOB6D9aOk2EbU6S3qA5L-cxg_YzOuUzctAXkTYJrp6DKdHCZ_IrwRUSGcn_eKA6AFHVaN80Z4Jliom5LQZGJCvgc/s1600/FullSizeRender+%252811%2529.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjjI3cmeBLZZYxDtHNn-YndaNgvthYlsJz6kRnUyJXcZSlAsu_NotkqOB6D9aOk2EbU6S3qA5L-cxg_YzOuUzctAXkTYJrp6DKdHCZ_IrwRUSGcn_eKA6AFHVaN80Z4Jliom5LQZGJCvgc/s200/FullSizeRender+%252811%2529.jpg" width="150" /></a><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjB4QkAfuMsHGo9gNzlhiWINlXX_CqgYz1F1Q3-cY2QCzFL9VLD9C_FpuMTdjzaaTLpaHTmoTq8n121do4XkfkOHufRDlb8No3KyC2JezGIczuFsgrM0tGtv6ZwcvAOa7AkDXn0oGerp2I/s1600/FullSizeRender+%252812%2529.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="93" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjB4QkAfuMsHGo9gNzlhiWINlXX_CqgYz1F1Q3-cY2QCzFL9VLD9C_FpuMTdjzaaTLpaHTmoTq8n121do4XkfkOHufRDlb8No3KyC2JezGIczuFsgrM0tGtv6ZwcvAOa7AkDXn0oGerp2I/s200/FullSizeRender+%252812%2529.jpg" width="200" /></a></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><span style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: "arial"; font-size: small;">Now that the birthday has come and gone I've
gotten my mind right on the subject. I was dragged into this decade with lots
of love and care. Friends and family from near and far sent me good wishes. I
had a very special spa day with my three girls. Eric made a paella dinner for
all of us. </span></span></div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhJ_KkznnPtXuNVSuR0XA2aAGEO_ew2_qCvzQpdcrI8nCbnSRFajvDq4SSlRXKDTShbqCG45dSCOlu3mw79pI-ZuOcxXAE4zjpDRzFs7sNL_1eqZaYScz7Bjev9SwB8__URPDbflWjuqs4/s1600/IMG_2717.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhJ_KkznnPtXuNVSuR0XA2aAGEO_ew2_qCvzQpdcrI8nCbnSRFajvDq4SSlRXKDTShbqCG45dSCOlu3mw79pI-ZuOcxXAE4zjpDRzFs7sNL_1eqZaYScz7Bjev9SwB8__URPDbflWjuqs4/s320/IMG_2717.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Love this card made by Pam J. Especially my new photoshopped body!</td></tr>
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><span style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: "arial"; font-size: small;">At the end of the evening my daughter, Lana, said something that
really gave me perspective. She pointed to my granddaughters who are 16 and 19
months. She said, "Mom, in fifteen years Lila and Sally will be
sixteen years old." I thought about that for a moment. They will be in
high school, going to prom, driving or whatever 16 year olds will be doing
then. I thought about all the changes they will go through and the life they
will live between now and then. It really does seem like a long time.</span></span></div>
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<br />
<span style="background: white;">My mom and aunt are 84 and 88 years old. I come
from hearty stock. If it weren't for the damn cigarettes I'm sure my father
would still be alive. It's going to be all right. Like we used to say to the
kindergarteners: "You get what you get and you don't get upset." These are the good, old days. </span></span></span></span></div>
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">
<!--EndFragment--></span>Wendy Partridge Crowehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17064039413435368424noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5667039797770125597.post-14100789272473162722017-07-13T15:12:00.000-07:002017-07-13T15:22:14.286-07:00Lila: The Next Generation<br />
<br />
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<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgLe07zBvR8AVTpqFDn9p9S3viwSLoTHLho0700KZEbFuSe-VkzdU158UNUDiyn2EKOSNHjbohB-3erApJwLY-KpgWHwrguPH8cWbhTueTZNuNy_h4hevvLpzEgtvpS5SMxvoXlqHOXjUs/s1600/IMG_6006.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgLe07zBvR8AVTpqFDn9p9S3viwSLoTHLho0700KZEbFuSe-VkzdU158UNUDiyn2EKOSNHjbohB-3erApJwLY-KpgWHwrguPH8cWbhTueTZNuNy_h4hevvLpzEgtvpS5SMxvoXlqHOXjUs/s320/IMG_6006.jpg" width="240" /></a></div>
<span style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: "arial" , sans-serif; font-size: 12.8px;"><br /></span>
<span style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: "arial" , sans-serif; font-size: 12.8px;"><br /></span>
<span style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: "arial" , sans-serif; font-size: 12.8px;">July 30, 2016</span><br />
<div style="text-align: right;">
</div>
<br style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: arial, sans-serif; font-size: 12.8px;" />
<span style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: "arial" , sans-serif; font-size: 12.8px;">It's been a week since our grand surprise. A clutch of skin and bones and a thatch of golden hair, baby Lila roared into our universe at warp speed. Two months early, she left the comfort of Mom to forge her way outside of the womb. She was here whether we liked it or not. Why the hurry, little one? Lila, already a disruptor.</span><br />
<br style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: arial, sans-serif; font-size: 12.8px;" />
<span style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: "arial" , sans-serif; font-size: 12.8px;">None of us were ready. Emotionally, psychologically it was so difficult to fathom that instead of a full term, bouncing baby girl we ended up with a three pound seven ounce premie. We had plans, but apparently Lila had other plans. There was no stopping her. It's been shock and awe. Frankly, a bit too much shock and too little awe, until today</span><br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjetlz1HaHLJKYf7lgVlhM0l2qHmfU4FpHCvQh_B58ZWRcGMFzZ-Z7QVlyDxyWWLe1WghM19pfP_YaD9ZnY04lNPpUQUyWE1rinH71FMAcgUADpBwjr5dEwFyBMtqFS4VK2OFpdOvZ1JAc/s1600/IMG_0505.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="150" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjetlz1HaHLJKYf7lgVlhM0l2qHmfU4FpHCvQh_B58ZWRcGMFzZ-Z7QVlyDxyWWLe1WghM19pfP_YaD9ZnY04lNPpUQUyWE1rinH71FMAcgUADpBwjr5dEwFyBMtqFS4VK2OFpdOvZ1JAc/s200/IMG_0505.jpg" width="200" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Day One</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhz5qvFEruEzk4StE33sOXswmO-oLDvnG4oi1_9O3-6gxg-ASB9at1wxOLWJZ217D_jJddQAt55IQa5vJgpEPiQxDPkph6Qf0UbWfUwLSQfNXOLU1TRx9s-M28LZimE-qbo8ADPXUoXF68/s1600/IMG_0521.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhz5qvFEruEzk4StE33sOXswmO-oLDvnG4oi1_9O3-6gxg-ASB9at1wxOLWJZ217D_jJddQAt55IQa5vJgpEPiQxDPkph6Qf0UbWfUwLSQfNXOLU1TRx9s-M28LZimE-qbo8ADPXUoXF68/s200/IMG_0521.jpg" width="150" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">A mother's love</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<span style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: "arial" , sans-serif; font-size: 12.8px;"><br /></span>
<span style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: "arial" , sans-serif; font-size: 12.8px;">Today Lila and I had a moment. We bonded as well as you can when one of you is in an isolette and the other is standing by your bed, poking scrupulously clean arms through portholes to catch a little skin. I felt her and I felt truly happy for the first time since she graced us with her presence. Her health is good and she's gaining weight. Today was the first time the joy surpassed the fear. She gripped my finger while she slept and I held her feet. It was the first visit we've had, just the two of us, with no interruptions and no medical interventions.</span><br />
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<span style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: "arial" , sans-serif; font-size: 12.8px;">There was a transfer, from me to her. I so clearly felt my parents and grandparents and there was an acute connectedness between the generations. While Lila squeezed my finger she turned to me and cracked open one tiny eye. Then it fluttered closed and she smiled in her sleep. Another flutter of the eyelids, a squeak and a yawn. The kid looked like a baby for the first time instead of, as Lucy put it, a minuscule Benjamin Button version of her father. Her lips are Lucy's, though. A perfect, tiny rosebud mouth.</span><br />
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<span style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: "arial" , sans-serif; font-size: 12.8px;">It's been very hectic for both of us this week. She was ripped from her mother and I was thrust into being a grandmother. Eric and I were out for a bike ride in Sonoma when I got the call from Lucy. I knew something was wrong, but I figured it was early labor and that the miracle of modern medicine could stop it. It was Eric's 65th birthday so we kept on the bike ride until the next ominous text. At 31 weeks pregnant, Lucy's water had broken. The miracle of modern medicine could not stop it, but they did save mother and baby. Thank God.</span><br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Day Two</td></tr>
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<span style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: "arial" , sans-serif; font-size: 12.8px;">All three of my babies were moderately to severely overdue. I've never seen a baby this small. Scrawny chicken wings and legs with hanging skin. I must confess that when Lila and I first met I felt a tad woozy. I didn't want to alarm her father, Greg, but the neonate scared me. Her eye was bruised, her head had a mask and she had an IV in one arm, an oxygen contraption on her toe and she was so, so tiny. Scary tiny.</span><br />
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<span style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: "arial" , sans-serif; font-size: 12.8px;">July 12, 2017</span><br />
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<span style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: "arial" , sans-serif; font-size: 12.8px;">Now Lila is almost one year old. She's a happy, healthy baby. She crawls and babbles and eats an alarming amount of food as well as plenty of milk. She seems to have inherited her mother's fast metabolism as well as Lucy's sociable nature, self-determination and dislike of bedtime! Lila is more easy going than Mommy and seems to have gotten that from her Daddy, as well as the ability to play by herself longer than seven seconds.</span><br />
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<span style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: "arial" , sans-serif; font-size: 12.8px;">Lila is a lean, strong baby just as you'd expect with lean, strong parents. A single snaggle tooth, bright blue eyes and straight blonde hair round out the look. She charms with her gummy grin. We've travelled to London and New York. While Mommy worked Lila and I spent some time hanging out in cafes. Lila loves to scan the room, find her subject and make eye contact. She expects everyone to love her, and she's right. They do.</span><br />
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<span style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: "arial" , sans-serif; font-size: 12.8px;">Lila and I are good buddies. I already loved her deeply, but when her other grandmother died suddenly on Lila's due date, before they'd even had a chance to meet, I felt a heavy responsibility. Grandmothers are so important and you can never have too many. Fortunately, Lila has several granddads, and they are extremely important, too.</span><br />
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<span style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: "arial" , sans-serif; font-size: 12.8px;">Becoming a grandmother was nothing like I expected. The night Lila was born I left the hospital and went to eat in a restaurant in North Beach. Eric stayed in Sonoma because we weren't sure how things would go with the premature delivery. It was strange to be alone after something so momentous had happened in my life. If I had known then what I know now, and how beautifully Lila would develop and grow, I would have been ecstatic. I would have been so thrilled that my firstborn had made me a grandmother. Instead, the day Lila was born was one of the most traumatic days of my life.</span><br />
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<span style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: "arial" , sans-serif; font-size: 12.8px;">It was strange for all of us, but Lucy seemed undaunted. I'll never forget the look of joy and love on her face the first time they wheeled her bed into the NICU a couple hours after the birth so she could see the baby. She didn't see a scary, tiny creature. She saw her beautiful baby. They aren't kidding that a mother's love is blind!</span><br />
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<span style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: "arial" , sans-serif; font-size: 12.8px;">It was over a month that Lila stayed in the NICU, and it wasn't easy, but we were so lucky. The kid was healthy, just tiny. One time I referred to her as our "special needs baby" and the nurses corrected me. They said she didn't have special needs, she was just small. Actually, I disagree, She did have special needs, including a feeding tube, at first, but those nurses were amazing. They had growing an infant outside the womb down to a science, It was hard to not hold her like you would a full term newborn, but the hardest part was being around the parents whose babies were really sick. That was truly heartbreaking.</span><br />
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<span style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: "arial" , sans-serif; font-size: 12.8px;">We all did our best and Lucy was just amazing. Seeing what a wonderful mother she is with her baby made all the work I put into raising her worthwhile. I felt like I was paid back in an instant for decades of effort. Also, the vague longing that I had felt since my youngest (now 27 years old) was no longer a baby completely dissipated. I wouldn't want my kids to be little again because then I wouldn't have my grandchildren. You see, I'm very fortunate.</span><br />
<span style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: "arial" , sans-serif; font-size: 12.8px;">Three months after Lila was born, Lana gave birth to Sally. But this Is Lila's story. We'll save Sally for another day.</span><br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Four Generations</td></tr>
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<br />Wendy Partridge Crowehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17064039413435368424noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5667039797770125597.post-36927391983814821102015-10-27T10:25:00.001-07:002016-03-22T10:35:38.764-07:00The Endless Summer<div class="p1">
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The real Endless Summer with my family in the '60's. </td></tr>
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You may think, “The Endless Summer” is the title of a movie about surfing. It is. It’s also an apt description of our summer. Our burning, blazing, summer with endless heat and endless sun. Our normal weather is typical, Coastal Northern California fare. Add cool, overcast days to 63 degrees with a chilly wind. Combine little to no sun and stir. You have just created the recipe for local conditions in May through August. In thirty-eight years I have seen little variation to this recipe.<br />
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The Summer of 2015 is an exception so extreme, that despite all my years of complaining about our cools summers, I have had enough. Summer in Mill Valley has been too long this year. I’m ready for fall. Not fake fall. We have the leaves changing colors and drifting gently off trees on Sycamore Avenue, but it's hard to enjoy when it's 85 degrees again. </div>
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<span style="font-size: small;">Like most seasons, summer started with hope and promise. I reveled in the warmth. Day after day, week after week we were blessed with pleasant temperatures and lemony bright, sunny skies. Sunny mornings, dinner outside and sleeveless dresses! What could possibly be better? I take it all back! Send the fog. The air quality is poor due to all the fires that have raged around the state, I'm surrounded on three sides by noisy construction projects and can't close the windows. I work from home and we do not have air conditioning. </span></div>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Thousands flee another heat wave at Stinson</td></tr>
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<span class="s1">My car is the only cool place and I can’t just ride around in the car and contribute to global warming! I read that for every mile you drive your car makes a pound of carbon dioxide. That is a statistic that has stuck with me. It now strikes me as irresponsible to sit in your car talking on the phone while the engine runs. </span></div>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Harbor Seal is treated at Marine Mammal Center</td></tr>
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<span class="s1">Climate change is real. The Pacific Ocean is warmer than the Atlantic now. Birds are dying in droves because the fish they feed on have had to go deeper for cooler temperatures. Marine Mammals are in distress for the same reasons. The center of the state is sinking by several inches a month because the ground water is being pumped out faster than it's being replenished. It's not being replenished at all because of the drought. This also affects the level of the oceans.</span></div>
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We've got scorched Earth, yet we are bracing for El Niño which will probably bring more rain than we can handle and not enough snow in the mountains which we desperately need. My clients are all scrambling to get new gutters and roofs before the rains. The promised precipitation is on the way, but it may be February until we see anything substantial. To paraphrase the song, when it rains in Northern California it pours. Man, it pours. <span class="s1"></span><br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">California fire</td></tr>
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Hot, cold, rainy dry, I'm going to try to not be a complainer. My daughter, Allie, makes it a policy to never complain about the weather. It's amazing. I aspire to be like her. She lived four years at UConn, several of which had prodigious snowfall, two years in Los Angeles, and now is in New York City. You will never hear anything from her about the weather.</div>
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<span class="s1">The only time Allie was bothered by a weather related situation was when Hurricane Sandy knocked out her power for a week in 2012. She was miserable. It was horrible to have to go shower at a friends and charge her phone at the library. Too many inconveniences while also trying to work and study. Heat waves, ice storms, Allie won't even notice, but don't try to take away her electricity!</span></div>
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I will not complain, because my life is good and I did not lose my home to a fire like so many other Californians. However, I do miss my sweaters. I'd like to wear boots and jeans if they even still fit. It's been so long I wouldn't know. I'd like to drink a cup of coffee without breaking out in a sweat and perhaps build a fire on a chilly evening, but first we need a chilly evening.<br />
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<span class="s1">October feels a bit cursed to me and this year the curse continues. I had a frightening trip to the emergency room in an ambulance due to an eyeball bleed with complicating factors. I'm better, but now my mom, on the eve of her 86th birthday, is in the hospital. Go away scary October. Bring in November. </span><br />
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Wendy Partridge Crowehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17064039413435368424noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5667039797770125597.post-15085243168810538592015-09-24T11:39:00.000-07:002016-03-22T10:35:38.746-07:00Words of Walt Whitman<br />
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The words by Pope Francis today reminded me of this alluring quote.<br />
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"This is what you shall do: love the earth, and sun, and animals, despise riches, stand up for the stupid and crazy, hate tyrants, argue not concerning God, have patience and indulgence towards the people, take off your hat to nothing known or unknown or to any man or number of men, go freely with powerful uneducated persons, re-examine all you have been told at school or church or in any book, and dismiss whatever insults your own soul." Walt Whitman<br />
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<br />Wendy Partridge Crowehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17064039413435368424noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5667039797770125597.post-53031788594012874842015-09-06T20:55:00.000-07:002016-03-22T10:35:38.782-07:00Bicycle Built For Mayhem<div class="p1">
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Back by popular demand - Guest Blogger Eric Crowe. Another Florida story.</div>
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The day the bear came home with us for dinner Mom was on the couch with her leg in a cast. She had broken it trying to teach me how to dismount my new bike. It was not simply a broken leg; it was a compound fracture of the ankle with three breaks in the leg.</div>
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<span class="s1">See, our neighborhood was spread out and sparsely populated. If I was going to visit even the nearest kid, it was all the way down to the end of Luzon Avenue and then up that sandy track to the O'Neils' house. If I wanted to visit somebody else, it was even farther (and more complicated). You couldn't just walk. It took too long to get anywhere, and if you went on foot to the O’Neil place </span>without an O’Neil, you stood a pretty good chance of being shot, or eaten by their dogs. Uninvited visitors were not encouraged.</div>
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As I explained before, Luzon Avenue was where the last, outermost hint of suburbia abutted old country Florida. The only other kids on Luzon Avenue were the O'Neils. There was Mikey, who was my age, and his little sister Patty, and a shifting array of their cousins. But even the O Neils didn't really live on my street. They lived at the end of it, or really beyond the end of it. Their property started beyond the end of the road, but their house and barn and various other outbuildings were quite a ways up a sandy track. It started after the shell-rock ended. You couldn't even see their house from the end of the Luzon Avenue. And it was in a different world. Although no one talked about it, the difference between those who lived on pavement, who lived on shell rock, and who lived on a dirt road signaled a definite cultural divide. But that divide didn't matter much to me, and even less to Mikey. What mattered was distance. </div>
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So believe me when I say that I needed a bike. What I wanted, and got, was not just a kid bike like I'd had before, or one like stupid Butchy Holmes still had, but a real bike, one with speeds.<br />
I had pushed and pushed for a real bike, and was very glad to have gotten one. It was a thing of beauty, a bronze Raleigh three-speed that you shifted with your thumb, and pedals that allowed you to coast. It was worlds above and beyond the nasty Huffy that Butchy Holmes rode, with pedals that kept going round no matter what. But it was, ahem, kinda big. </div>
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See, my father was a frugal man, at least when it came to bicycles. So he had purchased a 36" frame bike on the theory that if you were going to spend money on it, get just one bike. One that the kid could ride right up until he was in high school. In order to get on my bike, I had to lean it against a tree or a pole, and then climb onto it and push off. I had to push off because I could only reach the pedals when they were in the top half of a cycle. But then there was getting off.<br />
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The main dismount technique I had devised was to go as slowly as possible and then bail out. The semi-controlled crash was at best, frowned upon. While I tried to bail out where the bike and I would have a soft landing, this wasn't always possible. The results varied for both me and the bike, but they never looked good.<br />
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The subject of my dismount technique soon came up with my parents. Neither approved. My father thought it unlikely that the bicycle would last through high school if I kept crashing it, on even the softest of lawns. My mom just thought my dismount was ungainly and in poor form.<br />
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<span class="s1">One Sunday after church and brunch (the wildest stuff seemed to happen on Sundays) Mom decided that she was going to show me how to properly dismount the bike. As an aside, I need to add that Mom worked selling advertising for the Palm Beach Post, and spent most of her time with people in old-money and tourist commerce Florida. Those were her people. We were Catholic, but not very strident about it. Going to church involved going to a diocese near the beach, far from our home and was almost always followed by brunch where they served Bloody Mary's. </span></div>
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<span class="s1">We had just gotten home from church and brunch. Mom still had on her hat with the little bit of veil that extended over the eyes and a suit with a below knee length, sheath type skirt and heels. None of this mattered. It was time to show me a graceful dismount. She was tall enough to get on the bike with no real problem despite that sheath skirt. She began to pedal around on Luzon Avenue back and forth in front of the house where my father and I were standing in the yard. As she went by she would give little tips about bicycle etiquette and technique.</span></div>
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<span class="s1">The sight of her pedaling around Luzon Avenue in her Sunday best was so arresting that it stopped Grady ONeil, who was heading home, dead in his tracks. As he sat there in his truck, just beyond the range of my mother's circuits, she swung into the yard to demonstrate the dismount. She was talking to us about how to balance on the top of the pedal and swing a leg over, and it appeared that she was demonstrating this very technique in super-slo-mo. Meanwhile, the bike was going slower and slower and slower. I was thinking to myself, "Okay Mom, I've got it.” Then the bike went over with her still in the frozen yet graceful one-leg-in-the-air pose. The skirt had caught on the frame.</span></div>
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<span class="s1"> After she crashed, we all rushed to her. It was not good. The bones were sticking out of her ankle and the leg was at an impossible angle. My father rushed into the house to call an ambulance. </span></div>
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<span class="s1">Grady jumped out and left his truck in the road and was right there with Mom. Before that day he had been just a kind of mean old cracker who lived up the road. From then on he and the rest of the O’Neils were friends. </span></div>
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Grady was a rock in the crisis, calm and collected yet solicitous. He told me and Mom that it would be all right, we just had to hang in there until the ambulance arrived. While they were talking, Grady mentioned to Mom that while Lynne, his wife had recently made him take the pledge, i.e., foreswear any alcohol intake, there might still be some around. It was kept on hand strictly for emergencies, he said, but this definitely qualified. Mom agreed. With that Grady hurried to his truck and zipped up the road. He soon returned with a jar of clear liquid. He administered the treatment and by the time the ambulance arrived, Mom was, as they say, feeling no pain.</div>
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Wendy Partridge Crowehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17064039413435368424noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5667039797770125597.post-69396979004926657722015-08-20T14:56:00.002-07:002016-03-22T10:35:38.794-07:00The Day My Father Brought The Bear Home To Dinner<br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Tales From The Old South</span></h2>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">By Guest Blogger Eric Crowe</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">This story first needs some background and explanation about its setting: south Florida, Palm
Beach County in the 1950’s. In those days there were three very distinct versions of that place. They coexisted
geographically on an east to west axis, with only a few areas of uneasy overlap. There was First
Florida, or Florida One. It was the grand, old-money winter resort inhabited periodically by the likes of
the Kennedys, Vanderbilts, Whitneys, Reynolds and spawn of other robber barons and society elite. It
had chic shops, art galleries, live theatre and lots of royal palms that waved in the ocean breeze. You
could get an extra dry martini, Lacoste polo shirt or a yachting cap there at, well, the drop of a hat. It had
lots of private beach clubs, many golf courses and even some polo grounds. Its boundaries ran along the
coast from Vero Beach south to Boca Raton. (There were lots of places south of Boca that were as
moneyed as First Florida, but still did not inhabit its own special cultural niche.) First Florida started at
the edge of the Atlantic ocean and stopped pretty much at the edge of the Inter-Coastal waterway. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Then there was Second Florida. It was peopled mainly by less-moneyed snowbirds of a lower
social and cultural class that those in First. They were people who came from places like Canada, New
York and Ohio to stay for a couple of weeks or a month. Along with them were lots of pipe-suckinggiant-hat-glasses-and-orthopedic-shoe-wearing
retirees. In Second, many of the restaurants featured
early-bird seating and sunset specials. Second was also where most of us permanent residents who earned
their living providing goods, services and entertainment to First Florida and Second Florida lived. You
could readily get some sansabelt slacks, a shuffleboard cue or some fuller’s earth for your pool filter in
Second. Except for a few odd pockets like Briny Breezes and Lantana that intruded into first territory,
Second lay to the west of the Inter-Coastal, where it extended a few miles, or sometimes only a few
hundred yards further west-ward. Second ended at about the point where no trace of the ocean breezes
penetrated inland unless there was a hurricane. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Then there was Florida Three, the old-original Florida. It ran west from about the point the trade
winds no longer penetrated eastward into the wilds of lake Okeechobee and the Everglades. Florida Three
had few resorts, not many snowbirds or retirees and little to no patience or regard for Florida One or
Two. Instead, what it had were ranchers, farmers, swampers and other people who lived mainly off the
land in one way or another. You could get catfish and hushpuppies, shells for a 4-10 or Can’t Bust-em
overalls with the front-flap in Three quick as you could spit some chaw. Its inhabitants were mainly
black, brown or red of skin and/or neck. They didn’t need or use Coppertone and were proud of it. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Three was filled with things that bit, scratched, punctured and poisoned. Things that made you
jump when they went bump in the night. It had stuff like gators and garfish, rattlesnakes and water
moccasins, snapping turtles and big land tortoises. It had lots of insects that bit, like mosquitos, chiggers,
and fire ants. It had giant, leathery bugs that looked like they would bite or sting, even if they didn’t. It
also had lots of plants that cut, poisoned and stuck you. Plants like sandspurs, saw-grass, palmettos,
Spanish bayonets and many other thorny or itchy things. Most of the dogs that lived in Three had ticks,
and it was not considered remarkable if they had lost an eye or a leg. A great deal of Three consisted of
miles of palmettos interspersed with scrub pines and grassland, but there were also lots of canals and
swamps covered in algae and hyacinth. It was pretty uniformly hot, humid and flat in Three. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">My earliest memories are of living where Florida Two ran into Florida Three. We lived on Luzon
Avenue. It was way west of Lake Worth and even west of Military Trail, a geographic and cultural
dividing line. If you wanted to be charitable you could say Luzon Avenue was a westernmost outpost of
Two, but most of it was really in and part of Three. We lived there because this was where my father built
our house. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">My dad worked in Florida Two as a dispatcher and foreman for the Rinker truck drivers. (More
on that later.) Our house was pretty large for just the three of us because, as the dispatcher for a concrete
block and transit mix company, he got a very good deal on these main construction materials (i.e.,
free). But since we also had to have some land to put that house on, that land was in Three. This was
because land was cheap in Three. Moreover, you could build pretty much whatever kind of house you
wanted to, and build it however you wanted to do it. No pesky building inspectors involved. This suited
my father’s philosophy, as well as his house-building skills. It also explained the rather unique means by
which the hot water heater connected to the bathrooms and the kitchen. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">So our house was on Luzon Avenue-nominally a far-flung outpost of Two, but really in
Three. The first clue about this was that Luzon Avenue wasn't paved. It was a "shell rock" road of
crushed white coquina and coral. Everyone could spot this as an old-Florida road material. If that wasn’t
enough tip-off, conditions at the end of Luzon Avenue left no doubt. While the first house on the street
was a tidy bungalow with green awnings, in which Emily and Vincent Pangalon lived (i.e., some of the
people who put the Luzon onto Luzon Ave.), the shell rock ended at the gate to the O' Neil's place. It was
just sand and dirt from that point onward. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">The O'Neil's were large and a lively bunch. Their family had been living in the area way before
anyone else moved in. They turned out to be good neighbors and friends, especially in a pinch. But this
was hard to predict from first impressions. None of the senior O' Neil’s, Grady or Lynne, or Grady’s
brother Jelly, had any teeth of their own. Moreover, Grady actually still made moonshine and made it on
the premises in a still. But I digress. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">The only reason any of this relates to the story of the bear who came to dinner is simply that you
must be introduced to the fact that our house and roads we travelled to get to it were in Three. These
roads were frequented by all sorts of travelers who were not often to be found in One or Two. This is
why, as my father and I were heading back home one Sunday afternoon, from some sort of errand or
other, he didn't seem to be all that surprised when we came upon the man standing on the shoulder of the
road next to the canal, with his thumb out, hitchhiking with the bear. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">When he saw them, dad immediately began to slow down. We pulled to a stop just past where
they were standing. Dad backed the Impala up and asked the guy if he needed a ride. He said they did.
So dad and the guy talked for a while about whether the bear was a good passenger. The guy allowed as
how he was. He said the bear was well mannered, used to car travel, and what's more, unusually
presentable at the moment, since it had just had a bath in the canal. After a little more discussion it was
decided that there was plenty of room for all of us in the car, as it was a convertible and we already had
the top down, as long as all the humans rode in front. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">So I scooted into the middle, the guy got in next to me and the bear got in the back seat. I could
tell that the guy must be telling the truth about the bear’s bath as soon as it got in the car, because it was
still pretty damp and smelled like canal water. My father and the guy quickly became occupied talking
about where he was coming from (a town somewhere south of us where a circus had just ended its
season) and headed to (Winter Haven, a circus winter-quarters town to the north). But I was too
preoccupied by the bear in the backseat to pay much attention to this conversation. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">I was kneeling on the front seat facing back toward the bear because somebody had to keep an
eye on things. The Impala had a red leather bench backseat. When the bear sat on it, the whole seat
squished down to no more than about three inches high. This seemed surprising, not just because of what
it revealed about the weight of the creature sitting on it. It was also surprising because my father usually
worried about preserving the condition of the leather so much that whenever I rode in the back seat I had
to take off my shoes. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">At first the bear just sat there, enjoying the breeze of our passage that had chased away the gnats
and bugs that were surrounding it. The bear had a muzzle on. The muzzle was attached to a chain and
the guy was holding onto the chain. That seemed somewhat reassuring. At least for a while, until, as I
watched it and the bear looked right back at me with its big, dark-brown eyes, it just reached up and
unsnapped the muzzle. Surprise! </span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"></span>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj9P8M36L5J1feHAozht_smQLHO4aQmM74knXZGxRnW0u6jBsjlAlgVmh517EfYg-zGu2yaewr-PPx14EeVOArEa0-9Hfa5-jCjEzTmtz-gyKwEioOWyhvX5wK2VelyQST3jR3JxD5b9ZU/s1600/e62b38e4bd2afad86dcf64203d2964ba.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj9P8M36L5J1feHAozht_smQLHO4aQmM74knXZGxRnW0u6jBsjlAlgVmh517EfYg-zGu2yaewr-PPx14EeVOArEa0-9Hfa5-jCjEzTmtz-gyKwEioOWyhvX5wK2VelyQST3jR3JxD5b9ZU/s1600/e62b38e4bd2afad86dcf64203d2964ba.jpg" /></a></div>
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"></span>
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">It seemed like it took forever for my exclamations to penetrate the conversation going on in the
front seat. When I eventually broke through with pointed comments about "hey, it took off the muzzle"
the guy finally turned around and looked. He kind of jerked the chain around and said something like
"cut that out." Then (I swear this is true) the bear just put the muzzle back on. No further fuss or
discussion ensued. Nothing about the fact that the bear could take its muzzle off-or put it back on. </span><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"></span>
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">At some point, while I was focused on seeing if it would remove the muzzle again, or maybe do
something others thought was remarkable, my father invited the hitchhikers to our house for dinner.
Although I might not have known that bears were such good hitchhikers or could take off and put on
muzzles until just then, I knew that this spelled trouble. </span><br />
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgQYwxOp2HjCnYpdSBS34BHxc3Xb5sdbP1C109v_rYHLWu1Z7_3Y5qoW1bj7qjkYHFPIOHtBj-a7WiEvX6A2J96y9uokYnuGk8Hyi3XmJzasxelbBTaSosiaGfBoXquQhyphenhyphensUKIhD3D9Hfg/s1600/IMG_8200.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgQYwxOp2HjCnYpdSBS34BHxc3Xb5sdbP1C109v_rYHLWu1Z7_3Y5qoW1bj7qjkYHFPIOHtBj-a7WiEvX6A2J96y9uokYnuGk8Hyi3XmJzasxelbBTaSosiaGfBoXquQhyphenhyphensUKIhD3D9Hfg/s320/IMG_8200.JPG" width="240" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Arla and Eric Crowe</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"></span>
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">It was not just the surprise of suddenly appearing home with unannounced and unexpected dinner
guests. My mom was pretty used to things like that happening. She was almost always happy to have
company, but the problem was way more complex than that. It involved first, that mom was now sitting
at home with a broken leg in a giant cast. (More on that later.) Second, it involved the fact that it would
be Auntie Anne to whom we were bringing these guests home for Sunday dinner. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"></span>
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Auntie Anne had raised my mother. Although she was not vocal about her disapproval of my
father, it was still palpable. While my mother often enjoyed it when my father hatched some crazy plan,
Auntie Anne did not.
Auntie Anne not only did not much approve of my father, she was also not that happy to be stuck
in Three. In winter she was usually in One, where she spent her time in a cabana on the beach enjoying
those trade winds and going out to dinner someplace that had a view. Instead, she was now sweltering at
our house, where the fan just made you hotter, while she tended to Mom whose leg cast, from toes to hip,
severely limited her usually prodigious ability to dispense hospitality. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"></span>
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">So I smelled trouble brewing. When we pulled up in front, my father jumped out and began to
yell: "Arla, Ar! You gotta see what I brought you." "What is it?" "A bear." "A what?" "It's a bear that was
hitchhiking with its owner and we picked them up." "Well bring them in, you know I'm stuck here on the
couch." (Mom later related that at that point she thought, given that my father was somewhat prone to
exaggeration, that he must have been referring to a big dog, or to one of his hairier buddies, but not a real,
actual bear.) So dad dutifully began to escort the guy and the bear toward the front door. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"></span>
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Then the screen door opened with a bang. Auntie Anne stood in the doorway. Her arms were
crossed and she was quietly composed, but the look of frosty resolution in her eyes made everything just
stop. It was only many, many years later, when I saw the scene where Gandalf confronts the Balrog on
the bridge, that I ever encountered anything quite like that moment again. "Bob Crowe, you are NOT
bringing that bear into this house." She stood there, all five foot one and ninety pounds of her and she
didn't even yell, except for the NOT. But we all knew that bear was not coming into the house. Even the
bear knew. Bear, you shall not pass! </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"></span>
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">After a while things calmed down. My mother was able to peek out the front window and see for
herself that it was indeed a bear, whereupon she concurred that it was not invited into the house. The guy was invited to dinner. The bear stayed in the yard. I think we had chicken and the bear had some Gravy
Train. Many stories were told, but the only other clear memory I have left of the evening from that point
on, was about after dinner, when we went out to hang with the bear. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"></span>
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">It had been sitting out there for quite a while by then and had attracted a pretty good sized
gathering, at least for our sparse neighborhood. Among the onlookers was my arch-rival, Butchie
Holmes. So it felt pretty good when the guy had the bear do a few tricks for us, and really good when the
guy asked if I wanted to ride the bear. He put me on the bear's shoulders and it kind of loped around the
yard for a minute. Beat that, Butchie. A couple of other kids got rides, but not Butchie. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"></span>
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Then the guy and the bear got back in the Impala and my father drove them somewhere to catch the next ride toward Winter Haven. </span><br />
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">THE END.</span><br />
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjh7jqaU8dJUf00zkL9wve04xGF8jysyu9OCqZ6ZYvoly51Yz2UMSIRBpjnJKuAVcEXal_5Nht01AN82yxH3RDHDGqEJii9ySmjfJi5hO3wDbTpY3qLG72Ni2h4w_Pc_KogHKtie0LROps/s1600/IMG_8199.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjh7jqaU8dJUf00zkL9wve04xGF8jysyu9OCqZ6ZYvoly51Yz2UMSIRBpjnJKuAVcEXal_5Nht01AN82yxH3RDHDGqEJii9ySmjfJi5hO3wDbTpY3qLG72Ni2h4w_Pc_KogHKtie0LROps/s320/IMG_8199.JPG" width="240" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Bob Crowe and Santa Claus</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
</div>
<br /></div>
Wendy Partridge Crowehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17064039413435368424noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5667039797770125597.post-40156428597234017402015-08-14T13:53:00.000-07:002016-03-22T10:35:38.767-07:00Wedding Bells<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgSstlo1010YeT2ZMzzgzIK3lpYMfndTge6Y9-Swn43QZvphnSR3qHASx2H-YqdxCQJNTjhqEQSdi-9ZPxTpWmSFoWHrfH12gNTME-K2WcU3XoYR5sS0ikYdTIW9gojYz3OxQCrCfo0CgQ/s1600/IMG_6253.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgSstlo1010YeT2ZMzzgzIK3lpYMfndTge6Y9-Swn43QZvphnSR3qHASx2H-YqdxCQJNTjhqEQSdi-9ZPxTpWmSFoWHrfH12gNTME-K2WcU3XoYR5sS0ikYdTIW9gojYz3OxQCrCfo0CgQ/s320/IMG_6253.JPG" width="320" /></a></div>
<br />
<div style="text-align: left;">
<span style="font-family: 'Comic Sans MS'; font-size: 14pt;">They
say there is a “wedding season”. There certainly was in our family this year.
With eight grandchildren born in twelve years, there are bound to be some milestone
events that are close in time. We had a festive spring with two beautiful,
happy brides and two handsome, strong grooms.</span></div>
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Comic Sans MS"; font-size: 14.0pt;">My
adorable niece, Lily, married wonderful, dimpled Jimmy in April. It was only a
question of “when” with these two who have been so in love since high school.
When I congratulated the groom’s father he thanked me and announced gruffly,
“We’ve been waiting eleven years for this.” I think that was his way of saying
he was happy. I’d be happy, too, if my son was marrying Lily. Smart, lively and
funny, Lily has had a sparkle in her eye from the beginning. And she has rock
solid values, family values, thanks to my sister, Laura, and my brother-in-law,
Les. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Comic Sans MS"; font-size: 14.0pt;">Lily
and Jimmy had a co-ed shower and they had to answer questions about how well
they knew one another. They did not miss predicting a single answer. The one I
loved most was the question about what Lily would want Jimmy (who happens to be
a firefighter) to go back into the house to save after all the essentials had
been rescued. He said Lily’s Uggs. When Lily was brought in and asked what
Jimmy said he would save, she was confident in her answer. “My Uggs”, Lily
replied. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Comic Sans MS"; font-size: 14.0pt;">The
wedding in a campground was so perfectly them. It was rustic and inclusive and
traditional without being fussy. My nephew, Jeff, was a groomsmen, and sang a
beautiful song. I cried when Les made his father of the bride speech. You could
just feel how thankful and proud he was. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEisWfOUJC5oBC3xfDz3D6BGQxxluie5Ht2FGKmfxA5kfLwMhipPDA49zOX9dz8JGbiBuHZPyo4yU9K3fkHK5Gf33NCoiYdV5k3x76xivf-hCJrIBAuZ-AVdXQU7sHTWk6OA_3ASnhM5RhI/s1600/IMG_6275.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEisWfOUJC5oBC3xfDz3D6BGQxxluie5Ht2FGKmfxA5kfLwMhipPDA49zOX9dz8JGbiBuHZPyo4yU9K3fkHK5Gf33NCoiYdV5k3x76xivf-hCJrIBAuZ-AVdXQU7sHTWk6OA_3ASnhM5RhI/s320/IMG_6275.JPG" width="240" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Lily & Les</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
</div>
<br />
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj3r2dC-Nyt0sjsU6Ke1GKBJhU_cQE3D2se0uTG05WHLnR3i8NKHeGckwfATPj0ZGl3-34yOdzxFC6EQNSzGdCQ2lkWRob3VFqT6Lw1M2KFBhZYoK4YJDFF_SIUxpcNDQ61RID24CgkvkI/s1600/IMG_6599.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj3r2dC-Nyt0sjsU6Ke1GKBJhU_cQE3D2se0uTG05WHLnR3i8NKHeGckwfATPj0ZGl3-34yOdzxFC6EQNSzGdCQ2lkWRob3VFqT6Lw1M2KFBhZYoK4YJDFF_SIUxpcNDQ61RID24CgkvkI/s200/IMG_6599.JPG" width="150" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Lily</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<span style="font-family: 'Comic Sans MS'; font-size: 14pt;">Lily
looked so beautiful and you couldn’t even tell she was covered in Poison Oak.
Honestly, I wouldn’t have known if I hadn’t been told. Jeff got it too, and
went to the ER the day after the wedding. It was a smashing success, but I
think Laura was a little exhausted when it was all over. There is so much
emotion in being the mother of the bride, as I was to find out myself three
weeks later when Lucy got married.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: 'Comic Sans MS'; font-size: 14pt;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: 'Comic Sans MS'; font-size: 14pt;">The
cousins on our side are a motley crew, and I mean that in a good way. Lucy is
the oldest and Jeff, at 21, is the youngest. In business, in the military, in
PR, they run the gamut. Multi-national, they cover the spectrum: Scandinavian,
Italian, Chinese, English, Irish, Russian and Polish and more. They’re a
diverse group of young adults. Related, yet so different.</span></div>
<!--EndFragment--><br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
</div>
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg7qrBkbKU6q4vpBVgIOlT7RZx3WWVRjPaUnSXyPsddmzM6_l7cdqZz1OZbucMw0zqAEchPFdY_zQQmeOTeVKMCIfH22bOi53Ypg_ojD2Ugo0h-O1oTB2_rLu5SqIQs1tKUWCcgVu6uq4g/s1600/IMG_6638.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg7qrBkbKU6q4vpBVgIOlT7RZx3WWVRjPaUnSXyPsddmzM6_l7cdqZz1OZbucMw0zqAEchPFdY_zQQmeOTeVKMCIfH22bOi53Ypg_ojD2Ugo0h-O1oTB2_rLu5SqIQs1tKUWCcgVu6uq4g/s320/IMG_6638.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Jimmy (left) joins the wild and crazy cousins. </td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<span style="font-family: 'Comic Sans MS'; font-size: 14pt;">Showers
and bachelorette weekends and weddings had Allie flying coast to coast almost
every month all spring. We almost didn’t have her come back for Lily’s wedding,
but we couldn’t stand the idea of her being the only cousin not in attendance.
It wouldn’t have seemed right without her. Anyway, we made her fly all the way
from New York to be our designated driver. That’s fair, right?</span><br />
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<br /></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Comic Sans MS"; font-size: 14.0pt;">Lucy
didn’t really want a wedding shower, but three of her friends and I insisted.
She agreed only if it would be low-key and we’d just invite the local ladies so
it wouldn’t put pressure on the out of towners. Agreed. It was amazing how much
that celebration, that day, made it all real for Lucy and for me. I think
that’s the purpose of the tradition.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<br /></div>
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<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEigW0eT3mO5vwjlwT7LtwmTmfBGklQXXnZ1l8u9JFPwOEvc7ZbZ9nLRIEfvItgy3ibrijWzhxmtddrB-rcUkcttc3zOiB85i8RLYoVE0DW3ypxBN5zSzoXNZnlCsdB067H_Ui6AaGngeaM/s1600/IMG_7024.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEigW0eT3mO5vwjlwT7LtwmTmfBGklQXXnZ1l8u9JFPwOEvc7ZbZ9nLRIEfvItgy3ibrijWzhxmtddrB-rcUkcttc3zOiB85i8RLYoVE0DW3ypxBN5zSzoXNZnlCsdB067H_Ui6AaGngeaM/s320/IMG_7024.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Sisters from different misters. </td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<span style="font-family: "Comic Sans MS"; font-size: 14.0pt;">As
a successful woman of 33, Lucy didn’t need to be showered with gifts to start
off her new life with Greg. She already has a life with Greg and a fair number
of pots and pans. It wasn’t about the gifts, although they were beautiful. It
was something so much more intangible, yet real. Truly, she was showered with
love and good wishes for the life ahead of her. And I got a kick-ass paint
color from Sarah’s dining room, thank you very much. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "Comic Sans MS"; font-size: 14.0pt;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"><br /></span></span>
<span style="font-family: "Comic Sans MS"; font-size: 14.0pt;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"><br /></span></span>
<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi4bQApqNC2qem5WIvKyqIwQ1o6UgaKbNquVJB696bl8qVylnKN1B_VqoimpfydEtLCQZLFXq8lVJOsthbLGvGigNIDQt-TOskOGbxK-mXzzkTfY1g6YWOaDuYNvy8z8lJExlUjBdm06oI/s1600/IMG_6628.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="269" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi4bQApqNC2qem5WIvKyqIwQ1o6UgaKbNquVJB696bl8qVylnKN1B_VqoimpfydEtLCQZLFXq8lVJOsthbLGvGigNIDQt-TOskOGbxK-mXzzkTfY1g6YWOaDuYNvy8z8lJExlUjBdm06oI/s320/IMG_6628.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Lucy & Sarah - friends from birth. </td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjc3FXJnJXfhB0CtIgk90o0849m33wb_FD0FzLokiLtvqdvcnE9ENA2JEbbYangRJM5QzvqoM9c7JnlzGKf_TV1Jzyj-nbVmQ7_gk1o38XRY8QliZbrUtT5NJ_Cr25TFryrzgmf06YrWK4/s1600/IMG_6906.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjc3FXJnJXfhB0CtIgk90o0849m33wb_FD0FzLokiLtvqdvcnE9ENA2JEbbYangRJM5QzvqoM9c7JnlzGKf_TV1Jzyj-nbVmQ7_gk1o38XRY8QliZbrUtT5NJ_Cr25TFryrzgmf06YrWK4/s200/IMG_6906.JPG" width="150" /></a><span style="font-family: 'Comic Sans MS'; font-size: 14pt;">Planning
a wedding is much like planning other events, except that it’s laden with
emotion and meaning and can never be replicated. We have friends who had some
things go wrong at their wedding and it’s still a source of frustration for
them. “Once in a lifetime” event planning can be a little scary.</span><br />
<br />
Ready for dinner. </div>
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</div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiHUZlttzAHqQVRrKY5JSV5f1GohxAu3R_zYYYO8b-Vhs75XF0xc6f-nFVeO32gT-Bj6WpbdE62cZ68mnUtABnb2A1AlvGOaQRAnpCD8Hd5dwkD1O-oR2Id0fWaCyrPuocVcFymBcBbHpU/s1600/IMG_6626.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiHUZlttzAHqQVRrKY5JSV5f1GohxAu3R_zYYYO8b-Vhs75XF0xc6f-nFVeO32gT-Bj6WpbdE62cZ68mnUtABnb2A1AlvGOaQRAnpCD8Hd5dwkD1O-oR2Id0fWaCyrPuocVcFymBcBbHpU/s200/IMG_6626.JPG" width="150" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">With Grandpa David<br />
<div style="text-align: left;">
<span style="font-family: 'Comic Sans MS'; font-size: 14pt;">Like
any smart groom, Greg was willing to let Lucy make most of the decisions and
she did a beautiful job. She and her helper, Bethie, thought of everything.
Lucy has incredible taste and the location was spectacular so the wedding
was like something out of a magazine. All the months of thinking, organizing,
planning and yes, stressing, really paid off.</span></div>
</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<span style="font-family: 'Comic Sans MS'; font-size: 14pt;"></span><br />
<span style="font-family: 'Comic Sans MS'; font-size: 14pt;"></span><br />
<span style="font-family: 'Comic Sans MS'; font-size: 14pt;"></span><br />
<span style="font-family: 'Comic Sans MS'; font-size: 14pt;"></span><br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjfKcbErB4q-noxLwv7JUsVWQ-fFSw_HUhVUZn8-M4YBVGax5WpvhN4aEUUx1RxLt85-kOWU33F7vdKnyQCGKWNTdH900pvioWV0TwP_S4_XNcdwYVLltaXHIqTt5xsaiHCxaQMetXpWgo/s1600/IMG_6500.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjfKcbErB4q-noxLwv7JUsVWQ-fFSw_HUhVUZn8-M4YBVGax5WpvhN4aEUUx1RxLt85-kOWU33F7vdKnyQCGKWNTdH900pvioWV0TwP_S4_XNcdwYVLltaXHIqTt5xsaiHCxaQMetXpWgo/s320/IMG_6500.JPG" width="240" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">My lovely daughter.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<span style="font-family: 'Comic Sans MS'; font-size: 14pt;">When
you have a million friends and a large family it’s a challenge to have a small
ceremony. I think the final number was around 85 guests and it was perfect. I
still love looking at the photos and reliving the moment. The weather
cooperated and every detail merged flawlessly into such a lovely time.</span><span style="font-family: 'Comic Sans MS'; font-size: 14pt;"></span><br />
<span style="font-family: 'Comic Sans MS'; font-size: 14pt;"></span><br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Lucy surrounded by my family. </td></tr>
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<span style="font-family: "Comic Sans MS"; font-size: 14.0pt;"><o:p> </o:p></span><span style="font-family: 'Comic Sans MS'; font-size: 14pt;">Lucy’s
upbringing was a bit unusual, which I addressed in my mother of the bride
speech at the welcome dinner. Raising her was a group effort and I could not
have done it without all kinds of help. Although our marriage didn’t stay
together, the family is still strong. We all rally for an occasion, when it’s
for one of the girls. I love that.</span></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjV5SC-jCh85pDxZvip0kVwCPfZnMGAy_5JFbDEn7Je0cR1JceGHkjgiY5FEgvf5QuGdu0AG8YK9zYQ69S2JUe_lG4GDVSiu-aYeXNTraopcYOd5oVPezXZFptBQUxJT0egL7oll_x9Q2U/s1600/IMG_6645.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjV5SC-jCh85pDxZvip0kVwCPfZnMGAy_5JFbDEn7Je0cR1JceGHkjgiY5FEgvf5QuGdu0AG8YK9zYQ69S2JUe_lG4GDVSiu-aYeXNTraopcYOd5oVPezXZFptBQUxJT0egL7oll_x9Q2U/s320/IMG_6645.JPG" width="240" /></a></div>
<span style="font-family: "Comic Sans MS"; font-size: 14.0pt;">This
occasion, this wedding, truly was a celebration of Lucy and Greg and their
families and friends who love them. It feels really quiet in the family now
with no big events on the horizon. Almost too quiet. But things will change.
They always do. As they say, first comes love, then comes marriage, then comes
a baby in a baby carriage…<o:p></o:p></span></div>
Wendy Partridge Crowehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17064039413435368424noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5667039797770125597.post-51082851885304799672015-07-30T08:33:00.000-07:002016-03-22T10:35:38.775-07:00A Day Late And A Dollar Short (And Other Platitudes)<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
</div>
<div class="p1">
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEitpACV9WtKBezM1zUIhDRBQo0FgIu3HYDosB57mz1m4kAWM1bMoeKnqC7pSFeoRHDoHQiPSTPV44q9kBYqW9btp4tgr3tUAM8bh9M1sRckjC_lCk9xCjEwVI7eTJP2mS3igoLfLyQBtdc/s1600/IMG_0017.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEitpACV9WtKBezM1zUIhDRBQo0FgIu3HYDosB57mz1m4kAWM1bMoeKnqC7pSFeoRHDoHQiPSTPV44q9kBYqW9btp4tgr3tUAM8bh9M1sRckjC_lCk9xCjEwVI7eTJP2mS3igoLfLyQBtdc/s400/IMG_0017.JPG" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Our Tam High girls did a tennis fashion show in 2011.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
Timing is everything, or so they say. I agree that timing is almost everything but there is also delivery. Someone I used to work with said that the keys to success are timing and delivery. The opposite is also true. Consider this: you can say most anything if you pick the right moment. Think pillow talk. You can also sabotage the truest message if the tone is wrong or if you deliver it at an awkward time. Think pillow talk again.</div>
<div class="p2">
<span class="s1"></span><br /></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1">This week feels like a profound example of almost, not quite, woulda, coulda. So close, yet no cigar. It's the Boyle thing. Still, also. So many years and we were so close you could smell it. I also wrote about Boyle in 2013 - <a href="http://pearlsandlemons.blogspot.com/2013/09/cracks.html"><span class="s2">http://pearlsandlemons.blogspot.com/2013/09/cracks.html</span></a>. </span><br />
<span class="s1"><br /></span>
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgsFGe-KQ-Ai3H-eOAkNq7pHN61yhUb7ET3V8kKMs1JX-kxqdsIAfGnA61aT6jT-Ex4yTb0kyt2d_AZefvh5emlRdaCIRlvf895Zfvfwxu9270fiCLGkZGl4ELZ2_A3ru4tNrfUmwRdXWc/s1600/IMG_0029.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgsFGe-KQ-Ai3H-eOAkNq7pHN61yhUb7ET3V8kKMs1JX-kxqdsIAfGnA61aT6jT-Ex4yTb0kyt2d_AZefvh5emlRdaCIRlvf895Zfvfwxu9270fiCLGkZGl4ELZ2_A3ru4tNrfUmwRdXWc/s320/IMG_0029.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">These girls grew up playing at Boyle. They are now in college!</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
For more years than you can count on one hand - six to be exact, we have been raising money for the public tennis courts in our town. Three fund-raisers, several silent auctions and years of delays frustrated people and burned them out. It was much more involved and expensive than anticipated and it took a while to get the City involved. There was also the recession. We started out as a group of a dozen or more, but the "we" has devolved into the royal we, meaning mostly me. </div>
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<span class="s1"></span></div>
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<span class="s1"></span><br /></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1">Our last hurdle was cleared recently in a mad scramble to collect on over $70,000 worth of pledges in three weeks. For that I had a lot of help, from Bill and Jeff and John. Still, I spent hours emailing and calling folks from NYC. I had already ordered printed thank you notes to send to over 300 folks who have volunteered and donated over the years. </span></div>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjoYxgeXg43p2kIuLdTB2qQrR2NeBCXmtVRwNPypm7G_cExd2kno-S9wCFZ9C-HluWAX1bDf3dW8d9Ze7FKXDpIqi-hxdr4TH3oGUQtWiwZfHK-WK2D-X617Nk2vximee_e7ARQtwfh9aU/s1600/Assorted+Photos+saved+from+crash+003.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="132" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjoYxgeXg43p2kIuLdTB2qQrR2NeBCXmtVRwNPypm7G_cExd2kno-S9wCFZ9C-HluWAX1bDf3dW8d9Ze7FKXDpIqi-hxdr4TH3oGUQtWiwZfHK-WK2D-X617Nk2vximee_e7ARQtwfh9aU/s200/Assorted+Photos+saved+from+crash+003.jpg" width="200" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Yours truly playing on Boyle in better days.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg-t0-1GjpMlw26bgkWpOSdQ5vgThJXvmqco-TeQk7sCeLoEllNYlQw4ykIkZY2i7M2o_5RkL3VwSzwXJnkIsgAVx7r3ASym-nmIoa_7Srtl51cbZwktOAmnT8kAcI5-UpDaS28hW9GSAU/s1600/Assorted+Photos+saved+from+crash+004.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="132" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg-t0-1GjpMlw26bgkWpOSdQ5vgThJXvmqco-TeQk7sCeLoEllNYlQw4ykIkZY2i7M2o_5RkL3VwSzwXJnkIsgAVx7r3ASym-nmIoa_7Srtl51cbZwktOAmnT8kAcI5-UpDaS28hW9GSAU/s200/Assorted+Photos+saved+from+crash+004.jpg" width="200" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Eric plays in the famous Boyle Woody.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhHK_dT8PU_s7YZlqVo48DM4SZaPaj7tIduCmWzsFe3o9n2I6G9qPrzuNhV0lgIGUgP8l42WSJWwUFDqQTpgdxEZ-7y0jqGe4b8Ip05HUCaKNp7QbHE75_s_PAzq2blW-vER3A9cWeGUuQ/s1600/Assorted+Photos+saved+from+crash+006.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="212" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhHK_dT8PU_s7YZlqVo48DM4SZaPaj7tIduCmWzsFe3o9n2I6G9qPrzuNhV0lgIGUgP8l42WSJWwUFDqQTpgdxEZ-7y0jqGe4b8Ip05HUCaKNp7QbHE75_s_PAzq2blW-vER3A9cWeGUuQ/s320/Assorted+Photos+saved+from+crash+006.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Boyle Woody photos by Dave Lee.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
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<div style="text-align: left;">
</div>
<br />
And then the fickle finger of fate, that nasty other shoe dropped with a thud. The USTA Grant, the Facilities Improvement Grant that we've been working on since 2009, was awarded. That's the good news. The bad news is that it was awarded for $20,000 rather than the $50,000 we were expecting. Hmm, 50 minus 20 equals 30. Oh, no, Mr. Bill! Say it isn't so. <span class="s1"></span><br />
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiz3Bz-vD8XDxbZYYd8KeVF2k8b0x_GrTpVwFE31C5RSVOI62LKRNhNgVmoIN0hAYT7cN8_LAe68UXgA8t9R2FfwF2NkPXAUH2W8f2gtZleS4sSVDO3EQ5aYRvVeg1EuvEkAdc-OKfWWWQ/s1600/IMG_1564.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiz3Bz-vD8XDxbZYYd8KeVF2k8b0x_GrTpVwFE31C5RSVOI62LKRNhNgVmoIN0hAYT7cN8_LAe68UXgA8t9R2FfwF2NkPXAUH2W8f2gtZleS4sSVDO3EQ5aYRvVeg1EuvEkAdc-OKfWWWQ/s320/IMG_1564.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Eric and Trish Intemann working hard as bartenders at Golf Clubhouse.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
Really feels a bit like a bad dream. The goal of the $256,000 community portion has not been achieved after all. I sent out an email giving the update and got some great response. People with money, people who love tennis, people who love our town and people who love me offered to donate or to donate again. Thank you. It all helps. </div>
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<span class="s1"></span></div>
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<span class="s1"></span><br /></div>
<br />
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<span class="s1">Nothing will deter me from a goal. Nothing. I'm in sales, I can take a little rejection. But, I really want to send out those thank you cards and I want it to be true. I want to fulfill the commitment. If you have money, i</span>f you love tennis or love our town or love me or all of the above, now's your chance. If you want to honor the memory of a loved one, here's your chance. We still need $15,000.</div>
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiP5P9V9KFGD5m6Lor-To8iyEvvO51dkhhrlIZCHFk9MKOObyjkKdDE1FrirWm-51241bP8zMCqYqfkbYOAltoDOvw3BxvCbhTd1lRAVuR7Vb7FlyPwO_bepwjul1e_UhZbFVcB5i7ZnZY/s1600/IMG_1566.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiP5P9V9KFGD5m6Lor-To8iyEvvO51dkhhrlIZCHFk9MKOObyjkKdDE1FrirWm-51241bP8zMCqYqfkbYOAltoDOvw3BxvCbhTd1lRAVuR7Vb7FlyPwO_bepwjul1e_UhZbFVcB5i7ZnZY/s320/IMG_1566.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Dave & Adrienne Lee bought the first bench. It's all Dave's fault I got into this project...</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
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<br />Wendy Partridge Crowehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17064039413435368424noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5667039797770125597.post-2641114243321697262015-07-07T13:18:00.001-07:002016-03-22T10:35:38.752-07:00Back To The Land<div class="MsoNormal">
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhCcYMeRu4FxzQffeJ39JVYCqdMQ1d2c_DpTxcJ-fwSrU27A2YXddtWrkzHKXU-zPdklDQaMIY0QuP8XoIpn9R6NvTz-CFFVolL9eG5YJUShcbATSJFXtkPKa3Q5Ba0TLJfpzYX1Lzc9uA/s1600/IMG_7535.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhCcYMeRu4FxzQffeJ39JVYCqdMQ1d2c_DpTxcJ-fwSrU27A2YXddtWrkzHKXU-zPdklDQaMIY0QuP8XoIpn9R6NvTz-CFFVolL9eG5YJUShcbATSJFXtkPKa3Q5Ba0TLJfpzYX1Lzc9uA/s320/IMG_7535.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The Land</td></tr>
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<span style="font-family: 'Comic Sans MS'; font-size: 14pt;">They
say you can never go home again. I know better than to try. Although I attended
seven schools and lived in six different places in the 15 years I lived in
Rockland County, New York, there is no place for me there. No family, no family
homestead, just memories of time and space. California captured me forty years
ago, and still holds me in her clutches, but when I revisit the old stomping
grounds I am still stunned and humbled by the familiar smells and sounds and
sights.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Comic Sans MS'; font-size: 14pt;">You
can take the girl out of the County, but you can’t take the County out of the
girl. I avoid going back. You really have to be in the right mindset. There are
so many memories, so much love and so much loss. My reaction is as
unpredictable as any sort of grieving I’ve ever experienced. As I’ve gotten
older I’m better at allowing myself to feel loss, which makes me less afraid of
the feelings that burble up. I’m grateful for the change.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Comic Sans MS"; font-size: 14.0pt;">I
approached this trip to the County by car from New Jersey. As I saw the sign
for “Suffern” I surprised myself by crying a little as I drove. The first house
I moved to, as a toddler from Michigan, and the last house, The Red House, were
both on Grandview Avenue. I couldn’t find either of them, but I did stop in
front of one of my four elementary schools. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Comic Sans MS"; font-size: 14.0pt;">Because
I have no home to go back to, I’m a little obsessed by visiting places I
inhabited as a child. When I sat in that parking lot in front of Grandview
School I remembered “Little Wendy” walking through those doors and going to the
auditorium in first and second grade. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Comic Sans MS"; font-size: 14.0pt;">I
also found my special tree, “Mr. Shag” and wrapped my arms around him, sighing
deeply. Sadly, there was a mean “No Trespassing” sign posted on him, but I
still love him just as much. He was my happy place when I moved to Haverstraw
Road.<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhLomjnY2AmLVPCHwgePYyPVvMaEVrr8pVwopeUsWvJ9zZiCTj8LrOvWelvq7PI-IGroQrNSUR-WoKb2Uur_baF5PkFCbwQTDgPm2IlZrI9egRJeBPGVVHlwTnFakp4jMHnonlQxXOqSGk/s1600/IMG_7400.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhLomjnY2AmLVPCHwgePYyPVvMaEVrr8pVwopeUsWvJ9zZiCTj8LrOvWelvq7PI-IGroQrNSUR-WoKb2Uur_baF5PkFCbwQTDgPm2IlZrI9egRJeBPGVVHlwTnFakp4jMHnonlQxXOqSGk/s200/IMG_7400.jpg" width="150" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">My tree, Mr. Shag.<br />
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<div style="text-align: left;">
<span style="font-size: 14pt;">The
years in Stony Point were bright and beautiful as well as dark and stormy. In
fourth grade I met Erika and she became my best friend. I became part of her
family. I became part of her. When I met Erika she lived in an artists’
community called Gate Hill Co-op, also known as “The Land”. Her parents were
one of the founding families of this unique community and Erika lived in a house
that was built specifically for them.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Comic Sans MS'; font-size: 14pt;">Connected
by Black Mountain College, fueled by the vision and financial backing of Paul
Williams, the homes were all different, built from experimental materials. With
over 100 acres and within commuting distance to New York City, the community featured
or was connected to, many important artists in multiple disciplines. Karen
Karnes Pottery, Sari Dienes, John Cage, Merce Cunningham, Stan Vanderbeek and
Vera Williams, to name a few.</span></div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj4ghZR5WZ6g1PGDMZikWuwLhzSirTw-9Z8TAiIRvlsbxN-B9dLgWvgQP_f_TyXQQALLWZqTplmCphhIgC6aN62nipOszoBCm6R_b2pWuWFwjtdNf7wl8sWxle5CxAXJPvs4DQ9XDxUqQA/s1600/IMG_7527.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj4ghZR5WZ6g1PGDMZikWuwLhzSirTw-9Z8TAiIRvlsbxN-B9dLgWvgQP_f_TyXQQALLWZqTplmCphhIgC6aN62nipOszoBCm6R_b2pWuWFwjtdNf7wl8sWxle5CxAXJPvs4DQ9XDxUqQA/s320/IMG_7527.jpg" width="240" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Caldecott Winner Vera Williams wrote "A Chair For My Mother"</td></tr>
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<span style="font-family: 'Comic Sans MS'; font-size: 14pt;">Erika
and I didn’t care about any of that. We had sleepovers and ran around in the
woods and went skinny-dipping at the waterfalls. One time we visited another
house on The Land, The Folley house. Sean was in our class at school and he had
two older brothers, Paul and Kevin. Paul LOVED animals and their house crawled
with them. I remember a pet raccoon and two gigantic boas loose in the bathroom.</span></div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEipQZk4p4ch0R8JKodUGX637y-gOt2J3RRntYsISPSgihxIhW4qoXw0H1wkZY2IBK83_NJ81ciOzhGCBxZ5eeMQ9lhsznl98xQqSWvZ9gURNo5mLSiAwlZe0CufQpJWAHWHSlDhY2zvsaw/s1600/IMG_7707.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEipQZk4p4ch0R8JKodUGX637y-gOt2J3RRntYsISPSgihxIhW4qoXw0H1wkZY2IBK83_NJ81ciOzhGCBxZ5eeMQ9lhsznl98xQqSWvZ9gURNo5mLSiAwlZe0CufQpJWAHWHSlDhY2zvsaw/s200/IMG_7707.jpg" width="200" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Erika & her Mom, Betsy, 1976</td></tr>
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<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj7r_Z501ht8atokSalpMAKbFaOrvFDtXRsJe84fL1bl1Y7u01wt0TZDmYKNGSmEZ5rJLi86wh5UX16NNRYPxqLlezfHMs2yDoehsaFI8kyQbs2B4RS9lqxEzgnEyUud3Hwk0eCDokiT40/s1600/IMG_7705.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj7r_Z501ht8atokSalpMAKbFaOrvFDtXRsJe84fL1bl1Y7u01wt0TZDmYKNGSmEZ5rJLi86wh5UX16NNRYPxqLlezfHMs2yDoehsaFI8kyQbs2B4RS9lqxEzgnEyUud3Hwk0eCDokiT40/s200/IMG_7705.jpg" width="194" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Erika & Me in Cape Cod 1976</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<span style="font-size: 14pt;">Erika
moved to another part of the County, but we stayed friends. I didn’t go the
Land much anymore until I was fifteen and ended up living there for a year – in
the Folley house! Every trip to the bathroom reminded me of those snakes. It
was a sad year, in ways. I was invited to live there because things were bad at
home, but it was also a very special time for me. I lived with Joan and Bob and
took care of baby Benny while Joan made her incredible leather clothing.</span><br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiid8SWBxvRGXffWfYt5Q_BqSJFOV2Sbsoa6cNB3D2WElJ8FgCoGWqDv-rXvDvsTBnhkrXz-Tn3TlxehkD026jxk2w5bkLIXrzhZCCXJ7LbEes4QSNeTh_Nhx85t3fu0-Q_vlNasePaoa4/s1600/IMG_7708.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiid8SWBxvRGXffWfYt5Q_BqSJFOV2Sbsoa6cNB3D2WElJ8FgCoGWqDv-rXvDvsTBnhkrXz-Tn3TlxehkD026jxk2w5bkLIXrzhZCCXJ7LbEes4QSNeTh_Nhx85t3fu0-Q_vlNasePaoa4/s200/IMG_7708.jpg" width="200" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Little Benny at The Land 1973</td></tr>
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<span style="font-family: 'Comic Sans MS'; font-size: 14pt;">There
was always something fascinating going on. I went into NYC to see a show by
Yoko Ono. There were poker games, parties, art shows and music, music, music in
the dome. Our neighbor was Sari Dienes and one night she did an interactive art
project, “Zilches”, which involved lighting pieces of plastic on fire in the
snow.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Comic Sans MS"; font-size: 14.0pt;">I
loved The Land best in the snow. The steep hill, which bisected the property,
was superb for sledding and Stefan and Max and I would sled until after dark
many nights. There is nothing quieter than the silence in the snow in the
country. Spectacular. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Comic Sans MS'; font-size: 14pt;">I
didn’t really belong at The Land, but being home was worse. I definitely didn’t
belong there. It was a connected/disconnected time for me, full of angst and coming
of age. I was lucky Joan took me under her wing when I needed saving and we are
friends to this day.</span></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Comic Sans MS"; font-size: 14.0pt;">I
moved to Rockland in 1960 because my father, Lynn Partridge, was recruited from
Michigan to start the Unitarian Church in Pomona. We literally built it from
the ground up, in a manner similar to the homes at The Land – concrete, steel
beams, flat, simple planes with lots of windows to let nature inside. I married
another Ben there in 1980 while the October foliage blazed around us. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Comic Sans MS'; font-size: 14pt;">Eventually
The Unitarian Church also housed an alternative school, Skunk Hollow, which some of
the kids from The Land attended. I like visiting the church because on the door
of the library there is a plaque commemorating my brother, Jeffie, who died in
1960. The last time I was there he had a rock in the garden, as well. These are
his only visible memorials and I so appreciate it.</span></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhwc89roA-rsDqbkQgtfsmaNngu0pxuoVyL4oFdnLyHE4yEQZLhyYQvsFsFATTPZleKDQk5UKM_jiridbBZRqKxu4v39nly20S1UCohFu14GyS2R_lYYDMF4QZchANlQTLfhRuzLMB651I/s1600/IMG_7529.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="150" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhwc89roA-rsDqbkQgtfsmaNngu0pxuoVyL4oFdnLyHE4yEQZLhyYQvsFsFATTPZleKDQk5UKM_jiridbBZRqKxu4v39nly20S1UCohFu14GyS2R_lYYDMF4QZchANlQTLfhRuzLMB651I/s200/IMG_7529.JPG" width="200" /></a><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhwc89roA-rsDqbkQgtfsmaNngu0pxuoVyL4oFdnLyHE4yEQZLhyYQvsFsFATTPZleKDQk5UKM_jiridbBZRqKxu4v39nly20S1UCohFu14GyS2R_lYYDMF4QZchANlQTLfhRuzLMB651I/s1600/IMG_7529.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><span style="font-family: 'Comic Sans MS'; font-size: 14pt;"><br /></span></a></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Comic Sans MS'; font-size: 14pt;">It’s
been 60 years since The Land was begun and at least thirty since I’ve been
there myself. I already had plans to visit Allie in Manhattan, so I borrowed a
car and made the trek to the country. The annual picnic also featured a
historical presentation by Mark. It was wonderful to see Erika and her parents
and other familiar faces.</span></div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi2J2gEFbR7iMCT2uAn7dbQHAzm1FKBMzfMCH8UGBwjEBSdfka2r60B9LRWz7PK-h1_3EIfIThj9Vw48qkPskA4UUaW6B37_SXCnXTwpCE6y_uSxWLYxZA4pwzvAux9vF3gvCTnIYzARVk/s1600/IMG_7449.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="221" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi2J2gEFbR7iMCT2uAn7dbQHAzm1FKBMzfMCH8UGBwjEBSdfka2r60B9LRWz7PK-h1_3EIfIThj9Vw48qkPskA4UUaW6B37_SXCnXTwpCE6y_uSxWLYxZA4pwzvAux9vF3gvCTnIYzARVk/s320/IMG_7449.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">With Betsy in 2015</td></tr>
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<span style="font-family: 'Comic Sans MS'; font-size: 14pt;">The
rain was relentless, but spirits were good and it meant so much to some of the
founding members, now 85 and 88 years old. I heard several of them comment that
they would never see some of these people again. Bah! They’ll be back next year
with bells on. </span></div>
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<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEifBP4n781KNEppy3JkUpJjZaPWy-YybLutL1nk7WWJqEim2vZMWhB1zgmBVQ7nWicswe0e8XwDwWTMMVH_m7ks_s40MF3z88c_IVRQqLaZH5B2koKprTng7EpOKdtGLoGrM0PhAB1B_78/s1600/IMG_7415.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEifBP4n781KNEppy3JkUpJjZaPWy-YybLutL1nk7WWJqEim2vZMWhB1zgmBVQ7nWicswe0e8XwDwWTMMVH_m7ks_s40MF3z88c_IVRQqLaZH5B2koKprTng7EpOKdtGLoGrM0PhAB1B_78/s200/IMG_7415.jpg" width="150" /></a></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Comic Sans MS'; font-size: 14pt;">The weather washed away any possibility of me dancing in the field with flowers in my hair.
Those days are gone, anyway. It’s visions of the future that inspire me.
Thinking about the next generation, anticipating grandchildren, creating
whatever will be my legacy.</span></div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj9Hjen8XLbpnopNK5KmoswO_4g8q2kOqaH8NmXoloKv7E-41C5PhuTJTXtA42lcqrEURvBWXeM8vkaWaNPdKPHzPtJ8m2aUyB2cIDXKA_M1rAQbN5phAyLpIBovxLVLSsdB8kFhmSYL6E/s1600/IMG_7540.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="150" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj9Hjen8XLbpnopNK5KmoswO_4g8q2kOqaH8NmXoloKv7E-41C5PhuTJTXtA42lcqrEURvBWXeM8vkaWaNPdKPHzPtJ8m2aUyB2cIDXKA_M1rAQbN5phAyLpIBovxLVLSsdB8kFhmSYL6E/s200/IMG_7540.JPG" width="200" /></a></td></tr>
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<span style="font-family: "Comic Sans MS"; font-size: 14.0pt;">I’ve
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honestly don’t know whether you want to remember or forget. Remember or not, you
can never really go back to The Land. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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Wendy Partridge Crowehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17064039413435368424noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5667039797770125597.post-8014045294419091552014-12-29T13:41:00.001-08:002016-03-22T10:35:38.805-07:00Dine and Sleep<!--[if gte mso 9]><xml>
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<br /></div>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhY1djN_8lRzXvJhogytJqklru8wm0cuXg4nnlfoQCCiHIipFb5-H3ghcAN6Lohyv3ET7dcKnQyTrmAMnaNyTqjc5moCGC5VfDBWfG92g8j3kpAHurc3Zd0VirNuIUDhPq4orHfB0B0JfE/s1600/IMG_5285.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhY1djN_8lRzXvJhogytJqklru8wm0cuXg4nnlfoQCCiHIipFb5-H3ghcAN6Lohyv3ET7dcKnQyTrmAMnaNyTqjc5moCGC5VfDBWfG92g8j3kpAHurc3Zd0VirNuIUDhPq4orHfB0B0JfE/s1600/IMG_5285.jpg" height="320" width="240" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Making friends at Windsor castle. </td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
It's hard to believe on this wintry Northern
California morning, but I was in London a couple months ago. It was all
rather sudden and seems a bit like a dream now. Lana's husband, Rich, was
working there for seven weeks. Lana took a leave from work and went for a
month. I took a leave from work and went for a week. Lucy went the same week
and worked with her colleagues in the London Facebook office. We missed Allie,
who had just begun her new job at Sunshine Sachs in NY and couldn't get away.
We had to soldier on without her.</div>
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<span style="color: #222222; font-family: Arial; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">
<br />
<span style="background: white;">I love London. Who wouldn't? It's such a
sensible, yet sophisticated city. I feel a connection to that city. I always
wonder whether it's because my immigrant ancestor on the Partridge side (who
departed in 1650 for the wilds of Massachusetts) was from England. If he had
stayed maybe I'd be living there and have a cute British accent and adorable
window boxes. <table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEieKljQ9paUopn5KTQ0P5IqBBT3REWSAtckoO3_4i4ASaVK2Wd4PGCS1VzoRGj2ZD_s-6lD0FLDykws1SzmbgCEvENLghakYraawvYzdwEpTEIe040tTdiRyaZel7sFEVrZyaKBOu2pD9Q/s1600/IMG_5422.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEieKljQ9paUopn5KTQ0P5IqBBT3REWSAtckoO3_4i4ASaVK2Wd4PGCS1VzoRGj2ZD_s-6lD0FLDykws1SzmbgCEvENLghakYraawvYzdwEpTEIe040tTdiRyaZel7sFEVrZyaKBOu2pD9Q/s1600/IMG_5422.jpg" height="320" width="240" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Christmas Cherry</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
</span><span style="background: white;">But no, we Partridges had to head west. We did
the Midwest and the East Coast. Boston area, Ohio, Michigan, New York and Connecticut.
In 1975 I left New York and moved to California. Within a couple years my
brother, mother, stepfather, both my sisters (and both their boyfriends) and
maternal grandmother had all joined me in the San Francisco Bay Area. A few
years later we imported my other grandparents from Massachusetts because there was nobody
left for them there.</span><br />
<span style="background-color: white;"><br /></span></span><br />
<span style="color: #222222; font-family: Arial; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><span style="background-color: white;">Other than my stint in Hollywood, I seem to
gravitate to upscale areas. This trip to London was no exception. Lana and Rich
stayed in a gorgeous one-bedroom apartment in Knightsbridge and graciously
allowed me to surf their high-end couch. A block from Brompton and two blocks
from Harrods’s, the location was grand.</span></span><br />
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<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjsFM0-xHo4sKq027EhZFqpysVYrLnq1yvx4BmxNyDsrko8vYmmhUnxceHZ_w3kSFvxjN5WjdLpCx88v5rMsTxh8aDhB1BPNot9xssHvRA-inWhRp9j94PNQ-r4ow08VkSudwUyIllI1k8/s1600/IMG_5249.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjsFM0-xHo4sKq027EhZFqpysVYrLnq1yvx4BmxNyDsrko8vYmmhUnxceHZ_w3kSFvxjN5WjdLpCx88v5rMsTxh8aDhB1BPNot9xssHvRA-inWhRp9j94PNQ-r4ow08VkSudwUyIllI1k8/s1600/IMG_5249.JPG" height="200" width="200" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Harrods at night.<br />
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<br />
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<span style="background-color: white; font-size: small;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<span style="background-color: white; font-size: small;">I am a bad tourist. Lana is a bad tourist. I
plan to take tours but then talk myself out of it. I don't want to spend the
money or deal with all the crowds. This time, we vowed, would be
different, and it was. We hit the sights and hit them hard.</span></div>
</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEijkCbFjziWuAFq5Q-4qQIUzHE1RMsxuOjk-1DeEuHKZuYTd72WEgfbrI2qEwMMICC4YGt20H27Kem9aqXFR6ipw3-enuqmWvz2SW-YGjxeJRYdawhk8KYEPqZn81kS5uvB0P-eBAxxnCg/s1600/IMG_5219.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEijkCbFjziWuAFq5Q-4qQIUzHE1RMsxuOjk-1DeEuHKZuYTd72WEgfbrI2qEwMMICC4YGt20H27Kem9aqXFR6ipw3-enuqmWvz2SW-YGjxeJRYdawhk8KYEPqZn81kS5uvB0P-eBAxxnCg/s1600/IMG_5219.jpg" height="200" width="150" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Drinks in Marylebone. </td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<span style="color: #222222; font-family: Arial; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><span style="background: white;">We had fish 'n chip in Marylebone.We saw
the Wedding Dress Exhibit at the Victoria & Albert Museum followed by lunch
in Notting Hill. We took a boat down the Thames and got out and cruised around
Greenwich. The Tower of London was very chilly so we warmed up at happy hour in
The City. We saw a hilarious, slapstick play called "The 39 Steps” in
Piccadilly Circus. We met friends at the trendy Indian place in Shoreditch
called Dishoom.</span><br />
<br /><span style="background: white;">One of the best meals we had was when we met
Lucy for lunch at Facebook. The food was incredible. It was fun to see that
location. It's a great space and so different from the Menlo Park campus. We
also had an excellent dinner at Bistro One Ninety, the restaurant at The Gore
Hotel in Kensington.</span></span><br />
<span style="color: #222222; font-family: Arial; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><span style="background-color: white;"><br /></span></span>
<span style="color: #222222; font-family: Arial; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><span style="background-color: white;">The fall weather was crisp and festive. I love
how beautifully people dress in London. Yes, we were in upscale neighborhoods,
but there wasn't a sweatshirt or pair of yoga pants to be seen. Try that in
Beverly Hills. We saw men pushing babies in carriages dressed to the
"nines". I'm not sure what that means. I'll have to look it up.
Anyway, they wore gorgeous coats, scarves and shoes. They really ruin the look
by smoking cigarettes, though.</span></span><br />
<span style="color: #222222; font-family: Arial; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">
<br />
<span style="background: white;">My favorite historical outing was the trip to
Windsor Castle. We took the train to Windsor and ate lunch in a pub that is hundreds of years old. Then we toured the castle. The Queen’s flag
was being lowered just as we arrived so she was on her way out. Darn. Just
missed her! The gothic St George's Chapel is spectacular. It's not every day
you can commune with the tomb of Henry VIII. The dollhouse is amazing, the dish
display dazzling. The weapons room is extremely weapony. Kind of a guy place.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="background: white;">The woodwork is gorgeous and the views from the
castle are positively baronial, but what truly charmed us was the wallpaper.
Since you're not allowed to photograph inside the castle I'm starting to forget
the patterns, but I remember pink and yellow flocked wallpaper. We ran from
room to room admiring each one more than the one before. I just love that
house!</span></span><br />
<span style="color: #222222; font-family: Arial; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><br /></span>
<span style="color: #222222; font-family: Arial; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><span style="background-color: white;">In fact, I'd like to be invited back. Several
times a year the Queen invites folks over for dinner and then they spend the
night. They arrive in the late afternoon; have dinner in one of the dining
areas followed by witty repartee and entertainment in the library. Guests then
sleep over and depart after breakfast. The problem is, you need to BE somebody
in order to get invited. Last year actors Daniel Craig and Helena Bonham Carter
were "Dine and Sleep" guests.</span></span><br />
<span style="color: #222222; font-family: Arial; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">
<br />
<span style="background: white;"></span></span><br />
<span style="color: #222222; font-family: Arial; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><span style="background: white;"></span></span><br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg16uJNdOjWlhMbKhqPyPm3ubmIbTRi2IoMamHsJU2I2dWoRVpsP_PpXppDzEij7Aq6-AmwscLzQshvErfABS_ygzOO4TTUxQu9OqszDt5fdSKNjG7nLDxQmkXSBzS4RCYhsDUY88u0w6I/s1600/IMG_5276.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg16uJNdOjWlhMbKhqPyPm3ubmIbTRi2IoMamHsJU2I2dWoRVpsP_PpXppDzEij7Aq6-AmwscLzQshvErfABS_ygzOO4TTUxQu9OqszDt5fdSKNjG7nLDxQmkXSBzS4RCYhsDUY88u0w6I/s1600/IMG_5276.JPG" height="240" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">My bed and breakfast. In my dreams. </td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<span style="background-color: white;">The State Banquets in the extremely grand St
George's Hall also look like a hoot. Since I'm obsessed with table settings, I
can appreciate the work that goes into setting the table for 160 guests. I have
now learned that each guest should have six glasses and chairs should be placed
exactly 27 inches from the table. I'm thinking I may need to get a bigger table
to hold all that glassware. The Queen's table has 68 leaves and it takes two
days to set it. Now that's a dinner party.</span><br />
<span style="color: #222222; font-family: Arial; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">
<br />
<span style="background: white;">I did digress from the tourism trade to do a
strange thing. I got my nose pierced. Whatever possessed a 56-year-old woman to
walk into the basement of Top Shop in Oxford Circus and get a pierce? I'm not really sure. I've
always wanted a little post (not a ring) and after I saw a gorgeous woman and
her adult daughters all with pierced noses I had to have it. </span></span><br />
<span style="color: #222222; font-family: Arial; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><span style="background: white;"><br /></span></span>
<span style="color: #222222; font-family: Arial; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><span style="background: white;"><br /></span></span>
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgR_l5K8ocp6ewwXA0bFg5q9lWrveYk-B_Zo98tupLcTqcI8U0HSwOQwmNKgZTQd8iQRI7Xpk6GVGCfLvGSN8w4HdYXjUwxK8fSztvhogKdRArVPxjEMlt67aJQcCeUhA4BSvx51cHCf4c/s1600/IMG_3841.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgR_l5K8ocp6ewwXA0bFg5q9lWrveYk-B_Zo98tupLcTqcI8U0HSwOQwmNKgZTQd8iQRI7Xpk6GVGCfLvGSN8w4HdYXjUwxK8fSztvhogKdRArVPxjEMlt67aJQcCeUhA4BSvx51cHCf4c/s1600/IMG_3841.jpg" height="200" width="150" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The frightening creature who pierced my nose.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<span style="color: #222222; font-family: Arial; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><span style="color: #222222; font-family: Arial; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><span style="background: white;">On my last day in London Lana and I were "knackered". We couldn't walk through one more exhibit, so we had </span></span>breakfast
in Kensington and took a bus over to Notting Hill. I wanted to look at some
antique stores. This is more like what I usually do when I'm traveling; wander
through shops, write in cafes and people watch. I like to absorb the local
culture, compare and contrast with other places.</span></div>
<br />
<span style="background: white;">We got to talking with the owner of the first
shop and he was familiar with Mill Valley. He wanted to know if we knew the
Saarman family. Did we know them? Claire, Emily, Isaac, Norah and their mother,
Sarah?! Of course. Our kids all went to Park School at different times
together.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="background: white;">In the second shop the proprietor also knew Mill
Valley. His wife is from Kentfield, his in-laws live in Noe Valley. In fact,
he told us they named their child "Noe" after the street in San
Francisco. I'm not sure if it's a boy child or a girl child, but it's
clearly an original choice for a name. We stopped talking to people after that.
Who knows how many more connections we would have made. It IS a small world.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="background: white;">It all seems so long ago. Some details from the
trip are drifting away, but I'll always have the pierced nose to remember it
by. No, I won't. After a couple months I was over it. I took it out and let it
close up. But I will always have my memories of Windsor Castle and the visions
of Dine and Sleep that dance in my head.</span><br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhLhGmBddmq1rj7-OQadJj0sB8wqLQfWz0Q3L0uFKKRgyX_sSPgrtoqnvXhmcB9u22W6t3i59-K0aJQ9ostI2GHtH7kjqtt1oLBMUgcbpFYfpAO-hLiqA7MyFnRsGM3OlrLu3UZ4jpL-pA/s1600/IMG_5403.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhLhGmBddmq1rj7-OQadJj0sB8wqLQfWz0Q3L0uFKKRgyX_sSPgrtoqnvXhmcB9u22W6t3i59-K0aJQ9ostI2GHtH7kjqtt1oLBMUgcbpFYfpAO-hLiqA7MyFnRsGM3OlrLu3UZ4jpL-pA/s1600/IMG_5403.JPG" height="240" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Memorial poppies at the Tower of London. </td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
<!--[endif]--><span style="font-family: Times; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><o:p></o:p></span>Wendy Partridge Crowehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17064039413435368424noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5667039797770125597.post-33350349808139468572014-12-27T12:49:00.002-08:002016-03-22T10:35:38.758-07:00Something I Ate<div class="MsoNormal">
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh_sNunoyqVYDH2AFBQX7mj_SLP39PguuJN9xaPaNaRMYekQKNVqpem8AK_Djg-4sEicHsj70aYnFahNIVZQCkdIvhelYKoPwbD-5GJGJVGZKmThgCV3rJVkidA2982PS7p1s8zokTDp9E/s1600/IMG_5649.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh_sNunoyqVYDH2AFBQX7mj_SLP39PguuJN9xaPaNaRMYekQKNVqpem8AK_Djg-4sEicHsj70aYnFahNIVZQCkdIvhelYKoPwbD-5GJGJVGZKmThgCV3rJVkidA2982PS7p1s8zokTDp9E/s1600/IMG_5649.jpg" height="320" width="240" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The calm before the crab.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div style="text-align: right;">
</div>
<span style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span><span style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">For us, holidays have boiled
down to being all about the food. We shop. We cook. We eat. We clean up.
Repeat. More precisely, Eric cooks. I set the table and we all clean up.</span></div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgxMsUBRA59oZqppo9asEVfrboFrU4AFNP-iWiT2GYvkVOv9KwMGurf6cyMCIcrtNskEJWBsAclsQJAgwoMIiBVnE4RssZP62pBOFBflFzIeRrw-Go5m8lWVirijHqc5PyClnJGHBxXrds/s1600/IMG_5667.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgxMsUBRA59oZqppo9asEVfrboFrU4AFNP-iWiT2GYvkVOv9KwMGurf6cyMCIcrtNskEJWBsAclsQJAgwoMIiBVnE4RssZP62pBOFBflFzIeRrw-Go5m8lWVirijHqc5PyClnJGHBxXrds/s1600/IMG_5667.jpg" height="320" width="240" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Crab craziness. </td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span style="color: #222222; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 10.0pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><span style="background-attachment: initial; background-clip: initial; background-color: white; background-image: initial; background-origin: initial; background-position: initial; background-repeat: initial; background-size: initial;">The children are now grown and married or about
to marry and such. The grandchildren have yet to arrive. Holidays can be
whatever we make it and we make it about eating. It's the 27th of
December. I've been sick with a nasty cold all week and have finally
given in to it. I'm in bed thinking about the last couple weeks.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="background-attachment: initial; background-clip: initial; background-color: white; background-image: initial; background-origin: initial; background-position: initial; background-repeat: initial; background-size: initial;">We have eaten and eaten well. We had friends
over for a "bring your own crab dinner". We had a nephew over for
brunch. I hosted the Park School staff holiday party and 25 teachers came over
one afternoon. That was easy because they brought everything and then took it
all away again. Allie arrived from New York City and my brother and
sister-in-law joined us for dinner one night. Eric made an excellent Spaghetti
Bolognese sauce and butter lettuce salad with Green Goddess dressing. The man
can cook.</span></span></span><br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhbpdqDVMqIfjbt4oFy2LHi5o1PwautboIvjI3g5qyE45zMMi3YG3HgSQyKQE8idryVP3CKseJlehHuQRNobQEg5ptcLn7TqCGdN7QpGiyI3CLXN-0O6c-huyIhSxuGVEaspNbsREO8fn8/s1600/IMG_5760.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhbpdqDVMqIfjbt4oFy2LHi5o1PwautboIvjI3g5qyE45zMMi3YG3HgSQyKQE8idryVP3CKseJlehHuQRNobQEg5ptcLn7TqCGdN7QpGiyI3CLXN-0O6c-huyIhSxuGVEaspNbsREO8fn8/s1600/IMG_5760.JPG" height="150" width="200" /></span></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">In Grandpa Pat's plaid. </span></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<span style="color: #222222; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 10.0pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><br />Then it was Christmas. Christmas Eve crab dinner
for seven. Christmas breakfast. </span><br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhFlP6MyrImxK5ypKJABtj9VyZQn79dxiiAWkyY8pWfoWKcErV_uFYSPXPSC0Po9YyYC5k76FmjEzCo3Rb2PiwJyrZP16fw-a8XHsvDY5JyN4dOsOi8Tpfy9vQzGLaar-lF7NCiT2ex4Pg/s1600/IMG_5795.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhFlP6MyrImxK5ypKJABtj9VyZQn79dxiiAWkyY8pWfoWKcErV_uFYSPXPSC0Po9YyYC5k76FmjEzCo3Rb2PiwJyrZP16fw-a8XHsvDY5JyN4dOsOi8Tpfy9vQzGLaar-lF7NCiT2ex4Pg/s1600/IMG_5795.jpg" height="150" width="200" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Christmas breakfast. </td></tr>
</tbody></table>
</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Standing rib roast for Christmas Dinner. It is
such a luxury to be able to splurge on great food and special feasts. And no
matter how you slice it, we can eat at the top of the food chain at home for a
fraction of the cost of eating out. Factor in leftovers galore and you're
amortizing nicely.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span style="color: #222222; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 10.0pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">
<br />
<span style="background-attachment: initial; background-clip: initial; background-color: white; background-image: initial; background-origin: initial; background-position: initial; background-repeat: initial; background-size: initial;">It's a bit ironic, because this year food has
not really been my friend. Multiple bouts of major gastric distress have
clouded many days. Severe abdominal pain nearly landed me in the hospital. I
did end up in the doctor's office. She was flummoxed by the symptoms and put me
on an extremely restrictive "Low FODMAP" regimen. If you've never heard of this
dietary program, consider yourself blessed. You really don't want to know.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="background-attachment: initial; background-clip: initial; background-color: white; background-image: initial; background-origin: initial; background-position: initial; background-repeat: initial; background-size: initial;">Counterintuitive as hell; you can eat half the
fruits, but not the other half. Same with vegetables. No avocado, wheat,
lactose, gum. It goes on and on. I've blocked it out, but it did work. All the
symptoms disappeared while I was on it. After six weeks I couldn't stick to it
and started cheating. The symptoms returned. I talked to a friend who is a
nurse and she suggested I just avoid gluten, garlic and onions since they so
commonly create issues.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="background-attachment: initial; background-clip: initial; background-color: white; background-image: initial; background-origin: initial; background-position: initial; background-repeat: initial; background-size: initial;">The good news is that it worked. Garlic and cooked onions were reintroduced successfully. The bad news is, I'm obviously gluten-sensitive. I hate being someone with dietary constraints.
No bread, cake, cookies! No regular pasta! I do not want to be that annoying person who
has to tell their host about food restrictions. However, it appears that I am.
It's really not that bad. There are so many choices out there and Eric is a
sport about gluten free cooking and makes all sorts of accommodations.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="background-attachment: initial; background-clip: initial; background-color: white; background-image: initial; background-origin: initial; background-position: initial; background-repeat: initial; background-size: initial;">I seem to find plenty to eat. Rice, corn,
potatoes. I may be the only person to give up gluten and not lose weight. I'm
just happy to not gain weight. I've decided that not gaining weight is a
successful diet at my age. I miss cupcakes from Sweet Things and sticky
buns from Beth's Kitchen, but I'm still eating pretty high on the hog. And I've
got my avocados back. Now, if I can just get rid of this cold, I'll be able to
taste them again. </span></span></span><br />
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span style="color: #222222; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 10.0pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><span style="background-attachment: initial; background-clip: initial; background-color: white; background-image: initial; background-origin: initial; background-position: initial; background-repeat: initial; background-size: initial;"><br /></span></span></span></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span style="color: #222222; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 10.0pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><span style="background-attachment: initial; background-clip: initial; background-color: white; background-image: initial; background-origin: initial; background-position: initial; background-repeat: initial; background-size: initial;">Merry Christmas, Happy Hanukkah and good eating to all!</span></span><span style="font-family: Times; font-size: 10.0pt; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiZxik-j9d8visyUNRKK0ngQGn1B8acdUfU4C425XUFXYxSqEmDgIdl1erNxWIVBYmNTLV3RiTyoLKJRxcG2tlRbXF-NVQm-tmHPrBZ9Zly7F_QL7R65EvI5q_NNewq-sIQkZHlPJBzrUY/s1600/IMG_5805.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiZxik-j9d8visyUNRKK0ngQGn1B8acdUfU4C425XUFXYxSqEmDgIdl1erNxWIVBYmNTLV3RiTyoLKJRxcG2tlRbXF-NVQm-tmHPrBZ9Zly7F_QL7R65EvI5q_NNewq-sIQkZHlPJBzrUY/s1600/IMG_5805.JPG" height="150" width="200" /></span></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Ruby admires my breakfast in bed. </span></td></tr>
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Wendy Partridge Crowehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17064039413435368424noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5667039797770125597.post-44591780640392711882014-12-12T08:17:00.000-08:002016-03-22T10:35:38.773-07:00Snow Day<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh17dBrUUeO60XEjS44e_tzjnQtpKvXKiZmonzgUZRHVCqPhVAlbF2YV4kodUsdZLFMnYV9486NEqFPk_UcjQTyHu_FUF9xQUF4wcV9848snP00_lvvNsT57BWRa_1WzxIfM_Kc2HShKX4/s1600/snow+photo+2.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh17dBrUUeO60XEjS44e_tzjnQtpKvXKiZmonzgUZRHVCqPhVAlbF2YV4kodUsdZLFMnYV9486NEqFPk_UcjQTyHu_FUF9xQUF4wcV9848snP00_lvvNsT57BWRa_1WzxIfM_Kc2HShKX4/s1600/snow+photo+2.jpeg" height="393" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">I'm on the right in the red pants. </td></tr>
</tbody></table>
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<br />
<span style="background: white;">When I was a child we lived in New York State.
It was the sixties and we had real winters back then. We skated on the frozen
lake, tromped around in the snow. We played outside until we had hives from the
cold. We even had chestnut trees in the front yard and, yes; we roasted them
over an open fire.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="background: white;">Every once in a while we were graced with a
blizzard and schools were closed. Oh, how we loved having a "snow
day". Of course there was no email in those prehistoric times. We had to
listen to the radio to find out about school closings. Districts were announced
one by one and we kids would erupt in cheers when they announced that Rockland
County Schools would be closed. I think my mother hoped we would all just go
back to bed, but that didn't happen. It was far too exciting.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="background: white;">Once we spent the whole day building an igloo
fort around a tree. It was so substantial a child could almost stand up inside.
At least that's how I remember it. We played outside a LOT. The TV was black
and white and there were only a few channels. There were no computers or iPads.
I shudder to think about how young minds are developing now with so much
"screen" time. A school nurse told me she could tell how much a five
year old plays outside by checking their eyesight.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="background: white;">Northern California coastal childhoods are very
different. Many elementary schools don't have cafeterias. It is assumed lunch
will be eaten outside at picnic tables every day. In a normal year there is a
fair amount of rain so that plan is somewhat flawed. When it rains lunch is
eaten inside the classroom.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="background: white;">We haven't had to worry about that for a few
years because it's been so dry. "Dry" meaning a parched state in a
cataclysmic, catastrophic historical drought and all that implies. I'm not fond
of droughts. This is the second or third since I've lived here. It's stressful
to think about there not being enough water. You worry about wasting a drop -
even flushing the toilet, for god sakes! The last big drought spawned phrases
like "If it's yellow, it's mellow" and "If it's brown, flush it
down." Ugh.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="background: white;">Our weather here is confusing. It's likely to be
warmer on Thanksgiving than the 4th of July. Summers are cold and foggy,
but September and October can be oppressively hot. This year the weather was
even more confusing. Late heat waves begat blossoms on Magnolias that usually
bloom in January. Roses have been blooming in the garden. December roses!
Spring may be strange, because so much of it has already sprung.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="background: white;">Now we have rain, glorious rain. Back to back
storms for weeks: the storm door is officially open for business. Last week
high tides collided with torrential downpours and gridlock ensued. It took Eric
over four hours to reach downtown San Francisco by bus. The bus driver even had
to stop and make a pit stop.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="background: white;">That was nothing compared to what was forecast
for this week. Weather prognosticators threatened that we would have the most
prodigious precipitation in five years. Considering it’s been almost completely
dry for four years, that's not such a credible threat. Certainly not red or
orange. High winds, power outages - the outlook appeared so dire that
schools were cancelled all over Marin. Lucky us. We got a snow day!</span><br />
<br />
<span style="background: white;">It has been raining continuously, but still
doesn't feel like the storm of the century. We have power and the street (which
has flooded in the past) isn't flooding. It's lovely to be home, but snow days
are different here in Marin County, California. For one thing, we don't have to
spend half the day shoveling the sidewalk. That's a plus. We took a walk in the
rain, read by the fire and drank hot chocolate.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="background: white;">I'm not complaining, but there was something so
magical about those snowstorms we had as children. There is nothing like the
silence of falling snow. Rain makes rat-a-tat sounds on the roof, especially on
all our skylights. It can be irritating after a few days. Snow mutes sounds.
It's indescribably peaceful.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="background: white;">Silent snow falling hour after hour covering
every leaf and branch with an ivory glaze. Walking through the woods where no
steps had gone before. Making snow angels, building snowmen, drinking mom's
special "Russian Tea". Rosy cheeked, we warmed by the fire in our
long underwear. Time seemed to stand still. Now that's a snow day.</span><br />
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<!--[endif]--></span><!--EndFragment-->Wendy Partridge Crowehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17064039413435368424noreply@blogger.com0