No Kings

Yes on Proposition 50. Obviously. It only gets implemented if Texas does its dastardly gerrymandering. These are not normal times, and we can’t act like they are. If you live in California, for the love of humanity, please vote in the special election. 

It could be the waning light or the full moon, or my dog’s impending surgery, but things feel fraught and raw right now. We are also coming up on the one year anniversary of the election, which is the same day my daughter, Lucy, was diagnosed with breast cancer at the age of forty- two. She told me when she was picking up my grandson. I was paralyzed with fear and numb from shock. The election returns were coming over the transom, the tv was on, but it sounded like so much babbling to me. 

I sat on the couch literally unable to move. I was home alone because Eric was working at the polls. Finally, I called Lucy’s biological father because the oncologist would need family history. It wasn’t reassuring. That side of the family has so much cancer. Even a male cousin died of breast cancer because it wasn’t diagnosed in time. 

Fortunately, Lucy’s prognosis was good, they caught it early, but it was still hard on everyone. Lila and Finn were five and eight and Mommy had surgery Christmas week. We got through it all and Lucy was a trooper, as usual. The radiation was no fun, but manageable and now Lucy is back working hard, as she does. It’s possible I may not have properly processed this chain of events, but I’m so grateful for the excellent medical care she received and that life is normal again for my grandkids. 

Usually I can stomach the news, but right now it feels overwhelming. Ukraine. Gaza. A judge’s home exploded with her family in it. Our cities are becoming militarized. Innocents are zip tied and abducted from American streets. Little kids are shot to pieces. There have been over 300 mass shootings already this year. As Shannon Watt says: when there are guns everywhere we aren’t safe anywhere. 

Every time I open a container of food or medicine and have to peel off the tamper resistant packaging I become so frustrated. In 1982 seven people in Chicago were killed after using cyanide laced Tylenol. An entire industry evolved in response to those incidents. Of course we don’t want American citizens to be poisoned or killed! Clearly there was no financial
incentive to keep the status quo. 

Perhaps we were able to reign in the lobbyists. Our congress people weren’t bought and paid for so directly. Citizens United opened the financial tap and it has only flowed more fiercely. Thanks to that 5-4 Supreme Court decision in 2010, corporations were considered “people” and able to wield disproportionate influence and political power. 

In the San Francisco area we have had some cruel Octobers. The Loma Prieta earthquake hit the Bay Area on October 17, 1989. The Oakland Hills Firestorm began October 19, 1991. Polly Klaas was kidnapped and murdered in October 1993. The month started to feel cursed and I began to dread it. 

Perhaps I’m feeling sensitive and blue because I’m halfway through Fredrik Backman’s 448 page novel, My Friends. Backman has such a gift for simultaneously exploiting human brightness and darkness that it’s challenging to keep up emotionally. People are shit and treat others like shit. People are beneficent and treat others with beneficence. Back and forth. 

These times are cruel, draining, frightening. When Jane Fonda and Joan Baez say these are the scariest times they’ve ever lived through, it makes them feel even more scary. There are all the normal irritations and tediums  of daily life and then everything else on top of it. I think about Trump and Netanyahu and wonder how many people have to die and how much of this Earth has to be destroyed so two guilty, corrupt men can keep themselves in power and out of prison. And by the way, I still hate gas powered leaf blowers.

Brown Eyed Boy Of The World

Photo by Torrey Fox

It was a late November afternoon and the setting sun was reflecting off the windows in the hospital waiting area. I was getting more and more anxious. My baby was having a baby and it had been hours since I’d had any news. My daughter and son-in-law were on the same floor, really just down the hall but I could hear nothing. The last update was around mid-day when Allie texted saying they thought she’d be able to start pushing soon. That was hours earlier. I reached out to everyone, looking for ways to ease my mind. Was Allie ok? Was the baby alright?

This baby was my fifth grandchild and I’d never felt this nervous before. Three of them had been preemies so there had been no time to be anxious before the births; just plenty of time after. This baby was full-term, my daughter was huge and it was all baby. It was the Sunday after Thanksgiving and the photos from the holiday showed a beautiful woman who was more than ready to be a mama. I texted my son in law’s mother asking if she’d heard anything. No, she had not and she was also on pins and needles.

At 3:24 I sent Denzel a message: You guys ok? Nothing came back. At 4:49 pm, just when I was about to jump out of my skin, I got the best text I’ve ever received. Denzel wrote this: He’s here. Then: And healthy. It still brings tears to my eyes to think of it. I wrote back: I’m over the moon. I waited a few minutes so they could tend to Allie and then went to meet my new grandson. When I walked into their hospital room music was playing and the baby was skin to skin on his father’s bare chest. The baby name had been under wraps the entire pregnancy. We had extracted some clues, and did a lot of guessing, but we were nowhere close. Allie told me his name was “Zay”. It was the first time I’d heard this name, but since then I’ve heard it several times. They were smart to keep it a secret. People, and I consider myself a person, have so many opinions, and they’re not afraid to share them.

Zay Ramon Allen was absolutely perfect. He was strong and lively, his color was good, and his hair! My side of the family has never seen a newborn with such hair. Long, black, beautiful silky hair. Looking at Zay’s face after he was born was eerie. He looked so much like Allie as a newborn. They have the same cheeks, chin and downturned mouth. The top half of his face looked more like papa, especially the slightly puffy eyes. When Denzel was born his eyes were so puffy that his mother refused to believe he was hers. The nurses brought Denzel to Casandra and she said, “That’s not my baby. That’s an Eskimo!” The photos prove her point. Fortunately, the swollen-face stage did not last and he grew into a very cute kid and a handsome man.

Zay and I had a little hang after he was born. We had a chat and I told him some things. One of the things I told him was that his mom and dad had loved each other for a long time and they had been waiting for him. We all had been waiting for him and we already loved him so much. I held his hand while he got a shot and wailed, then settled down.

Those newborn days seem so long ago. Zay is now a 16 month old toddler running all over the place. His life has gone exceedingly well, thus far. Before the age of one, Zay took numerous 
airplane flights, including two trips to Europe. At seven months he went to a wedding in Tuscany with his parents and his other grandmother. At nine months Allie and I took him to Stockholm which is where his maternal grandfather was born. In Swedish the term for mother’s mother is “mormor”. One day we were having “fika” at The Hotel Diplomat Cafe when a handsome Swedish man (don’t get me started on how good-looking the Swedish men are) looked at us and asked, “Mormor?” Yes, a thousand times yes. I am Zay’s Mormor, aka Gigi, even though I don’t have a drop of Scandinavian blood in me.

While we were in Stockholm I thought a lot about my former in-laws who met on the street in that very city. I also thought about how my immigrant ancestors arrived in Massachusetts in the 1600’s. I have a relative, Martha Carrier, who was hung as a witch in Salem. We’re also distantly related to both Taylor Swift and Jeffrey Dahmer. Go figure.Allie’s father is half Swedish and half Norwegian and he is the immigrant ancestor. Denzel is African American with a grandmother from Panama. Our big, beautiful melting pot, embodied in one tiny person. 

Zay is obsessed with tennis and loves "reading". He's extremely strong, but has a sweet disposition and gentle demeanor. In addition to European jaunts, Zay has cruised the East Coast and spent a lot of time in museums. He’s usually among the first to catch any of the great exhibits in San Francisco. He loves his meals and snacks and afternoon naps and outings in the car. In fact, Zay lives the life of a senior citizen.

My first four grandchildren all have bright, blue eyes. Zay’s eyes are brown like his Dad, but they look so familiar to me. I look in his eyes and I see my mother and her mother and my sisters and my brother who died long ago. I am the only one with green eyes and I was hoping Zay would take after me, but his eyes are just right for him. The hair is always going to be a thing for Zay. People notice it and comment on it and want to touch it. It’s not black person hair or white person hair, it’s Zay hair. The smooth, silky hair has given way to a gorgeous cap of tight curls. It’s quite dark, but in the sun there are lovely copper glints.

More time has elapsed, as time is wont to do. Our sweet boy is now careening towards two years old. His second birthday will be on Thanksgiving. Zay’s childcare has been a group effort. When Allie went back to work I began caring for him on Tuesdays and Thursdays. Allie worked from home on Mondays, while also running her business. Denzel has him on Wednesdays and on Fridays his parents trade back and forth.

This week they toured a preschool and it sounds like he will begin in a few months. I felt a little sad thinking about ending our Gigi / Zay days, but preschool will be good for him. He’s ready to be with other kids his age. The school is excellent and diverse. Except for his father, most of the faces he’s seen around him are white. When we’re out in public and Zay sees a black person he just stares at them. He needs to know more people who look like Dada.

Grandmothers In Love

I hope Zay has a little brother or sister. Siblings are important. I will share in caring for him or her, until they are ready for preschool. By that time I will be around 70 years old. I have been helping raise kids since I was 13. I had my first child at 23. I have a degree in developmental psychology and I ran a licensed home daycare. I have been a nanny, a babysitter and a live-in au pair. I took care of kids as babies who are now in their fifties. Raising children has been the longest, strongest thread woven throughout my life. I am ready to be relegated to after school pick up and special occasion Gigi.

I have dedicated my life to supporting others and helping them succeed. I have three daughters, a step-daughter and five grandchildren. I’ve had three husbands. My kids are all successful people and I am proud of them, individually and collectively, but with my eldest it’s easiest to see how I wouldn’t be who I am if not for her, and she wouldn’t be who she is if not for me. Our circumstances were fragile, and it was my first time being a parent. We succeeded through grit and will and perseverance and love. It’s my time. If not now, then when?

Life is fleeting and ephemeral and all the cliches. We don’t know how much time we have. I still work, and probably will for quite a while. I do some volunteering and that’s important to me, but I’d like to get back to writing. I’ve been so disconnected from it and my concentration skills have been sabotaged by the internet and the pandemic and the politics of our time. And the grandchildren.

It’s been an intense nine year run with the grandkids. Three of them were born prematurely, at 31, 32 and 35 weeks. It’s been dreamy and tedious and made my spirit soar. At times it almost broke me. I will never forget the winter day that I tried to get Finn into his car seat after ski lessons. He yelled at me: I hate you, my crazy stupid grandmother and I’m going to split your head open with an axe! He said this while wearing head to toe camouflage. We’ve moved past that and Finn has settled down, but that moment was hard to shake, as much as I know it wasn’t personal. It rarely is.

Zay's grandfather is so eager for Zay to talk. His verbal skills are snowballing. He’s saying new words every day. There’s no stopping it. I’m not in such a hurry for the words. Kids say the cutest things, but I have had words hurled at me that I didn’t need to hear. He’ll get there. Just give him time.

Baby Boy - Adventures With Finn

 

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. 

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. 

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. 

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. 

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. 

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. 

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.

With Great Grandma Judy

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. 

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. 

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. 

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. 

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. 

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.

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. 

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. 

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. 

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. 

Home Buying

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.

In addition to selling real estate, I help out with my granddaughter whileLucy and her husband work. Childcare 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 work. We went to London once and New York three times. Lila practiced crawling 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.

 

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 doing 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 when it arrived at the house. We missed seeing Finn and Lila and our other grandkids, Sally and Leo.

 

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 chipmunks moved into the walls, but it was a short walk to the lake. We stayed there for seven weeks. Lila said it had“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.

 

Luckily for the kids and grandkids, childcare is one of my super-powers. 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 when you don’t live with them.

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.

 

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 around. 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 right buyers for the property. We had included a love letter to the Seller. It 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.

 

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.

 

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 wasa 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.

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 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.

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 went $150,000 over asking. We were not prepared to compete with that.

 

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.

 

Deliveries are another challenge. Amazon does not deliver here, which is fine with 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.

 

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^th. 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.

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.

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 lake, 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.

Thank you

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. 

Black Lives Matter

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.

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.

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.

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.

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?

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.

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.

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.

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.

Waste Not Want Not

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.

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 2nd 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.

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 50th 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.

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.

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.

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.

Fried Chicken

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.

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 of July, although I would never dream of going out to the beach on the Fourth 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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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?

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.