The beggar at the Pharmacy

Contribution requests are a frequent occurrence in my life.  Each month I receive a stack of mail from agencies servicing the poor and another stack from museums and theaters asking for financial help.  Usually I am very generous, but lately I've had to cut back on giving away my money.  Still, when some poor soul asks me for a few cents, I become very compassionate, and it's hard to say "no."

The other evening, on my way home from choir practice, I stopped at the nearby pharmacy.  It was dark outside and the air was chilly as we head into winter.  A man standing in the entrance looked at me and said "Brr" as he wrapped his arms around himself.  He was a jolly little man with a round belly that jiggled when he laughed.  His cheeks were merry and dimpled as he held out his hand jingling a few coins.  No, this wasn't Santa Claus.  He was dressed in drap tannish loose pants and a scantily fitting sweatshirt that showed his abdomen, and he was asking me for some change.  At first, I thought "no," but I felt cold so I felt sorry for him.  I said, "Maybe on the way out."  I purchased my items, and then left the store, walking right in front of the man.  With his hand out with the few coins, he told me he only had 17 cents, so I reached into my purse and pulled out a $1.00 bill and handed it to him.  He said "A dollar!" in a surprised tone.  "Thanks.  Now I have $1.17."  I felt really good and went to my car.

Then as I started the engine, I looked up at the man.  He reached into his pocket  with a serious expression on his face and pulled out a sock which was bulging, put the money in it and then put the sock back in his pocket.  He repositioned the change in his right hand and the sincere, jovial expression came back on his face as he reached out to his next customer.  I just shook my head, smiled, and backed out of the parking space.  I've been dupped again--but this time I thought it was funny. 

Merry Christmas.

My Opera experience

Opera was never something I was interested in.  Actually, I didn't like it at all, at least what I had seen on television.  The singing was funny and sounded like screeching to me, and it was also done in another incomprehensible language.  When I was younger, I thought it was for stuffy, old, rich people.  It was also an activity I could hardly afford.

Then I started relearning the piano, and my teacher introduced me to the Sonatas of Mozart.  I thought his music and genius was intriguing, so I started reading books about his life.  Then one day as I was walking by the Opera House on my way home from singing at the Cathedral, I noticed a bill board advertising Don Giovanni, one of Mozart's operas.  It also intrigued me that he wrote operas and I knew from my readings that he liked Opera Buffa--comedies.  I was curious, so I called for tickets, only to find out they were sold out.  My only chance to hear it was to get "Standing Room Only" tickets.  Early the next morning I went to the Opera House early in the a.m. and was the fifth in line.  It was almost like waiting in line all night to buy rock concert tickets.  We all sat on the floor chatting until the box office opened.  I proudly secured my $10.00 ticket and returned that evening to wait in another line in the same order that we bought our tickets.  I felt very special when the usher let us in early and we scoped out our spots in the back of the Orchestra Section.  I stood for three hours in pain and didn't quite understand the plot, but I was hooked. 

Next, my husband and I went to Opera at A.T.&T. Park on a warm, balmy evening to see "Lucia di Lammermoor" on the big screen under a beautiful full moon.  It was enchanting.  They had a promotion to receive a discount on another ticket to an opera production, so I took advantage of the low price to see another Mozart opera--"The Magic Flute." Since that time four years ago, I've been seeing a few operas each year. 

This year I was talked into buy four tickets and told I shouldn't miss the renowned soprano Renee Fleming in "Lucrezia Borgia."  I totally forgot the date of "Lucrezia Borgia" and missed seeing the opera in my expensive Orchestra section seat, but they nicely gave me a "standing room only" ticket for the last performance.  I jokingly told everyone I paid $230.00 to stand and watch the opera.  I enjoyed all of them, including the free ticket for the rehearsal of Don Giovanni, but I especially enjoyed seeing "Carmen" on the night before Thanksgiving.

I'm not very knowledgeable about the nuances of opera, and the plot can easily be found on websites, but I can describe how I felt and reacted to "Carmen".  I have wanted to see it since I heard the music, maybe because it has a "Spanish" flavor. 
According to the Opera magazine "Encore", Carmen is one of the most-recognized operas due to the music.  I went to the preconcert talk, where Marcia Greene described the theme music and how it appears several times in different tempos and sounds--sometimes loud, sometimes soft, fast and slow.  I tried to listen for the theme, which was supposed to occur before Carmen's entry, but I was too busy watching the performers, reading the script and listening to the singing.

The stage settings were of a stone-looking wall, which changed shape for each location.  The street scene in the beginning was so lively with children scampering about being mischievous, proper nuns strolling by, and men watching the women.  The music made the scene very energized as we waited the arrival of "Carmen."  I wasn't disappointed when she entered flirting with the men and singing her very familiar aria. 
I felt chills in my whole body when "Anita Rachvelishvili" sang as Carmen.  I also liked the soprano, Sara Gartland, portraying Micaela, a sweet, pretty, very balanced young woman.  I can't understand how Don Jose could go for the narcisstic, manipulating but addicting gypsy.  But that's opera. 

I really thought this opera was awesome--I was spellbound and felt involved in the story, and when the arias were sung emotion welled up inside of me.  That's how I know the performance was good.  And it wasn't just the main  characters that enthralled me.  I was very impressed with the professionalism of the children from the Boys and Girls choruses and I loved the  adult chorus--who had to act besides sing.  It was really a very wonderous production of sights, sounds, and story. 

I really hope to follow up with a recording on my I-phone so I can listen to the music again.  I guess I've turned into one of those "stuffy, old, rich, people,' but I can't be too stuffy if the opera made me sing and dance all the way home and for two days afterward.  I guess I've changed my mind about opera.   

Surfing event

Ocean Beach was an amazing site today.  The weather was sunny and balmy with clear skies and a slight breeze.  I had decided yesterday when I read the morning newspaper that I should check out the surfing event that is supposed to be occurring in our very own city.  It seemed so unusual to me that a world-wide surfing contest would be here.  Our beach is often filled with surfers testing the waves, but never have I heard of a competition right under my nose. 

Yesterday in the late afternoon I walked down to the highway by the beach and headed North to the site of the event.  Sure enough--there was a huge tent on the beach and lots of young people streaming home before sunset on bikes, on foot, on skateboards.  There was also a  lot of automobile traffic headed south from Land's End--maybe checking out the site.

Today, I wanted to see for myself up close what was happening.  At 2:00 I had an urgency to leave my house, so I dropped what I was doing, picked up my cell phone, a few dollars, my cap, and sunglasses and headed out the door towards to the beach.  At first I walked on the promenade path, but when I reached Noriega Street, I decided to cross the highway and walk on the beach.  I paused a moment on the sanddune to look at the sparkling ocean view and then I decided to venture down the steep sandy hill, stepping very carefully so my shoes wouldn't fill with sand.  When I reached the bottom, I went right to the edge of the water where the incoming tide makes the ground harder and easier to walk on.  I walked slowly, not knowing what to expect when my destination was reached.  It was such a beautiful day to just watch the seagulls soaring in the sky and the little plovers walking briskly and then stopping to eat a morsel they found.  I stopped to pick up a shell and examined it for perfection, since it's difficult to find a whole shell due to the churning water breaking them.  People with dogs passed me by going south and other people walked briskly North, in the direction I was headed.

Finally I saw the tent up ahead and a throng of people standing close to the water's edge.  Other people were sitting in chairs further away.  There were also a few huge cameras set up in the sand pointed out towards the surf.  I stopped and asked people questions--some kind of silly, but I was looking for information.  One young man explained that there were two buoys and a boat out in the ocean and between them is where the surfers were coming in.  I looked in that direction and I saw a huge wave and a little figure on a surf board emerging from under the crest.  He righted himself, disappeared as the wave came crashing down, and then appeared again upright and came gliding into shore.  I heard the crowd give a resounding ovation.  The man next to me said, "I think that was 'Slater.'  I think he just won his 11th World Championship."  I remember reading something in the newspaper, but had no idea I would actually see the event. 

Next a young woman with a little girl playing in the sand talked to me.  She said that they were going to give "Slater" an award after the current heats.  So I walked up to the tent area where people were gathering in front of a stage.  I was close enough to see a man in an orange shirt emerge from the curtain amid cheers from the crowd.  A man with a microphone talked to the gathering and gave Kelly Slater a huge trophy, which he accepted graciously.  He spoke a few words but seemed a bit tongue tied.  Later on the evening news he was able to talk a little more to a newscaster.  I tried to get a photo with my new I-phone, but unfortunately I was too far away for the camera.  What was amazing is that I was able to see him myself with my "new" eyes, after my cataract surgery last week. 

I was so happy that on this awesomely beautiful, warm tropical-like autumn day I was able to be present at this historic event.  Today made up for the long, dismal summer of depressing fog.

The surfing will continue on until Nov. 12, but I'm not sure how long the weather will hold up.  Supposedly, rain is forecast for Friday and the weekend.  But that's the way it is here in "my fair city by the Bay."

Our speaker

At the meetings, he was alway attentive but very quiet.  I also was quiet, taking notes and observing, but not really understanding what the board was discussing. I didn't speak up because I didn't know anything, but  I felt that he didn't talk because no one gave him any assignments or asked his opinion.  I knew, however, that as an American of Japanese descent, he did have something to say.  He must have had a story.   One day, coming home from our meeting, I encountered him on the bus.  We had a little conversation and he told me he wrote poetry and a little about his life.  I was intrigued, but I didn't see him again.

Then, the October bulletin came out, and I learned that our very own Hiroshi---poet, playwrite, author, and a resident of this "sanddunes" neighborhood--was going to be giving the talk at the last meeting of the month.  I definitely wanted to be there.

When he got up to speak, he came alive, standing tall and smiling,  His wife sat in the audience smiling proudly.   He spoke hesitantly but articulately of his childhood and his three--year experience in a "Japanese Internment camp" in Tule Lake in Northern California.  While he spoke I felt a surge of emotion welling up inside of me.  It was another of the many injustices I've been learning about that occurred in the 20th century.  Only this injustice of removing all the Japanese Americans was done by our country. 

I only gradually learned about our treatment of the Japanese during WW II during a time of "racial prejudice, war hysteria, and a failure of political leadership." (Hiroshi's words.)  I was born two weeks after the bombing of Pearl Harbor and my mother often talked about having to fix my "formula" in the dark during the sirens and blackouts that happened in the middle of the night.  As the weeks rolled on, there were photos of us in our sunny backyard having a party.  One of the guests wore a sailor uniform.  Later when I was a little older and playing in the street, we pretended we were bombing "Japs."  I had no idea what a "Jap" was, but there must have been a lot of biased remarks from adults for us to be talking this way.  Much later as an adult, I learned of the "camps" when in August 10, 1988, the U.S. government apologized for the earlier treatment of American Japanese and awarded each survivor with $20,000. 

As Hiroshi was reading from his book of poetry "Ocean Beach" I was touched by his earthy tone.  They were of every day experiences that made me chuckle a bit, thinking of similar situations in my children's or my life.  He also wrote passages about his days at Tule Lake which painted a personal, human picture of  the people's spirit.  At the end he told us that he really "appreciates the freedom of movement, the freedom of thought and the freedom of choice." 

I was glad to hear him speak so eloquently of a time that should never be forgotten in our history.  During the dark times of World War II and all the injustices to so many millions of people, we should never forget that our country was not without sin. 



(I didn't do complete justice in this blog post, because it was very difficult for me to express my feelings, but I tried.  Thank you for your understanding.) 








                                                       

Language

When I was a child, my district was very homogeneous.  Of course, I didn't realize that my neighborhood was not ethnically diverse.  The people I saw in school, church, and in the playground were just people.  I did realize that people had nationalities, and we were always asking each other, "What nationality are you?"  Most everyone's ancesters were from Ireland, France, Italy, Germany, and other European countries.  We would also play at being English or French, using fake accents while we played our imaginative games.  I also remember having conversations with other kids about there being other races of people--like "yellow, red, brown, and black."  We were terribly naive back in the '50's.  We were not taught much back then about the world, and we figured that all these other people lived somewhere else, but we weren't sure where. 

I also was not exposed to other languages, even though my own mother spoke Lithuanian.  Since she came out West in the 1930's, there were no Lithuanian groups out here, and no one even knew what a Lithuanian was, so my mother had no one to speak to in her language.  Occasionally, she used a phrase or two to reprimand us or to say something like, "Shut the door," but she never talked to us so that we could learn to speak Lithuanian.  My brother and I just thought the language was a bunch of funny, old words. 

As my brother and I grew up and I moved to my own home in the same district, the neighborhood and the city slowly began to change.  New immigrants were coming to America, especially from all the war-torn areas.  I really never even noticed when my neighbors began to change, but our city is now very diverse.  There are also noticeably many different languages spoken.  Since the changes happened very slowly, I've just adjusted to the changes and the diversity seems very natural.  However, a few weeks ago, I received an e-mail with a disturbing chain letter--one of those messages that you are supposed to pass on.  Only I didn't pass it on--I disagreed with the content. 

The message was a movie clip entitled, "Theodore Roosevelt's ideas on Immigrants and being an American in 1907," and it was out of context.  It said, 'In the first place, we should insist that if the immigrant who comes here in good faith becomes an American and assimilates himself to us, he shall be treated on an exact equality with everyone else, for it is an outrage to discriminate against any such man because of creed, or birthplace, or origin.  But this is predicated upon the person's becoming in every facet an American, and nothing but an American. . ."  Then it goes on, "We have room for but one flag, the American flag. . .We have room for but one language here, and that is the English language. . ."   I realize that in 1907, there were a lot of problems in the world, and especially in Europe, sending a lot of new immigrants here, and that President Roosevelt's words were meant for his time.  We continue to have immigrants coming here due to many hardships in the world, but I think these words are not appropriate now. I hope that we are more knowledgeable and more accepting of one another's differences.

The other evening at the opera, I sat next to a woman with her niece.  She spoke with a Russian accent, and told me the little seven year old was able to speak three languages--Italian, Russian and English and was fluent in all three and was also learning Hebrew.  I thought this was so amazing as I'm trying to learn my mother's Lithuanian language during my retirement and find it so difficult.  Then I read an article about "Bilingualism in American" by Perri Klass, M.D.  "New York Times News Service.
Reference http://www.bendbulletin.com/article/20111 .  It said, "An estimated 9 percent of American adults are bilingual as opposed to 50 percent in Europe."  Americans do not seem to be open to other languages.  It also talked about how learning language skills helps people's higher level cognitive ability.  In other words, speaking more than one language helps you with problem solving.  How could anyone argue that we should only speak English.

Of course, new immigrants would benefit from learning our official language so that they can participate in the government and their community and not feel isolated.  I believe most new citizens do learn and speak English, but I don't think hearing a foreign language in a new immigrant should make Americans angry.  It is difficult to become fluent in a new language unless you learn it at a young age, and eventually the new immigrant's children will all acquire English.  I really don't think speaking or not speaking English is an issue.

So my contention is that this article I received on e-mail is propaganda trying to get a reaction from a reader who might be fearful of immigrants.   I hope Americans are able to discern the truth and not be intolerant of foreign language speakers.    

Thank you for listening--I was really troubled by the anger directed at me when I said I disagreed with the article.  I said, "I am an American of Irish/Lithuanian descent and I think everyone should speak two languages."  Is that such a terrible statement? 

A wonderful day.

On Friday, I awoke to a beautiful, summery morning in October.  At 7:00 the temperature was already warm and the air was still, leaving a fresh smell from the ocean that reminded me of a morning I walked on the beach on Maui.  I was energized and ready to start my day.

It was the day the EOC group I joined decided to have their  "Eating Out" experience.  Eight of us women met in West Portal for lunch at the "Cafe for all Seasons."  It is a restaurant that has been around for awhile and has tasty food and a pleasant atmosphere.   (I'm not a food critic.)    A friend organized the event, and most of us didn't know each other, but we all started talking and listening to each other's stories.  It was like we were old friends.  All the women seemed to have a lot in common, loved to travel, and went to music and drama performances.  They were very stimulating and energetic women, and I learned a lot from them. 

Almost everyone ordered salads--shrimp and avocado; calamari; and a cheese-topped salad, which were served with french bread.  I think we were talking so much I didn't pay attention to the food,  but my shrimp and avocado salad was very filling and delicious.  Then a couple of women ordered desserts which they shared.  The pumpkin pie with a syrupy topping was very rich, and the apple cake looked good but I didn't taste it.  All of a sudden, someone said, "Look out the window!"  Across the street in a three story building, there were two women in red dresses with green (or blue) hair dancing on the balcony.  They were the "Trolley Dancers" which I later learned were dancing downtown at different locations on the weekend.  On the way back to my car, I heard some drums and stopped at a Martial Arts school to watch the "Lion Dancers" practice and perform for a small group.

My afternoon was fun and full of unexpected surprises.  The day ended with another surprise.  As a I looked out my back window facing the ocean, the horizon was a bright, scourching red, with a ceiling of flaming clouds topped with grey.  It was one of those beautiful sunsets that mostly happen in the fall. 

A Change in the Air

There is a definite change in the season.  The days are getting shorter, with the evening darkness starting close to dinner time.  After a few days of warm weather, dark clouds gathered in the sky and there were intermittent showers with some heavier rain and wind two nights ago.  This morning the the sun is shining, but there is a chill and the air feels crisp and clear.  On the coast, however, is a layer of fog hiding the ocean waves.

Bright orange pumpkins are appearing everywhere in empty lots used for pumpkin patches.  My local garden shop sent out a flyer that it is time to plant onions and garlic.  My mail is full of requests for charitable donations for Thanksgiving.  All around the neighborhood are announcements of festivals.  The pace is picking up. 

The other day, when the view of the ocean was crispy clear, a huge air craft carrier could be seen on the horizon sailing northward, making it's way into the Bay.  Then yesterday, after a loud screechy roar was heard overhead, black sleek planes streaked across the cloudy sky giving an ominous feeling after the morning showers. 

What was happening--are we being invaded?  These signs bring back memories.  Oh yes--I remember.  It's October and the beginning of Fleet Week and acrobats by the Blue Angels.  Maybe I'll check it out this weekend on the Bay.

My free concert experience

To my dear Blog--I need someone to talk to.  Here is my story.

This weekend was the free Hardly Strictly Bluegrass Festival in Golden Gate Park.  Since I haven't been able to attend the many community events in my neighborhood in the past months since I started this blog, I decided it was my duty to experience this free concert.  I love music and singing, and I thought bluegrass was something I would enjoy.  After I sang in the choir this morning, I left my car in front of church and walked a short distance to th 41st Avenue Entrance.   

It was a warm, sunny day after the fog burned off and the park was especially beautiful.  As I headed up the paved path crunching on fallen euchalyptus leaves, I could hear the water rushing in the pond next to me.  The branches of the trees hung over the road giving a feeling of protection.  Younger people were passing me by since I must have been walking slowly, but I eventually reached the Polo field.  I could hear two sets of bands, so I was undecided which way to go.  I followed other people up a path, which brought me to a garbage dump--it was all the garbage from the festival, neatly sorted and packed into recycling, compost, and garbage, but there was a horrible stench.  I covered my nose and thought how horrible and wasteful our society is, producing so much garbage.

I came upon one of the six band sites--it was the "Arrow Stage", and the meadow below was enmassed with bodies listening to the "Devil Makes Three."  I was up on a ridge looking through a chain-linked fence, so I could hardly make out the musicians playing.  I concentrated on the crowd, which resembled a living entity of round bobbles in bright colors bouncing up and down to the beat of the music.  It sounded like bluegrass, since they were playing banjos and the singing was a bit grungy.

Next, I walked up the path and out to Kennedy Drive where most of the bands were.  I heard that the "Blind Boys of Alabama" were playing at the Bango Stage, so I went there not knowing anything about this band.  Their name sounded bluegrassy.  I was wrong--they were more gospel or something and apparently well-known and won a lot of awards.  I stood there for over an hour.  At first I wanted to leave, but with each song I felt compelled to stay.  I even sang with them and swayed to the beat. The crowd below was quiet at first, but at the end, the whole field was jumping with hands waving over head as these "blind boys" played very intense sounds for over 15 minutes. 

I continued up the drive to the next stage which was small--the Porch stage.  Just a few people were watching, and the band looked like one I'd like to hear.  They were the Swanson Family Band from Florida.  I really enjoyed their down-home music and was planning to stay.  All of a sudden I had an urge to check for my keys to my car.  I looked into my purse and there were the keys, but no wallet.  I was in shock--everything seemed irrelevant.  I looked around in disbelief, but no wallet.  I kept opening my purse, checking the pockets and just couldn't understand what had happened, so I decided I'd better leave.  I called my husband to tell him and to have him put a stop on my debit card, and then I started walking the twenty blocks back to 41st Avenue.  I passed lots of people who seemed to be having fun--families with kids, babies, and dogs; old guys with beards ; girls in hippy dresses, police officers standing in groups watching the crowds.  The bands kept playing as I walked by, but it all seemed so unimportant now.  I felt so stupid that my purse was gone and while I was walking, I tried to rehash what I had been through.  I decided I must have been pick-pocketed (or purse-pocketed), but I couldn't remember at what moment my purse suddenly became lighter. 

Anyway, it's over.  My husband was upset with me, but he did fix things by calling the credit card company and making the police report.  My son told me not to dwell on it, but to learn from this mistake.  My other son said he was sorry and wished he had been with me.  I did decide to change the way I do things:

1)  Only bring what's necessary with me in the way of credit cards and I.D.
2)  Act like I'm traveling and wear my important stuff on my body.
3)  Make a list of all the numbers on my cards.
4)  Go to festivals with someone else.
5)  Be mindful.

I think I should also stick to performances at the Opera, Symphony, Ballet, and S.F. Performances. 

Thank you for listening. 

My evening walk

This was the day I have been waiting for since June.  I woke up to a beautiful, sunny warm day, but unfortunately I didn't spend much time outdoors.  I had my Ollie classes today and hardly went outside, since the Muni streetcar stops underground and I went right into the Westfield Center from the station.  On the way home, it was the same.
So, after dinner, the ocean was beckoning me to take a walk.

I left my house a little after 7:00 p.m. and the sun had already set, but it was still light enough.  The evening was crispy clear with a little chill in the air, but I could tell the day had been warm.  The air smelled so fresh and there was a beautiful red sunset.  The ocean waves were a bit choppy, but the beach reminded me a little of Hawaii. 

I hurried down to the prominade walk and headed North, parallel to the ocean, but on the east side of the Great Highway.  There were still lots of people walking, jogging, cycling and pushing strollers.  It seemed like everyone was rushing, however, trying to finish up their exercise before the light faded.  I definitelly stepped up my pace trying to reach the stoplight on Lawton, where I turned around to walk back to Noriega.  This gave me 6 blocks of walking plus the five I had walked earlier on my return homefrom class.

As I walked up Noriega Street, I was amazed by the activity on the two blocks between 46th to 44th Avenue.  There were still people heading towards the beach and more people in the little businesses.  The Asian Restaurant, which is usually empty, was full of groups of people dining leisurely.  Next door at the Pizza Place, young people (in their 20's or 30's) were sitting at the bar chatting while others enjoyed their pizza dinners at little tables.  Across the street at Noriega Produce, the vegetable guy was busily putting away the fruit and vegetable stands that line the outside of the store--he didn't even look up as I passed.  The Tacos Restaurant had a few people inside, and the coffee shop was busy also--a gray-haired lady sat in the window relaxing with her glass of wine.  Next was the wood shop, where they apparently make surf boards.  I have never seen anyone in the wood shop when I have walked by, but tonight there were several men talking in the front part of the shop.  The Veterinary Clinic was closed, but outside the pub a few people were hanging out chatting.  Then on the next block were two men talking about the little pooch that one of the men had on a leash. 

It was an amazing evening.  Having a beautiful sunny day really changes people's moods and everyone is more friendly.  Please can we have some more days like this. 

My wild goose chase day.

This afternoon was my class in "Healing and Art" downtown.  I thought I'd be expedient by driving my car to the Forest Hill area, parking and taking the streetcar.  I did get down to the Westfield Center in about 15 minutes from my parked car, purchased some tea and took the elevator to the sixth floor.  When the class was finished at 2:30 I hurried to the elevator with two other students and went to the underground Muni station to board an L, M, or K streetcar going back to Forest Hill.  The J streetcar came first and my two friends got on chatting.  I don't think they noticed that an Announcer on the P.A. system was telling all the passengers that there was some kind of problem at the Civic Center Station and that the muni cars would be held up for a while.  The J-car just sat there with the doors open while my friends were chatting inside.  I made a split-second decision to go up on top and catch a 71 bus.  I rushed up the stairs and then up to Powell Street on the elevator.  A bunch of school age boys saw me and said to their friend who was trying to get ahead of me, "Let the Senior Citizen go first."  Boy that made me feel great.  I guess I shouldn't be rushing so.
 
Outside, it was a beautiful sunny day, with people walking and busy going about their business.  I turned towards the bus stop area and there was my 71.  I looked carefully at the truck stopped at the stop sign, put my hand up and squeezed between him and the car in front just in time to board my bus.  When I got on I heard a voice calling-- "Beverley".  It sounded like my son and sure enough, there he was motioning to me to come to the back of the bus.  While we were riding I told him about the hang-up at the Civic Center, and then all of a sudden I remembered that I left my car at Forest Hll Station.  How was I going to get there?  Kevin helped me out.
 
First we got off on Castro Street to catch the 43, but it drove right passed us.  Then we crossed the street and a Parnassus Bus came along which we took to Cole Street and got off.  There was a little time between buses so we went across the street at Cole and Parnassus and got some coffee and pastries.  Another 43 went by and we figured there was 12 minutes between buses, so we finished our little snack and caught the next 43.  Then in front of U.C. Parnassus, my daughter's aunt-in-law, Mary, boarded the bus.  We chatted for awhile and then Mary hitched a ride with us when we finally got back to Forest Hill Station.
 
Well, it only took me two hours to get home, but it was an interesting two hours riding through the Haight Ashbury and Cole Valley neighborhoods with beautiful tree-lined streets and Victorian Houses.  We dropped Mary off and I went home to my little house in the fog.  Now I have to get ready to do this traveling all over again.  I am going downtown in an hour to the Opera House to hear Turandot.

On starting back to fall classes

Last week was the beginning of fall classes at Ollie (the Osher Life Long Learning Institute for people over 50 years old).  The online list of classes sounded so interesting, I signed up for four classes on Tuesday and Thursday.  On Tuesday morning bright and early I got up and headed out the door.  I talked my husband into driving me to West Portal Station so I could save time getting downtown.  If I walked from my home to the streetcar and then rode it to the West Portal Tunnel, it would take me 45 minutes or so.  This way, it takes ten minutes to get to the tunnel and another 10 minutes to get to the Westfield Center.  Very Efficient. 

My husband let me out and said "Don't run."  He knows I like to run for streetcars, so I obeyed--I skipped.  How defiant.  I felt like a school child walking with my blue lunch bag I had packed to save money and my new folder to take notes in class.  It felt like a new beginning after the lazy days of summer (well I don't remember much summer, it was mostly foggy.) 

My first class was very intriguing--I was spellbound listening to the Professor talk about Politics and Religion.  He is very knowledgeable and funny and talks from years of experience teaching political science.  I took lots of notes--I couldn't help it.

After my simple lunch, sitting with some other students, we were ready to start our next class--Views from Behind the Walls and Beyond.  This is about our California prison system, which I wanted to delve into since I correspond with a relative who is incarcerated in San Quentin.  This class should help me understand the political and other issues facing our prison system.  I think I am aware of some of the personal issues, but I want to hear from someone who worked there.

On Thursday, I was signed up for the Joy of Choral Singing, but since only six people signed up, the class was cancelled.  This was disappointing since it was actually the main class I wanted to take.  I really love to sing, but apparently the other Ollie members are a little intimidated.  I had signed up for a Ballet Class last year, but it had to be cancelled the next semester, because only a few people had the courage to dance.  Why don't more "over 50's" want to sing and dance?

My last class is about "An Artistic History of Medicine."  I'm interested, but the lights are turned down in order to see the photos of art work on the screen, and after the break, I fell asleep.  I think I was tired since I had walked all the way from the Civic Center where I had procured my mother's death certificate at the Health Dept.  I also had walked all through Nordstrom's waiting for the class to start.  Unfortunately, I had gotten my time mixed up, and was a half an hour late for the class.  I'd better plan ahead this week.  I don't want to waste my time sleeping in class.  

My rides home are interesting.  The first day I took the 71 bus which goes down Haight Street and then across Irving on 23rd avenue to Noriega.  It's fun to watch the people come on and off the bus.  There were two older couples who boarded the bus who spoke with an accent--maybe Russian.  They were carrying bouquets of flowers and reminded me of our bus ride inVilnius--Many of the Lithuanians were carrying flowers on the bus ride home to their tall apartment complexes at the edge of the city.  I kept wondering if it was a custom or just a way to brighten the day. 

I'm looking forward to tomorrow's classes. 

On going to the river

Labor Day weekend has just passed and I have returned home again from the cabin.  I was planning on staying in the city for the weekend to rest and get ready for our next trip, but my daughter talked me into going to the cabin instead.  I rode up with Nora and her family in their car. Bill had driven up on Thursday and Kevin was also up there with his friends.  The weather was perfect--sunny and warm. 

On Sunday, everyone, but my husband, decided to go to the river.  I didn't ask which river, so I was surprised to find we were driving in the opposite direction I had anticipated.  We drove down Middle Camp and then turned off going down, down in a river canyon.  We passed a bridge and then I realized the place looked familiar.  This was the Stanislaus River and many years before I took the kids down there in our Chevy van to pick blackberries.  The same road-dusty blackberry bushes were growing near the river.  We drove on for a few hundred feet and John found a parking spot.  The other car with Kevin and his friends arrived shortly thereafter.

 We all got out of our cars and followed John down the road.  Nora carried Caitlin and the lunch.  I had my water bottle and a towel.  I had no idea where we were headed, but after a quarter of a mile or so, we turned off the road and headed down to the water.  We then started crossing the river at a shallow spot that was covered with large rocks and pepples.  I didn't trust the rocks, so I just walked in the water with my sandals.  On the other side Nora and I avoided the rocks and walked through the forested area arriving at a beautiful pool of water.  It was a fairly large pool for a river and it looked like it was man-made.  At the lower end there were boulders in place that held back the water.  There was also a rope over the pool with a trolly for jumping into the water.  At the upper end of the pool was a tree with a ladder placed against the tree where the rope was tied.  This is where we decided to sit.

Everyone found a comfortable spot and some of the group tried getting into the water, gasping and shivering when submerged--it was very cold.  I decided to try it--after all I went swimming in Lake Tahoe the week after it snowed there.  Well, when I got in, it was cold, but I decided to stay and swam around for a half an hour or so finally sitting in a little pool of churning water--just like a hot tub only cold.  It was very beautiful there, although shady.  After a couple of hours, we started back.

I followed everyone, walking very gingerly over the rocks in my water sandals.  I was looking where I was stepping, but suddenly my left foot slipped.  I tried to get my balance but I felt I was falling in slow motion.  I landed on my left side--my hip hit the rocks first, then my left arm, and lastly my head jolted onto a rock in a little crevice.
Nora was right behind me and came to my rescue.  I didn't want people to worry so I tried to get up.  My head was spinning, so Nora told me to sit on a rock and rest.  I got up after a couple of minutes, because I just wanted to move on.  Then Kevin came and guided me through the rest of the river.  When we got to the road, I felt okay--I could just walk normally. 

The next day I was bruised on my arm and hip, but my head felt okay.  When I thought about what had happened, I realized that every time we went to that river, there was a mishap.  The first time, years ago, the van got stuck in a ditch when I tried to back up.  A kind, dusty, woodsman, with a very dusty truck with a winch on it, pulled the van out.  Then, two years ago, when John went down there with Brendan, John lost his shoe and sprained or broke his ankle.  Then, this time, both Nora and I fell and I injured myself.  It's a beautiful river, but I'd better think twice about going again. 

Jury Duty

Last week I was summoned for jury duty.  It had been a few years since I was last called, so I thought it might be interesting.  Besides it was my duty as a citizen.  So, with a great deal of commitment, I arose early each morning so I could be on time to the courthouse in Civic Center.  The first day, Bill drove me to West Portal Station, where I boarded a street car headed downtown.  Arriving in the jury room, I secretly wished I wouldn't be picked, but sure enough, I was picked in the first batch to go to a court room.  Then I was the fourth person picked to sit on the panel, and I was never removed through the long interrogation process.   

So each day I left the house and walked the one and a half blocks to the bus stop in the early morning fog.  I took the 16 express which was a very pleasant and expedient ride to the Civic Center.  I arrived early, had my cup of coffee and then went upstairs to my court room.  It was almost like going to work again. 

I concentrated very hard, and took notes on the steno pad they gave us.  After awhile, I was beginning to realize that it would be difficult to make a decision.  It appeared as though the Plaintiff had a case and the Defendant's case was very weak.  I really felt a lot of compassion for the defendant, but in the end the Plaintiff won.  It was the big corporate guy against the poor underdog.  Almost the entire panel voted with the Plaintiff but we all felt so sorry for the defendant.  I walked out of the courtroom not looking at anyone.  The Plaintiff's lawyer was smiling, but I could hardly smile back since I felt very depressed about the decision made.  I hope the defendant is able to
get some help to start her life anew. 

The main thing I learned from this trial is to document carefully all your transactions and to communicate clearly what it is you want to do.  If you are having difficulties, don't feel embarassed to ask for help.  Pride can be deadly. 

Other Neighborhoods

Last weekend, my oldest son and two friends drove here from Oregon to attend a "Giants" baseball game.  My youngest son, Dave, planned to take them on a walking tour on the way to the stadium, and at the last minute I decided to join them.  I was so glad I did since I experienced a part of S.F. I never had before.

We left my house at ten in the morning walking down the wet streets in the drizzly fog.  The 18 Sloat came fairly quickly so we boarded it and then transferred to the bus on Sloat Blvd. riding it all the way to Monterey Blvd where our walk started at the Sunnyside Conservatory. 

The Conservatory was just reopened about a year ago and I've been wanting to see it. The gardens are open, but the actual building is only used for community events or can be rented for weddings.  We peeked through the window of the building to see beautiful tiled floors and a chandelier--it is small inside but beautiful.  The garden is very relaxing to walk through, but we didn't stay long.  We headed out the gate and then onward and upward.  I can't really describe the walk exactly, because I can hardly remember where we were.  In fact, at times, I looked around and did not know where we were--it was all new to me.  I do remember walking up a very lovely dirt path with houses on either side and beautiful flowering plants and bushes peaking out and over fences.    We stopped to look at the plants and Joe seemed to be able to identify them.  We also stopped to check out a block yard sale, talking to the neighbors and cats, and examining items.  Joe bought a plastic inflatable earth which he will use for his first grade students.

At some point we crossed O'Shaunessy Blvd and also Mission Street.  The entire walk was through narrow streets, alleys, walkways, stairs with beautiful foliage and quaint homes.  I had been through all these neighborhoods but never really saw them until I went on foot. 

On Mission Street, we stopped at the Lelenita Bakery, where they sell special wedding and birthday cakes.  I went in looking for cookies, but they only had some corn and cheese crackers from Guatamala.  They rest of the group bought papusas at the restaurant two doors down and we then walked to Holly Park to eat them while looking at a view of the city and the downtown business area in the distance.  After filling our bellies and feeling refreshed we headed out again, ending our walk at  Precita Park.

By the end of the walk, I was very tired and my muscles were sore, but the sun was out and it was a beautiful day in the Bernal Heights area.  I bought a cappacino and waited on a bench outside the coffee shop until my husband picked me up.  The group all split up here--David went to pick up a friend and the other three took a bus to the ballpark.
Bill and I went to the 49er game.  The day ended in thick, drizzley fog with the 49er second string losing the game and the Giants winning--but that's another story. 

Returning home

On Saturday morning, Bill and I packed up and reluctantly left the cabin behind.  It was a wonderfuly week of relaxation.  I did my yoga every morning to ambient music, took walks and worked on my photo project.  Bill worked on the rain gutters.  We met Bill's cousins at the Villa Dora for elegant dining on the patio.  We also drove to the high country in search of the "Gargoyles", which we eventually found at 5:00 p.m.

The drive home was leisurely until we came to the toll plaza, where the traffic came to an abrupt halt.  Lots of people were driving into the city.  I noticed right away that the pace was picking up.  As we drove onto Fell Street, the cars were vying for optimum position to navigate the streets without having to stop for the lights.  Other people were stopping in front of apartments and turning onto side streets, which caused cars to slow down and change lanes.  It was frustrating, but we got to Golden Gate Park forgetting that the Park was partially closed on Saturday.  Lots of people were out riding bikes, walking to the museums, pushing baby strollers--it looked like a busy day in the park.  Then we had to turn off the main drive in front of the museum in  order to get to our neighborhood.  I vowed I would try to find an alternate route home the next time we come home from the cabin.

Despite the drippy fog, I was glad to be home--I actually have more energy here.  I am also looking forward to getting involved with all my interests and projects.

On Sunday morning, I read an article in the Chronicle by Carl Nolte which resonated with me.  It was entitled "Not so many of us natives left here in adventure land."  I also have had the experience of talking to old friends who moved out of the city because of the fog, or because the neighborhood changed, or because they needed more space, but I, for one, want to stay.  I feel very alive living near the ocean beach, interacting with so many different people, and being able to participate in the many activities this city offers.  I love my cabin but I would certainly miss the city if I had to move away.  Someone told me that I "have the best of two worlds."  

My Retreat Cabin

Yesterday morning, Bill and I made our escape from the city, leaving behind the Outside Lands Music Festival which was being set up in the park, Sunday Streets in the Tenderloin, wet, drippy fog, and lots of slow traffic. San Francisco is a wonderful, beautiful city filled with exciting things to do, but at this moment I really need the peace and tranquility of the mountains.  We arrived a little after noontime, and met my son, Kevin and friend, at the cabin.  We all had lunch in Twain Harte at the Mexican Restaurant out on the porch, and then Bill and I said our goodbyes to Kevin and we went back to our cabin.  Kevin headed for the city where he will participate in the bike valet service that the Bicycle Coalition provides at the Outside Lands Event.

 

I am feeling very relaxed, listening to quiet music.  The sun is shining, but it's not too hot--a perfect temperature.  This morning I did my yoga, and I plan to do my yoga each morning, meditate, play my Indian flute and my piano, and work on some projects.  I also hope to go on a little hike somewhere.  Bill is fixing the rain  gutter, and plans to do some other work if he survives fixing the gutter.  It is so restful up here--just what my spirit needs. 

Summer fog

Climate--from "Encyclopedia Britannica"

Winter in San Francisco is rainy and mild, spring sunny and temperate, summer foggy and cool, and autumn sunny and warm. The average minimum temperature is 51 °F (11 °C), and the average maximum is 63 °F (17 °C). The mean rainfall, almost all of which occurs between November and April, is about 21 inches (533 mm). There is sunshine during two-thirds of the possible daylight hours. The most characteristic feature of the weather, however, is the summer fog, which lies low over the city until midday, creating consternation among shivering tourists. This fog is a phenomenon of temperature contrasts, created when warm, moist ocean air comes in contact with cold water welling up from the ocean bottom along the coast.

Summer Fog

This morning I awoke with a promise of a little sunshine.  It has been so foggy here for days, maybe weeks.  It has been wet, damp, drizzly and very depressing.  Since my mother passed away on May 4, 2011, I have been feeling very tired and without any motivation to work on all my projects.  I've gone for walks in the evening, but I had to wear a warm coat and scarf,  There were people out at 7:00 p.m. riding their bicycles, walking dogs and some even said hello, but it's not the same as a walk on the beach promenade as the sun is setting. 
 
Yesterday, I did get out of my neighborhood to have lunch at a Balinese Restaurant with a friend and then we went to her house on the opposite side of the city.  Her house is over a mountain and in a valley and it was very beautiful there.  She has a lovely garden and vegetable patch.  In my yard, it's neat, but I have spaces waiting to be planted, but it's too cold for me to stay out there for long.  I know it's like this in the summer--it's our summer fog, but each year I long for the sun.  Tomorrow Bill and I are going to our cabin in the Sierras where I hope to sit in the sun on my porch and read a book and also work on my photo album project.  Hopefully by the time I get back, the fog will have dissipated and the sun will shine again. 

My Neighborhood

I have lived in my district all my life in various locations.  Before I was born, at the beginning of WWII, my parents bought a brand new house in the new "Parkside" area.  My mother used to tell me that west of our house was all sanddunes.  Soon after the war was over, the district began filling in with homes "for the newly returning people in the armed forces" who purchased them with money from the G.I. bill.  Now I live a little closer to the ocean between two parks and on the sanddunes, but there is a lot of concrete and asphalt between the sand and us.  However, the sand dunes definitely prevail--I see evidence of them in the unkempt gardens as I wander through the neighborhood on my walks.  In front of people's houses, there is lots of sand with foxtails poking out along with brownish grasses and other weeds.  When I sweep my basement and the patio, there is always sand, and my cat brings home lots of fleas.  The gophers also make lots of tunnels and leave little mountains of sand all over any open grassy areas.  At the beach is the last remnants of the dunes--they are now planted with more indigenous plants, but the dunes are always changing shape and moving.  As the sand piles up, the highway has to be closed and machinery brought in to haul the sand away.  Sometimes I think it would have been better to have left this area to it's natural state, but it's too late--I live here along with lots of other people.

I have been trying to think about what this blog will be about--I have decided it will be about me mostly and what I do, my memories and my observations of the neighborhood, and anything else that pops into my head.  It's nothing scientific or cultural or arsty or even specific--just about how I relate to everything around me--including my family who are welcome to write something also.

Description

I wanted to include a definition of "dunes" so I found one at this site: 

 

http://geomaps.wr.usgs.gov/parks/coast/dunes/index.html

 

Sand Dunes - Coastal

Sand dunes form wherever environmental conditions provide sand, steady wind and a location for the sand to collect. This may occur in both coastal and terrestrial settings.

Coastal Dunes

Sand starts as bedrock, which is broken down into blocks, a size at which water is able to transport them downstream. Eventually these large blocks may be jostled around enough to be broken into sand-sized grains. Sand and other sediment usually ends up deposited along the sides of streams, in lakes, or in the ocean.

Our trip south

On July 20, Bill and I are planning a trip South to Ventura to visit his cousin, Marilyn, who is recovering from a stroke.  After that we are planning to drive to Palm Springs to stay in La Quinta.  William is going to attend a conference. Then on Sunday we are driving up Highway 395 and over Sonora Pass to our mountain retreat near beautiful Twain Harte.  I guess we will stay overnight somewhere, because we are scheduled to arrive on Monday.  On Tuesday evening we will drive back to S.F. 

We are looking forward to this little sojourn, since we need a change of scenery. 

Welcome!

A new phase of my life is beginning.