Tag Archives: Life

Unearthed Primitive Artifact Or…

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Before I even begin my strange tale, I want to be sensitive to negative colloquialisms such as “‘Burying the hatchet’.

The use of this term trivializes the ancient peace-making ceremony in which two fighting nations symbolically buried or cached their weapons of war.

Offensive language like this is a result of centuries of violence and continues to perpetuate stereotypes that have real-life impacts on Native communities.

Indigenous Peoples and their cultural traditions are real and deserve respect. They are not historical artifacts, caricatures, or mascots. (radicalcopyeditor.com)

But I don’t know how else to describe what I just found in my garden…an actual buried hatchet.

Look at it!

It’s a joke from the Universe, right?

I have no idea how long it’s been there or how it became buried near a path that leads to some steps to the second level.

I can’t even figure out how, after all this time, it became UNburied enough for me to notice that bright blue handle.

So with deepest respect, I brushed away the dirt around the buried hatchet.

I’m not sure what to do next. Dig it up? Leave it there? Anyone care to hazard a guess about what it means?

Almost Everything But a Washcloth Full of Holes

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I’m known as the “fixer” because I have a certain amount of success in gluing together broken bits of china, repairing toys, and mending torn clothing…just call me the all around problem solver.

The original Angel Boy recently came to me with a few hand sewing tasks; a ripped seam in his windbreaker, tighten the upper arms of his gardening sleeves where the elastic stretched out so they won’t fall down, (which is super annoying), and sew or iron patches on AB2’s jeans, where he must slide on one knee A LOT,

After I completed my work under the watchful eye of my faithful sidekick, Angel Girl, she rummaged around in her room for something for me to repair (she doesn’t like to be left out of anything) and ran back with a dress that had short-ish butterfly sleeves that didn’t meet her high fashion standards.

“I don’t like this part, Grandma, so you can fix it.”

I took a look at it and figured it wouldn’t be a too difficult job to remove the flutter sleeves and resew the seams, which I did.

It made her very happy.

Later, while mom was giving her a bath, I could hear them chatting about her day. All of a sudden, she said, “I’ve got to give this to Grandma.”

She jumped out of the tub and came running into my room dripping wet, holding a raggedy torn and tattered washcloth full of holes.

“Here you go, Grandma, fix this.”

It must have been washed dozens of times and there really wasn’t any life left and sadly, that worn out fabric was far beyond my capabilities to magically repair, but I love the faith and confidence that angel has in me as the “fixer”, the one she can count on to make things right and restore everything back to the way they should be.

Yup, I’m a fixer, but not always.

Random Mitzvah

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Do you know what a mitzvah is?

I don’t mean the ultra religious definition of doing something good to fulfill one of 631 commandments and I don’t mean BAR/BAT Mitzvah, (which I never did) but doing a mitzvah has also come to express an individual act of human kindness; a good deed.

Here’s the story. A couple days ago, I had a doctor’s appointment . As I walked to the office, I said hello to two people sitting on the curb out in front. They were a bit older than me but looked frail, and the man was in a walker.

There was a wait for the doctor and I chose to sit outside because no one in the waiting room was wearing a mask (except for me) and there was a lot of coughing AND the door was closed. (Yup, I’m still a mask wearer in crowded placed, even if no one else does.)

While I was standing outside on the sidewalk, I chatted with the couple. They told me they had been waiting an hour in the hot sun (we’re having a heat wave) for their Uber. The woman was on the phone trying to find some way to communicate with the company, which is impossible, by the way.

I felt horrible that these older people were left stranded and told them if they were still there when I was finished with my appointment, I’d drive them home as I learned they didn’t live all that far away from the doctor’s office. In case you thought they could take a bus, that’s not an option. Public transportation is horrible in my area.

I went back in the office and could see that the doc was so backed up, I’d probably be forced to wait at least an hour to see her, so I decided to reschedule my visit to next week.

When I left, I saw those poor people were still waiting, still on the phone, looking pretty stressed out. I told them I’d be more than happy to drive them home, which I did.

They were beyond appreciative and repeatedly offered gas money which I declined. They couldn’t believe a total stranger would help them. The man had cancer, was diabetic, in overall poor health, and his wife wasn’t much better.

How could I not help?

It was such a small thing to do for another human; a mitzvah, a helping hand.

I have so much to be grateful for in my life; it felt nice and right to extend a simple and random act of human kindness, not for any reward in this life or the next — for no reason other than I felt like it.

In a similar situation, would you help, too?

Self Portrait

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The Angels love to look through the photos on my phone, especially all the ones I’ve taken of them, of course.

When we clicked on this rose, I told them it was a selfie of ME cos I’m Princess Rosebud. They thought that was funny but being their dad’s kids, they just HAD to disagree…

“Grandma, you are so annoying! You aren’t a REAL princess!”

“Yes, I am.” I replied. “And you are Princess Charlotte and Prince Theodore.”

“Dad, Grandma’s being annoying again!”

OMG did they just tattle about me to my original Angel Boy? That’s too funny.

From the other room, I hear him say, “Mom, stop being annoying.”

I guess that’s going to be my legacy…however, we’re all royalty around here, so I thought I’d share this little joke to start the week.

This particular rose smells as good as she looks. Spicy and sweet, just like me.

I think a backstory needed to explain the origin of being called “annoying”, thanks to my new friend, wonderfully talented author Debbie Russell. I should have explained it in more detail and to be fair to the Angels.

I first began to reference myself that way when I bothered them as they were busy doing things (just to be funny) like standing in front of the TV during a show they were watching and I’d say, “Aren’t I the most annoying Grandma?” and they’d say “Yes, you are! Stop it!” And I’d stop, of course. Also for example, when I’d read a book to them, a book I’d literally read a thousand times before, to make it more interesting for ME, I’d change the names or spice up the story a bit differently, mainly to see if they were paying attention (which they were) and then they’d say, “Read the exact words, Grandma!” which I thought was pretty cute. And then I’d say, “Do you find it annoying when I do that?” The answer was always yes.

The Angels weren’t being disrespectful. Grandma was!

Fellini-esque Homeless Encounter

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Yesterday I drove to an appointment for a physical therapy session to work on my knee, the one with the torn meniscus. Since I hate parking garages with low, oppressive ceilings, I chose to park a block or so away.

The sky was blue, the sun was out, and I briskly walked to my destination. Restaurants were full of happy people enjoying balmy weather on the last day of spring break.

I crossed the street and noticed a gnome-like, wizened, obviously homeless guy on a bench.

Exactly as if he had been watching and waiting for me, he stood up and blocked my path when I approached. He held out a pen and asked me if he could write his name on my body.

(Yes, for a nanosecond, I imagined he was holding a knife. Adrenalin production ramped up in my body, but it was just a pen.)

I shook my head and firmly replied, “No, you CANNOT!”

He said, “Why not? Because then you’d belong to me.”

This wasn’t a pleasant encounter — his demeanor was filled with contempt. With those few words, the tone he conveyed was sarcastic, sardonic, mocking, even derisive.

I continued to walk, shook my head at the oddness of his words. Many times, I’ve been asked for money by street people, but this was out of the ordinary for sure.

Instead of “homeless”, advocates suggest the use of language like unhoused or unsheltered to describe people “experiencing homelessness” to imply a worldview that sees homelessness as a structural and societal failing, not a personal problem.

Whatever language one uses, we have a large population here, and I think our city has a fairly responsive and compassionate approach to this crisis. Not great, but better than their past one-dimensional militant approach.

About an hour later, I retraced my steps as I made my way back to my car. The little man was still there, perched on the same bench. This time I noticed that his feet didn’t touch the ground, which means he was even shorter than my five feet. I didn’t feel like I needed to take any effort to avoid him.

This bench was positioned in the middle of the sidewalk and near the intersection at the stoplight where I needed to cross the street.

As I walked by, he cackled and stuck his foot out as if to trip me. I circumvented this potential ill-mannered assault as he called out to me with an abundance of animosity, “Hey curly!”.

Of course I didn’t respond and made it safely back to my car, but I was curious about these two slightly peculiar encounters in an otherwise completely normal day.

As I pondered the deeper meaning of what occurred, it reminded me of a Fellini film; the blending of fantasy and baroque images with raw earthiness — opening a portal to what lives beneath the surface of seeming normalcy.

What did the angry man represent? Why me? Why did he say I would be his if he wrote his name on me? There was an essence of something shadowy and devious and outlier about him; a glimpse into a version of a world I don’t inhabit.

How utterly strange and slightly unsettling, like I was actually IN an art film or an alternate reality or another dimension.

The only way I can describe it is how Caryn James in an old newspaper article described a Fellini film…”that moment when you walk headlong into a scene so strange you think you’re hallucinating; then it turns out to be real.

What I know for sure is that it was borderline creepy and I was SO glad to go home. To be home. There’s no place like home.

To See the Good

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I parked my car (and made sure I knew where it was this time hahahaha). As I was gathering my shopping bags, I overheard a young-ish man with a baby sitting in a shopping cart as he was talking to his significant other.

He asked her if she needed any snacks, sweet or savory, and told her he loved her at least half a dozen times during the short walk to the grocery store, as we were headed in the same direction. The last thing he said was, “We’ll be home soon.”

I gathered from that brief exchange that she was probably pregnant and suffering from first trimester morning sickness. He was genuine, sweet, kind, obviously empathetic and caring.

I grabbed a cart as he stopped to disinfect his; the little girl caught my eye and said, “Hi!” I responded back to her, “Hello, sweetie!” She pointed to my mask (def wearing everywhere as I’m still recovering from pneumonia) and I nodded, “Yes, I’m wearing a mask.”

Her dad reiterated, “Yes, she is wearing a mask, my love.”

That’s exactly how I refer to the Angels, so I told him he was a great dad; more dads should be like him. He thanked me and kissed his baby girl. She waved to me and we continued on our individual shopping journeys.

There are still good people in this world and that warms my heart.

Searching for Doors of Perception

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NOT the psychedelic kind that Huxley wrote about…but opening the door to self reflection with love and compassion.

This photo looks like it could be one of my favorite places, a slot canyon in Grand Staircase-Escalante National Monument or here at Vermillion Cliffs, where I snapped this photo.

Wandering

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Not like my Jewish ancestors wandering for forty days and forty nights in the desert but that’s what it feels like when I can’t find my car in the parking lot.

Photo by Kelly on Pexels.com

Others seem to be in the same predicament; we are all wanderers in the concrete jungle.

I guess my mind was on other things and I didn’t MINDFULLY pay attention to where I parked, but this time I almost thought that my car had been stolen, but it hadn’t been…it was in the stall exactIy where I had parked it and then I must have completely lost my train of thought as my brain was on to the next thing.

Part of the problem is that when I initially pulled into the spot, the lot was fairly empty, but when I came out of the store, it had gotten full and things looked a bit different and that was slightly disconcerting.

Anyway, it all turned out fine, the car was located, I laughed at myself and drove home.

Has that ever happened to you?

Call of The Void

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There’s a certain overpass in San Diego where a couple of freeways intersect and there’s one particular stretch that always gives me butterflies because it seems as if you could keep going and fly off the road.

It’s not that I WANT to go flying, but it’s an unsettling primitive curious impulse, “…if I don’t follow the curve of the road and I keep going, I wonder what that would feel like…”

The French have a phrase that explains it far better than I could:

L’appel du vide

L’appel du vide literally means “the call of the void,” and describes a strong or compelling urge one might feel to jump or fall from a high place, such as from a tall building or precipitously soaring cliff.

L’appel du vide does not necessarily or often imply a suicidal or self-destructive longing to plummet from great heights, but rather perhaps a non-destructive urge or itch to try to fly from a cliff or tall building down into “the void.”

It’s a split second rumination, a momentary lapse of rational thought; a suspension of cerebral control — and of course I keep driving ON the road and the urge passes, but not without a bit of adrenal fight or flight activation and I don’t really like that feeling of losing control.

Whew! Just thinking about that causes a bit of anxiety which is why I usually avoid that area unless there’s no alternative course.

If you live in the San Diego area, can you figure out what freeway location I’m referring to?

Random Chat With a Graceful Soul

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Do strangers sometimes strike up random conversations with you in public?

Me, too.

Yesterday, standing outside Trader Joe’s, contemplating their plant display, I wondered if I should bring another one home. I spied a pretty little olive tree. My green thumbed son got one at his Traders and it’s now about fifteen feet tall, but that’s the difference between a drought climate and the Pacific Northwest, I guess.

As I pondered this decision, I noticed an elderly lady next to me seemingly in similar deliberations. She was beautifully attired like my mom would have been to go out for the day in a gorgeous dress with heels, accessorized with a sparkly brooch. Her hair was carefully coiffed.

Such a gorgeous human.

I picked up one olive tree and put it back, not sure if I wanted to potentially kill another living being. It’s difficult to grow a lot of things here with barely any rain and restricted watering. Even if it’s not restricted, the cost to effectively water is prohibiitve.

I pointed to the olive trees and said to her, “Are you thinking of getting one, too?”

She replied, “I would, but I can’t see how big it will get.” She had a bit of an accent.

I read the little informational sticker on the pot and told her, “Ten to fifteen feet unless it’s pruned.”

Then I shared with her my son’s successful experience with the olive tree in his garden and how it already created a few actual olives.

After that, she proceeded to tell me one wonderful story after another about growing up on an olive farm just outside of Rome.

Every fall, “just about this time”, she said, they’d pick tons of olives for eating and pressed olive oil and sold it all.

The olive trees outside of Trader Joe’s brought memories flooding back from her youth and you could tell she was wistfully remembering what were obviously happy times with her family.

I told her it was no wonder she had beautiful skin from all the olive oil and she smiled, reached out a hand to touch my arm, and thanked me for taking the time to talk to her.

Actually, it was MY pleasure.

I could have listened to her talk for hours. The stories about her childhood during and after WW 2 were fascinating. I wonder how and why she came to live in California.

(No, I didn’t get the tree, but it’s still under consideration.)