My Father the Fly

Dad and me

You know how sometimes the holidays can make you feel blue because not everyone is still around? I've thought of a remedy. This year I have started a new tradition. Through the magic of my imagination I have decided to share this season with a creature, a reincarnated member of my family. 

For my first guest, I have conjured up my father as a fly. He died in 1982. Say I'm crazy, but it's true. My father is here as I write this, and he is a fly. I've noticed him before so it makes sense. On his birthday in October a few years ago I wondered how he would celebrate in heaven.  He enjoyed photography, tinkering with cars and boat motors, and he loved sailing. I imagined he'd be doing one of those things.

Later that day, as I worked on my computer, I felt a tickle on my arm. I noticed a fly had landed there. I shooed it away, but it was back seconds later flitting back and forth between me and the computer screen. As we played swat-the-fly, I had the odd sensation that I had seen this fly before. Since I had been thinking so much about him, I had hoped for a sign that Dad was still around in some form or another. Wouldn't it be great if our deceased relatives could connect with us?

Dad had been a teasing sort. He liked to get under my skin on occasion. It's no wonder I recognized him as a fly. 

Fast forward a few years. I'm having lunch last week. A fly appears. Odd that it's December and a fly is on the prowl.

"Dad, is that you?" I ask.

The fly ignores me. He continues to feast on my lunch crumbs. You didn't think he would talk, right?

As I write this, I know he's around me somewhere, and I'm going to include him in all my holiday plans. He can help me decorate the house, wrap gifts and bake cookies. He can lie in wait for me to work on the computer so he can pester me as he sees fit.

"It's so good you're here, Dad." I'll say this when he appears. "Want to help me find sprinkles for these cookies?"

Hope you have a great holiday season and are able to share it with all your friends and relatives--real or imagined.

 

"Hom-gen-ized"

photo by Barbara Toboni

My expectations had been high for our first-born son. That’s why I felt overwhelmed when I left the office of our pediatrician with four-year-old Chase. Mild autism? What little I knew about autism, I had seen at the movies or read about in books. While my imagination flipped through frightening images of children rocking, screaming, and flapping their arms, David seemed to consider this a mere blip in his boy’s life. I should have understood. He had always been an optimist.

David came up with his own diagnosis: “That doctor is mildly autistic.”

We both had a lot to learn.

A few years later, after more testing, a psychologist told us that our eight-year-old would never learn to read phonetically.  

I tended to believe her, but David was skeptical. At breakfast the next morning as Chase ate his bowl of Cheerios, David asked our son to read the milk carton. Chase read the simple words first. This milk is from cows. He stopped. Homogenized was the next word.  

“Sound it out,” David said.

Hom-gen-ized.

Not bad! Maybe David had a point. The doctors didn’t know everything. Why was I so quick to believe them? It was true our boy had problems, but he strived to be like everyone else. He seemed to want to please his father.

When the boys were small, David worked long days as a cement mason. Although his company was based in Napa he often did repairs on existing buildings out of town. Commuting added extra hours he was away from the boys and me. That left mom on duty just about all the time.

Adding to that, I felt isolated. My relatives lived out of state and David’s family lived out of town. Sure, I could pick up the phone and call David’s mom or sister, but I didn’t want to call just to complain. Friends couldn’t relate to my troubles. I shied away from them preferring to be alone rather than having to explain Chase’s odd behaviors.

When David wanted time to pursue his interests—fishing, diving, or wine-making—I reacted by flying into a rage. How dare he want time away from us?  I would never put him in that position. The boys, both under the age of five, needed me. I knew their schedules and I didn’t want to give David my control—no matter how out of control we were. Back then I didn’t understand who I was if I wasn’t their mother. I needed them to make me feel whole.

I wished David could understand my outbursts, my grief. How could he be so casual about Chase’s autism? How could we be so different? It caused friction in our marriage. David didn’t fight me when I suggested marriage counseling.

Our counselor praised us for staying together. She told us many marriages fall apart when there is a disabled child, because each parent adjusts in a different way. You can say that again! I learned most of our trouble stemmed from the fact that we didn’t know each other well enough. It was true; we had dated only six months before David proposed, and Chase was born a year after we were married.

During one visit David and the counselor were talking about his interest in wine. The more he described his new hobby, the more animated he became. I grew anxious watching them. Why couldn’t I get that excited about something new in my life?  I needed to find an interest of my own, something to remind me of who I had once been. I used to do things I enjoyed.

Back then, I had spent too much time feeling sad about Chase. We hid from others rather than go somewhere, like the park, because I didn’t want to associate with “perfect” mothers and their “perfect” children.  I didn’t want to be stared at, or judged, or even worse, be shunned, but I needed to get out of the house. I needed to feel air and see light. I tried to remember the things that brought me joy.

In school I had been a shy girl with few friends. I liked English classes, especially when there had been writing involved, and I had kept a journal for poetry. Writing, I could do alone. Writing engaged my mind, and held my interest for hours while I searched for the right words to express my thoughts.

Every semester the local college sent out a catalogue which offered adult education courses. I usually thumbed through the catalogue and put it aside, but one day I lingered over a writing course. What if I started writing again? I could escape for a little while, get out of the house, get out of my head, and allow myself a sliver of joy.

It occurred to me then that David and I could each bargain for time alone.

Smart Cookie

photo from flickr.com by Millie

 

By the time Chase started middle school my file of paperwork regarding his health and education could create a how-to manual: How to Grow your Child from Seed. It’s an entire volume of clinical studies: doctor records, school reports, and special education plans. I won’t throw them away because our Chase is a fascinating fellow. I’m always looking for ways to understand him.

Now I’m reviewing one document, which summarizes the many evaluations Chase had prior to age 13. One study from second grade brings back difficult memories. Mildly retarded.  Before this study, I believed his delays were due to autism—that autism was his only issue. I was wrong. Along with an intelligence test, a nonverbal test was given. Results confirmed two issues: autism and mental retardation. 

There had been some discussion about middle school, whether or not Chase was ready—physical versus mental age. I had been in denial about my son growing into a man. I tried to ignore the clues, but eventually I had to answer the question, Where did that mustache come from? 

A psychologist had concluded that Chase’s placement in a 7^th grade special day class appeared to be appropriate. Fifteen students in all made up his class. I met their teacher, Ms. Hanson. A patient woman with a plan, she had developed a positive reinforcement program that involved cookies for good behavior. Perfect. What kid doesn’t like cookies? 

Chase’s favorite subject had been math. He knew his multiplication tables by heart, but he lost track when it came to problems with two and three place numbers like 146 X 17. We tried division too, a good review for me, but not so much for Chase. The concept was too advanced. I started to realize the extent of his disability when I helped him with homework; he had trouble retaining information. We solved problems one day and he forgot how the next. This was frustrating at times, but we kept at it until his worksheets were complete.

One day I asked Ms. Hanson, “How can this be helping Chase? He doesn’t seem to understand.”

“As long as he’s willing to try, why not? Every day he wants to take home extra worksheets.”

“You mean more than what is required for homework?”

“Yes. He seems to enjoy the practice.”

I didn’t let on how much time I had spent helping him. While we talked, my eyes drifted around the room and settled on a package of cookies left open on a counter. “Ms. Hanson, does Chase earn extra cookies for the work he turns in?”

“Sure. All the kids do.”

I left the classroom feeling duped. My son was one smart cookie. He was using me to help score extra treats.

Doctor's Orders

Dave, Colleen, and Doctor watching over Chase.

It’s finally morning, thirty hours of labor, and no bouncing baby boy, at least not yet. I haven’t slept and Dave is somewhere out there able to enjoy his freedom, while I lie here sideways in my hospital bed fastened to a fetal monitor while clutching my giant beach ball belly.

“How much more waiting is good for my baby?” I ask the nurse as she fiddles with my IV bag. The steroid drug is designed to slow down my labor in order to help Chase’s lungs develop for his premature birth. Although I like what the drug is doing for him, I don’t like the side effects.  I feel as though I drank too much coffee for someone confined to a hospital bed.

        

“Hang in there,” she says, “the doctor will be checking in again soon.”

With not much else to do, I talk to Chase in my head. Breathe baby, breathe!

I wish my mom was here. She’s gone now, died years ago—much too young—from ALS. Did she have a fetal monitor hooked up to her when I was born? I was a big baby—eight pounds. A few years later—two months before our wedding—Dad died of complications after heart surgery.  Sorry you won’t have my parents, little guy.

 

I am so tired, but my mind is buzzing. Can you hear me Chase? My sister—your Aunt Nancy would be here if she could, but she lives in Hawaii with your Uncle Gordon, and your new cousin, Sherron, four months older than you.  Some day you’ll meet her. Sherron was full-term, C-section, not a preemie like you, Chase. Why are you a preemie?

I wish someone was here besides just me and the medical staff.  Bet they’re having a nice break right now. I want a break! Before Dave sped from the room, he told me his mom would be arriving soon. Want to meet your Grandma, Chase? I know she can’t wait to meet you.

The doctor pokes his head in the door. “How are we doing?” He wants to check my cervix again. Is it the third time or the fourth?

I tell him that I feel pressure, but there is no intense pain. “How much longer?”

“It will be soon, today,” he says. “Let’s see if we can get you some rest before the big event.”

He orders a sedative. “We’ll wake you in a few hours, and then induce labor. Things will move quickly after that.”

 I like the doctor’s first order—sleep would be welcome—but the second order? Induce labor? I imagine another IV bag with forceful chemicals surging into my blood stream. Is it really necessary? I wasn’t too happy with the first bag full of jangling nerve juice, but now I am relieved to see they are removing it.

As the steroid sizzles out, the sedatives start to simmer, and I drift off. The next thing I know I am the center of attention. More fluids are administered and soon after a searing pain grows inside. So this is when I’m supposed to do the breathing.

 

The doctor doesn’t want me to push too hard, but that’s what I really want to do. I want this thing out of me. I’m shouting out my own orders. “Give me something for the pain!”

A doctor says, “Try to stop yelling, Mrs. Toboni. We’ve ordered an epidural.”

Am I yelling? Oh, sorry! Perhaps you’d like an epidural for your eardrums. Why don’t they put mothers in sound-proof delivery rooms so they don’t disturb anyone?

  

Between contractions I watch the clock hoping for swift pain relief from the shot, but it only takes a fraction of the sharpness away and with it all of the feeling in my legs. They are numb. I’m paralyzed and still pregnant.

  

I feel Dave clutching my hand and there are tears in the corners of his eyes. “The head is crowning!” I seize his arm as a band of burning, squeezing, pain grips my lower body. “Do the breathing,” he says. We lock eyes as I blow out air.

Another hour passes and I hear the words, “Here’s your boy.” Chase peers at me with shockingly blue eyes before the nurse rushes him away to an incubator. The doctor explains, “Chase needs more oxygen.”  The rest of what he says I do not comprehend, because all I can think about is that Chase is not inside me anymore.

Dave leans over me. “You did it,” he says. Soon he leaves the room to share the news with his mother. She pops in briefly. “Congratulations! We’re going to go check on Chase now. I’ll see you soon, honey.”

Now that Dave’s mom, Colleen, has arrived I feel as if the situation is under control. I am offered a warm blanket and a peace settles over me, as I realize I am at last comfortable. Everyone has left the room and I am alone, but I don't mind. The work is over, at least for now.

Beautiful Baby

Chase's plaque

Every mother likes to say her baby is beautiful, but I had proof. Johnson & Johnson awarded Chase an Honorable Mention in their Beautiful Baby Contest. I had hoped for first place and a college scholarship, but was glad to accept the plaque. His first couple years, I was only aware that my child was a beautiful baby destined to have a bright future. I couldn’t see that he was autistic, not yet anyway.

Before Chase was born I went to sleep as usual but woke up a few hours later in labor. How could this be happening? Our baby wasn’t due yet. I had just quit my job at the local newspaper, and I thought the timing would be perfect. I’d have six weeks to prepare, but Chase had his own timeline. 

David drove me to our local hospital and after checking in a nurse placed her stethoscope on my belly. Surprised, she looked at me and said, “You’re having twins.” She had found two pulses. She ordered a sonogram. Pre-term twins? What did that even mean?

Dave was half asleep in the hallway. “Guess what?” I called as I rolled by in my wheelchair. “We’re having twins. Come with us to the sonogram.”

It took a minute for the shock to stop constricting his vocal chords. “Twins?”

            “Yes, twins. You look pale.” He looked as bad as I felt.

After the sonogram the doctor—not my doctor, he was unaware of Chase’s timing and was off on vacation somewhere—confirmed what the nurse had told us. “Yes, there are two pulses, but only one is a heartbeat. The other is an ankle beat.” He assured me my baby was a good size for a preemie, about four pounds. “His best chance for a normal birth is at UCSF Medical center. We’ll send you there by ambulance.”

Ambulance? I’d never been inside one, but this wasn’t some great adventure. This was an emergency—sirens, paramedics, and the frightened mess that was me. And this new term for babies, preemies? How could there be this whole other species of babies that I’d never heard of before? 

“But I’m in labor now. Isn’t the baby going to come out now?”

The doctor explained that the labor could be slowed by injecting me with a steroid type drug allowing the baby’s lungs to develop. Even one more day of keeping the baby in my womb could make a difference.

My anxiety grew on the way to the hospital. This was partly because Dave couldn’t ride with me in the ambulance—he followed in our car—and because the intravenous drugs were working. I felt jittery. The paramedics were doing their best to keep me calm, but it was impossible to relax for the hour long ride from Napa to San Francisco.

At the hospital nurses and doctors buzzed around me as they settled me into my room. I was instructed to stay in one position, on my side, because the baby would have trouble breathing if I rolled on to my back. After a few hours my body was aching, but I dared not roll over. My water had already broken so there was nothing to stop Chase from being born but my uncomfortable position and the meds. Dave did what he could—massaging my back—but he was exhausted and after a bit he had to find a place to rest. He told me later he had found a bench outside and had fallen asleep for a few hours.

Thankfully, doctors knocked me out so I was able to get a few hours sleep before the birth. In all I labored 45 hours— 3 a.m. July 3rd to noon July 5th. Chase’s grandmother nicknamed him our Firecracker Baby. I learned very quickly that this wasn’t at all about me anymore. I prayed everything would be all right.

Chase: Part 2: First Words

Chase age 4

Along with the contact information for North Bay Regional Center, the doctor advised David and me to call the Napa Infant Program—NIP—a pre-school for toddlers with special needs. We’re talking just beyond potty training. (Some bragging here, Chase aced the potty by age 2.6.)

The next day I called NIP and they set up a home interview. On a rainy November afternoon, Johanna, a Special Education teacher, arrived at our house on time. I recall her name because she had been so kind. David’s mother, Colleen, had driven over from Petaluma at my request. I didn’t want to be alone. I brewed three cups of hot tea, because my hands were freezing.

“Hello, my name is Johanna,” she said to Chase. He mostly ignored her preferring instead to play with the puzzle his grandmother had offered him. Johanna watched him and took notes. Then she turned to me. “How do you know when Chase is hungry? Or when he wants to play with a toy out of his reach?”

I tried to be honest. “He fusses and fusses until I give in. I just give him what I think he wants.” What did I know about modeling the behavior I wanted from him? Nothing.

She offered Chase a candy—a mini Tootsie Roll—a signal to me that our interview was over. Johanna explained the NIP program to Colleen and me. “I believe Chase would benefit."

The process had begun. That had been the start of Chase’s first Individual Education Plan—IEP—others would follow annually. Four days a week from 12:30 to 3:30 he would attend NIP. Beginning after the holiday break, a little yellow school bus would deliver our toddler from our door to the school and back again.

On the first day of NIP I had been prepared to go with Chase on the bus, but he didn’t seem to need me. He marched right up the steps, took a seat, and didn’t even wave goodbye. Perhaps the bus driver felt guilty when she saw tears well up in my eyes. She waved goodbye to me.

Chase adapted well to pre-school. Parents were invited to visit, but it was noted that some of the kids—our son included—acted up when we did. I settled for sending notes back and forth in a journal that he carried with him in a back pack.

Progress was made. One day the teacher sent home instructions for the use of sign language. “Chase said book today by opening his hands. Try these words at home!” Potty was a word he could say by shaking his little fist. I guess for him that one was a no-brainer. As for talking, it took years for him to learn to communicate.

 His first true words came by age six. One night I couldn’t sleep so I went into the kitchen and poured some milk. Chase must have heard me. Did he want milk too? Leaning against the couch, he watched me while he rocked back and forth.

“Chase, how can I know what you want if you don’t tell me? Do you want milk? Do you understand what I’m saying to you?”

He continued to rock. What kind of an answer was that? “This is hard, Chase. I just want my son to tell me what he wants.” Tears threatened, and I tried to control them. “It makes me very sad that you won’t talk to me. Couldn’t you at least try?”

I was determined to get through to him. “Do the children at your school ever talk?”

No answer.

“What about Ivan?” Although I knew Ivan had Downs syndrome, I remembered hearing him speak. “I bet Ivan could tell me that he wants milk. And I would give him some right away. Can Ivan can say he wants milk?”

            “Ivan mik,” he said. Just like that, my son spoke. Not exactly what I wanted, but he spoke. My hands shook as I poured him a cup of milk. We opened the cookie jar to celebrate.

After that night more words slipped out—incoherent at times—but words, something so simple for most six-year-old children were remarkable for him.

Chase: Part 1: No Words

photo by Kiljander

Einstein didn’t talk until he was four.

He’ll talk when he has something to say.

Can he hear?

All were remarks from our relatives and friends intending to be supportive, but I mostly ignored them. My child was not Einstein, and it seemed to me that if he could whine and cry he could toss out a word or two.

By age two, at Chase’s physical exam, the doctor asked how his vocabulary was developing. I listed what I knew: da for Dad, dō for dog, ba for bottle, but they were sounds not words. I explained he had never babbled like other babies. Sometimes he gestured for things, a cup, a cookie, but mostly he yelled. 

“He should be putting two words together by now,” the doctor had said. “Make a list of his words and see me again in two months.”

Chase had been born six weeks premature so I expected delays in his development, but when he sat up at eight months, and walked at thirteen months, I stopped worrying. Did he need more time? Was I doing the mom thing right? Did this happen in other families? Chase was my oldest child. I hadn’t been around enough children to know for sure that something was wrong.

One day, feeling desperate, I decided to not let him out of his high chair until he said “down.” Any similar sound would do: dow, deh, doo. Nothing.

“Just sit there then,” I told him, and ignored the consequences. His vocal chords were fine.

“Say ‘down’,” I said.

He stretched out his arms.

“DOWN,” I demanded.

He kicked and his highchair wobbled.

“DOWN,” I yelled. (Not a good strategy, but I was feeling it.)

Afraid that his rocking might land him on the floor, I finally helped him. “Want a cookie?” Perfect. Now I was rewarding him for not talking. He snatched it out of my hand and ran from the room.

Two months later in the doctor’s office, I didn’t need a list. There were no words. Instead, there had been noises, silly noises, elongated vowel sounds, or tuneless humming, endless noise. “Quiet!” I yelled. We were the perfect pair, unable to communicate; there weren’t enough cookies in the world to fix us.

The doctor handed me a slip of paper with the phone number of North Bay Regional Center. He explained it was a state agency that offered free psychiatric testing for families in need of services. He also ordered a hearing test.

The results came back normal. 

To be continued…

Fearless

Chase, age 16

Chase loves the snow. He learned to snowboard as a teenager on a trip to Lake Tahoe with his brother, Jim, and cousins, Kyle, and Kevin. Dave’s sister, Vickie, and her family rented a cabin with us in the snowy village of Homewood. Vickie and I rented skis and snowboards and signed up for lessons with our sons at the mountain resort nearby. David didn’t need instruction, and Kirk chose not to ski, but he drove us to and from the resort in his minivan. That was scary enough! Especially, the one night when we ran into black ice on the way back to our cabin. 

I should admit my skills at the end of my lesson were not much better than when I began. A few sweeps down the bunny slopes and I discovered I had another skill, falling without breaking bones! Vickie fared much better. She had some prior experience, but our skills are not what this post is about. The point of this post is that we found out Chase was fearless with a snowboard, more so than his cousins. Very more so! And this was worrisome to us because we knew Chase, an autistic fellow, wasn’t always alert to his surroundings. David and I had tried, for the most part, to keep him out of danger, but we wanted him to have fun too.  

After Chase’s lesson we checked in with his instructor and he told us that Chase had done well. He had demonstrated two basic skills necessary for boarding, steering, and slowing down to a stop. Our boy was ready to fly, but I wondered how fast he could use those skills when speeding down a mountain. Being the oldest of his three cousins, he wanted to lead the pack. I recall one long discussion about staying off slopes designed for the pros with black diamond markers, but Chase seemed to think he was an expert. Unfortunately, he didn’t have the knowledge of an expert.

I will admit all of the boys possessed an amazing agility for snowboarding, but the grown-ups decided that to be safe they should stick together, and, if necessary, Kyle and Jim should act as bodyguards to rein Chase in. “Stay away from black diamonds,” we called to them as they marched off to the trails. That left Dave, Kirk, Vickie, and me with some freedom to relax in the lodge, and stay warm while we prayed.

As we sipped hot drinks on the sidelines, six-year-old Kevin, a quick study from his own beginners class, kept us entertained with his new moves. Outside the giant windows our boys blended in with the crowd, a blur of bright parkas and knit caps. Their antics reminded me of a pack of penguins dressed in fancy costumes instead of their usual tuxedos.  

I recall it was a week of bliss surrounded by stunning views of snow covered mountains studded with glistening pines, glowing fires, and lopsided snowmen. And sledding, my new thrill. Easier than skiing!  I'll never forget the boys’ ruddy faces when they came in from the cold, their eyes shining with excitement as they described their adventures. They told tales of Chase as though he was their hero, the way he flew the fastest and arrived at the bottom of the mountain first.

Although the controls we, as parents, placed on Chase were crucial for him to live in society, snowboarding allowed him some freedom to be himself, to be in control of his own body on the board. There were many tumbles for Chase on that trip, but after each one he emerged smiling and fearless, ready to fly again.

It’s an entire family, uncles, aunts, and cousins that help raise an autistic child.  

Uncle Kirk and Chase shoveling snow.

China Town: Finding Fu

China Town

Sherron had fond memories of a trip she took to San Francisco’s China Town several years ago with her father, Gordon (not present this trip.) Originally from Hawaii, Gordon is of Chinese descent, and more acquainted with the China Town of Vancouver, British Columbia. We missed Gordon this time, but as my husband pointed out someone had to keep working to fund this trip.

What? I remind Dave, in this day and age, it is perfectly acceptable for women to fund their own trips, and too, someone has to spend money otherwise what good is work?

This day we had important shopping work to do; Sherron wanted to find her favorite treat, ginger candy. What my niece wants she shall have! A good idea—have a plan when shopping. On our list, ginger candy, souvenirs for Nan, and I wanted a memento to mark the occasion.

Dragon on building

In order to distract Dave, we put him in charge of the camera. He’s not much for shopping, but had his eyes full examining the Chinese architecture, calligraphy, and snazzy red lanterns strung everywhere. “Don’t you think these lanterns would look good in our back yard?” 

“No, Dave, don’t see big red lights for our back yard on the list, here.”

Shops stuffed to capacity drew me in, as I immersed myself in trinket, t-shirt, and candy sorting affairs. That’s when I noticed the dragons, figurines made of jade, wood, and stone in all sizes, enchanting creatures. It seemed fitting I should want to own one; in Chinese astrology, 2012 is the year of the dragon.   

Dragons are supposed to bring fu. Would this dragon bring me luck? I couldn’t resist a small one —at the right price—cheap.  A dragon of my very own. I felt lucky already, but would its magical powers help us find Sherron’s candy?  “Ginger,” I whispered into dragon’s ear.

Viola! Moments later, Sherron emerged from a shop carrying a small sack. “Is that what I think it is?”

She smiled and waved her crinkly wrapped treats. Soon after, Nancy found a souvenir for Gordon. “This is perfect,” she cried out from the back of a jam-packed lucky cat and dragon, teacup, purse and post card store—a “Got Rice” t-shirt. According to Nan, “Gordon says this all the time.”

Dragon accompanied us through the rest of our day in San Francisco yielding a delicious dinner at North Beach Restaurant followed by a show at Club Fagazi, Beach Blanket Babylon.

Fu

This post is the last in my series of Nan’s surprise visit. I’m a lucky gal. Full of fu you may say, and back home I put Fu to work assisting me with his magical powers blessing the submission files on my desk.

Do you have a memento that brings you luck?   

Part II: City of Saxophones

Barb, Dave, Sherron, Nan

With clam chowder cravings satisfied we strolled Pier 39, poked into shops, and let our senses lead us through the crowd of afternoon visitors. Street performers entertained, some talented and some not, including Tree Man (my name for him) a gristly fellow wearing a faded camouflage shirt crouched behind a trash receptacle clutching a dead tree branch for cover. His gimmick, to jump out at folks and demand money for scaring the crap out of them, failed.

Another charmer, bearded and unkempt, Jingle Man, sang “Jingle Bell Rock,” changing the lyrics to suit his thirsty need. “Jingle Bell, jingle bell, jingle bell drunk, give me some money for a jingle bell drink, etc…” 

“At least he’s singing, doing something in exchange for money,” Dave said. Christmas carols in April? No pull on my heartstrings! Most paused to laugh and kept their change.

The real talent drew bigger crowds. Knife Juggler, was sharp to watch, as was Rubberband Man, who rubbernecked dozens of tourists at a time. Saxophone Player, I couldn’t locate, but the tunes were lovely. Could be the music was canned. It seems whenever I visit San Francisco there is a saxophone playing nearby. They ought to call this place the City of Saxophones.

The Bay Bridge

Great views awaited at the end of the pier, but we didn't linger too long, Sherron and Nan wanted to visit China Town. More San Francisco adventures and pictures to come. Share a comment about your latest adventure.

Ben & Jerry or Dave & Barb?

(Click on my link to the right, Napa Writers Network, to see other writerly projects.)

San Francisco Sights: Part I

Golden Gate Bridge

In my last post I introduced my sister's surprise visit. Sherron, my niece, was excited to see our city by the bay and suggested a double-decker bus tour, but after I checked prices, and Dave's willingness to drive, we decided to take the mini-van. Dave's knowledge of the city (he was born there) would suffice for tour guide. On the agenda: Fisherman's Wharf, China Town, and Lombard Street. The Golden Gate Bridge drenched in sunlight, also a must-see, was an inspiring start to our afternoon. I shot a quick picture through the windshield to catch a wisp of cloud.

Lombard Street

First up, or should I say down, Lombard, once we located the tippy-top cross street. Dave finally asked a local for directions after several failed attempts of extracting the information from memory. What a view from atop this Russian Hill neighborhood before our van tip-toed through the switch-backs lurching along like a stalled roller coaster. Perfectly groomed houses with trim yards, marching tourists, and too many cameras, had us wondering what life might be like for those that lived indoors. Did they ever tire of lookie loos?

Onward to Fisherman's Wharf in search of our lunch and more with our much loved tour guide. He steered the van precariously through the city pointing out buildings he had worked on as a cement mason in his former life. Quite interesting, Dave! We found parking, a miracle, and Sherron found what she had been wishing for among the food vendors, and barking attendants, a sourdough bread bowl filled with clam chowder. "What my niece wants, she shall have," I proclaimed.

With steaming bowls we headed in the direction of Pier 39. There didn't seem to be any tables nearby, so when I spotted an empty bench we all sat down to feast, and immediately Nan reached around to strip off her sweater. In the process, she knocked Sherron's hunk of bread off her cardboard tray. It flipped to the ground. "GEEEEZ Mom!" Sherron said. I think this quote is a cleaned up version of what she really said, but I couldn't hear well.

Alcatraz Island

And so we began to feast not knowing that very soon there would be a line forming in front of us full of excited tourists speaking in foreign tongues, German or Scandinavian (I’m no expert). They waited to board a boat to Alcatraz Island. We ate, they watched. One woman with wire-rimmed glasses stared so intently at me, while I spooned my soup, that I almost offered her my leftovers. I ate quickly.

Stay tuned for more.  

Surprise!

Two weeks before my birthday Nan, my older sister, called to tell me the news. "Are you sitting down?"

Instead of the the bad news that I expected she shared that in just 2 weeks she was flying out to visit me for my birthday from Washington. And that's not all, my niece, Sherron, would join us too from Arizona. Shock of shocks! I haven't seen Sherron in about 8 years.

"What a great present!" I squealed into the phone. "I'll tell Dave and the boys right away."

"No need. They've known since January," she told me.

"Those bums kept this a secret since January?"

Geez. I had to clean the house. No time for spring cleaning. Dirty windows stayed dirty, spotty carpets  stayed spottty, and our plans to paint the bathroom? We settled for touch-ups. The yard's pruning, weeding, mowing, and clipping took place between rain showers.

I washed everything in the house, walls, floors, corners, counters, the fridge, and the coffee pot. I almost washed the cat, and I gave my sister updates on my exploits for the next 10 days while we made plans.

It seemed Mother Nature was doing some washing too, rain right up to the day they arrived, and then April skies cleared to a brilliant hue the moment Nan and Sherron stepped off their planes at the Oakland airport. Sherron brought sunshine from Arizona, and Nan left the rain in Washington.

What a wonderful birthday surprise! More trip notes and pictures to come.

Sherron & Nan

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