The Chronicles of Nadine

Nadine and a surfer buddy came to America 20 plus years ago from South Africa. They came to Los Angeles to be in show business, and to make a better life. Nadine's mom and dad waved good-bye then cried in their hankies for a very long time. 

Nadine and her friend got off the plane with a tourist's visa in one hand and a small suitcase in the other hand. They passed through customs and headed straight to Hollywood where they walked around enthralled and giddy, hoping to see a movie star, but didn't. Somebody generously offered their garage as a crash pad that first night. The first few months lost themselves to rose-colored glasses and youthful imaginings. When their Visas expired a Greek mother of two knowingly offered them her guest house, which was where her husband normally stayed but he was out of town for an indeterminate time.

Blond, blue-eyed, sweet and fun, Nadine found a job right away with a caterer. She worked long hours, was paid in cash, and glad of it. Her friend played guitar, got into the Hollywood scene of his dreams, and married an American woman for $2,000.00, payable over a five year period. He moved into his wife's home.

"I'm going to a place called North Carolina," he told Nadine. "I'm going to work on a movie about a horse and a girl. I'll be a camera operator." He looked back over his shoulder at her as he closed the door behind him. "Take care of yourself," he called back.

Nadine sat under the date tree in the backyard with the Greek woman who was not so much a friend as a comrade. "You have to get married," the Greek woman said. "I'll find someone, someone nice and inexpensive."

"$5,000.00, half down and half within two years. I need the money," the struggling actor said. "I've done this before. I know what to do. Give me your information and let's get started."

"Oh, sure," Nadine chirped, happy as she'd ever been. "It'll be fine." 

They were, happily, married for almost two years. Nadine now had a green card, a catering job in show business, filed her income taxes on time, and lived in the pool room at a friend's house where she enjoyed their children and their dog and their company. Her friend from home had worked his way up to film director, had several boyfriends, stayed married until his wife fell in love with someone she wanted to marry. They divorced. He kept her spacious apartment in West Hollywood which he soon sold for a house in the same area. 

Nadine called her parents everyday.  She visited them at least twice a year, spending lavishly when she was there.

"I have such a wonderful life in America," she told her mother. "I couldn't ask for more, really I couldn't." She gave her mother cashmere socks she'd purchased at a thrift store in Glendale, but they were just like new. "I pay taxes, pay for health insurance, and and still have enough money to save in a 401K for my retirement."

"Daddy, you made all this possible. If you hadn't put me in school in England, I'd never have known this kind of opportunity existed." Nadine hugged him close. "America is everything I'd imagined, and more," she said, as genuinely as her gift to him of a linen handkerchief embroidered with delicate white baskets of flowers and ribbons on two corners.

She worked hard for two decades, changing day jobs only twice, but working weekends with the catering service until they went out of business. She worked every holiday, for golden time, and saved her money faithfully for the next trip to South Africa. She never complained. She never got sick, but she did get very tired. 

"I'm a citizen, an American citizen," she shouted and actually jumped up and down after the Mayor of Los Angeles made his pronouncement. "Want to hear me recite the names of all the American presidents and vice presidents?" she'd ask any co-worker or client within earshot. She ate ice cream every night before bed that year to celebrate. She gained 20 pounds, one for each year she'd been here. 

Two years ago her mother passed away. "I have to go back South Africa," she told her boss. "I'll be there probably a month. It's up to me to take care of her things. My dad can't do it, he's not well." Straight-forwardly forthright, she spelled it out. "I know I only have two weeks vacation. I know I'll have to take the rest of the time without pay. I'll be back as soon as I can."

This year, thanks to a small inheritance from her mother and the failing housing market, Nadine purchased a one bedroom condominium on the third floor in a Los Angeles community she loves.  She got down on her hands and knees and scrubbed the toilet so that her friends, some not yet citizens, who had come to help her clean it up, would be comfortable in the bathroom. 

She quietly recited the last part of her Baptismal prayer. Will you strive for justice and peace among all people, and respect the dignity of every human being? Yes, I will, with God's help.  

The Chronicles of Nadine

Nadine and a surfer buddy came to America 20 plus years ago from South Africa. They came to Los Angeles to be in show business, and to make a better life. Nadine's mom and dad waved good-bye then cried in their hankies for a very long time. 

Nadine and her friend got off the plane with a tourist's visa in one hand and a small suitcase in the other hand. They passed through customs and headed straight to Hollywood where they walked around enthralled and giddy, hoping to see a movie star, but didn't. Somebody generously offered their garage as a crash pad that first night. The first few months lost themselves to rose-colored glasses and youthful imaginings. When their Visas expired a Greek mother of two knowingly offered them her guest house, which was where her husband normally stayed but he was out of town for an indeterminate time.

Blond, blue-eyed, sweet and fun, Nadine found a job right away with a caterer. She worked long hours, was paid in cash, and glad of it. Her friend played guitar, got into the Hollywood scene of his dreams, and married an American woman for $2,000.00, payable over a five year period. He moved into his wife's home.

"I'm going to a place called North Carolina," he told Nadine. "I'm going to work on a movie about a horse and a girl. I'll be a camera operator." He looked back over his shoulder at her as he closed the door behind him. "Take care of yourself," he called back.

Nadine sat under the date tree in the backyard with the Greek woman who was not so much a friend as a comrade. "You have to get married," the Greek woman said. "I'll find someone, someone nice and inexpensive."

"$5,000.00, half down and half within two years. I need the money," the struggling actor said. "I've done this before. I know what to do. Give me your information and let's get started."

"Oh, sure," Nadine chirped, happy as she'd ever been. "It'll be fine." 

They were, happily, married for almost two years. Nadine now had a green card, a catering job in show business, filed her income taxes on time, and lived in the pool room at a friend's house where she enjoyed their children and their dog and their company. Her friend from home had worked his way up to film director, had several boyfriends, stayed married until his wife fell in love with someone she wanted to marry. They divorced. He kept her spacious apartment in West Hollywood which he soon sold for a house in the same area. 

Nadine called her parents everyday.  She visited them at least twice a year, spending lavishly when she was there.

"I have such a wonderful life in America," she told her mother. "I couldn't ask for more, really I couldn't." She gave her mother cashmere socks she'd purchased at a thrift store in Glendale, but they were just like new. "I pay taxes, pay for health insurance, and and still have enough money to save in a 401K for my retirement."

"Daddy, you made all this possible. If you hadn't put me in school in England, I'd never have known this kind of opportunity existed." Nadine hugged him close. "America is everything I'd imagined, and more," she said, as genuinely as her gift to him of a linen handkerchief embroidered with delicate white baskets of flowers and ribbons on two corners.

She worked hard for two decades, changing day jobs only twice, but working weekends with the catering service until they went out of business. She worked every holiday, for golden time, and saved her money faithfully for the next trip to South Africa. She never complained. She never got sick, but she did get very tired. 

"I'm a citizen, an American citizen," she shouted and actually jumped up and down after the Mayor of Los Angeles made his pronouncement. "Want to hear me recite the names of all the American presidents and vice presidents?" she'd ask any co-worker or client within earshot. She ate ice cream every night before bed that year to celebrate. She gained 20 pounds, one for each year she'd been here. 

Two years ago her mother passed away. "I have to go back South Africa," she told her boss. "I'll be there probably a month. It's up to me to take care of her things. My dad can't do it, he's not well." Straight-forwardly forthright, she spelled it out. "I know I only have two weeks vacation. I know I'll have to take the rest of the time without pay. I'll be back as soon as I can."

This year, thanks to a small inheritance from her mother and the failing housing market, Nadine purchased a one bedroom condominium on the third floor in a Los Angeles community she loves.  She got down on her hands and knees and scrubbed the toilet so that her friends, some not yet citizens, who had come to help her clean it up, would be comfortable in the bathroom. 

She quietly recited the last part of her Baptismal prayer. Will you strive for justice and peace among all people, and respect the dignity of every human being? Yes, I will, with God's help.  

We've got a problem, Houston

This is an actual email that came in Friday from someone who evacuated, then came home. I wouldn't want to be there, but I wonder if eating smaller portions, even if it isn't fresh food, might do some people good...What do you think?

Hi Y'all
The power just came on.......whoopee!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!
I finally got in touch with *****. There's 10 feet of water and mud in the two condos. ***** is very sick, so things are really bad for them. Please keep them in your prayers. I am fine now that we have electricity again. The police rolled down the street a while ago, and told us that the ice and water was available at the city hall. FEMA wouldn't distribute it, just brought it to the main distribution center at Reliant Center and dumped it. They left it up to the local authorities to arrange for the trucks and personnel to take it to the "PODS" to be set up in the neighborhoods. The "POD" out here was backed up for 10 miles with people trying to get into it and had the road blocked with one trooper to handle the traffic in and out. Never mind that the only road to it was a two lane affair. People were spending 10.00 in gasoline to get there for the free ice and bottled water. The MRE meals are a joke. 5 cans of spaghettios, beef stew, etc, crackers, powdered milk, and juice. No one could survive on those because those sizes are for kids, and really not healthy. I miss my salads so much. Anyway, maybe in a couple of days we can get into Wal-mart and get some fresh food. There was hardly any bread, batteries were sold out, but they did set up some desks with power strips on them so you could charge your phones up. At least someone was thinking about us. Thanks for all of your concern and good word we really appreciate it. I hope we don't have to do this again. It was like listening to a tornado for 12 hours and when I heard the fence crack (big wooden planks) I thought we were going to end like Dorothy in "Oz". I wouldn't wish this on anyone. One couple I heard about went to stay with their children and a big tree in their yard crashed in the house right on top of their bed. They were very lucky. Take care.

We've got a problem, Houston

This is an actual email that came in Friday from someone who evacuated, then came home. I wouldn't want to be there, but I wonder if eating smaller portions, even if it isn't fresh food, might do some people good...What do you think?

Hi Y'all
The power just came on.......whoopee!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!
I finally got in touch with *****. There's 10 feet of water and mud in the two condos. ***** is very sick, so things are really bad for them. Please keep them in your prayers. I am fine now that we have electricity again. The police rolled down the street a while ago, and told us that the ice and water was available at the city hall. FEMA wouldn't distribute it, just brought it to the main distribution center at Reliant Center and dumped it. They left it up to the local authorities to arrange for the trucks and personnel to take it to the "PODS" to be set up in the neighborhoods. The "POD" out here was backed up for 10 miles with people trying to get into it and had the road blocked with one trooper to handle the traffic in and out. Never mind that the only road to it was a two lane affair. People were spending 10.00 in gasoline to get there for the free ice and bottled water. The MRE meals are a joke. 5 cans of spaghettios, beef stew, etc, crackers, powdered milk, and juice. No one could survive on those because those sizes are for kids, and really not healthy. I miss my salads so much. Anyway, maybe in a couple of days we can get into Wal-mart and get some fresh food. There was hardly any bread, batteries were sold out, but they did set up some desks with power strips on them so you could charge your phones up. At least someone was thinking about us. Thanks for all of your concern and good word we really appreciate it. I hope we don't have to do this again. It was like listening to a tornado for 12 hours and when I heard the fence crack (big wooden planks) I thought we were going to end like Dorothy in "Oz". I wouldn't wish this on anyone. One couple I heard about went to stay with their children and a big tree in their yard crashed in the house right on top of their bed. They were very lucky. Take care.

Margaret: A Very Uptown Gal

Margaret has had a difficult week. Not because she works in the financial industry, not because she's losing clients left and right, not even because she's been too busy to shift her summer wardrobe to the back of the closet. 

She's been in a Midwestern city for a wedding. First the humidity bombed her blond stylish long-bob, and, on the same day ruined her white silk Dior blouse.

"Ring around the collar," she emailed her secretary. "For what I paid, it should have been good for at least 25 wearings. It's white! Oh, what am I going to do? There's not a single decent store here that could replace it." 

Her secretary did not email back. However, she did forward it to her co-workers who all got a good laugh.

"I guess Margaret's social skills will just have to pull her through," one woman  replied, laughter crackling between every word as she typed. "I wonder what she will do? Wouldn't it be fun to be a fly on her wall."

The day of the wedding Margaret stood in front of the full length mirror in her hotel suite, which by the way, had a brown floral polyester comforter, and matching drapes. "I'm 50 years old," she said to her husband as if he didn't know she was actually 60 years old, "and my chin has such bad acne that my make-up won't cover it. I've never had acne in my life!" Another untruth.

Her husband sat on the bed and tied the laces on his black Johnson and Murphy wing-tip dress shoes. "It's not so bad here. Be nice if we had a little rain storm."

"Don't say that, " she snapped. "I didn't bring a rain coat although that would cover up a multitude of sins." Bedraggled, that's how I look, she thought to herself. Be-draaagggle-d.

"I'm ready," he said, standing up and adjusting his navy suit jacket without even looking in the mirror. "We need to leave soon. I'll wait in the lobby downstairs." 

As the door slammed, Margaret jumped. Hotel doors always have to slam, she thought. Why?

Did Princess Diana's hotel doors slam? I'll bet they didn't.

Margaret flat-ironed her hair, section by section , just as she had done for the last howeverlong. Oh how I envy those women with cuts that fall into place no matter the weather. She imagined a thin statuesque blond striding through a crowd, head held high on a swan neck, every hair in place, grey eyeliner emphasizing individual false eyelashes attached more closely at the outer corner than the inner corner of the eye. Iridescent pale cheeks, raspberry lips, and a creamy smooth chin with just a hint of pink along the jawline.

Oh, a lace collar with the burnished long necklace, that chunky one, weighted with the pale jade whatever it is, doesn't matter. I'll look fabulous.  

Margaret grabbed her Blackberry, punched in her husband's number and waited while it rang and rang. God Lord, what is that man doing, doesn't he ever hear this thing? Ah..

"What?" he said, slightly slurring the word. "What?"

"Get my jewelry. Go to the concierge and have them bring it up to me, right now," she said.

"They don't have a concierge here," he said. "And your jewelry is in the suitcase. Just do something, we need to get there."

"Oh, of course, " she membled with her last ounce of breath.

She put the phone in her bag, the small cylindrical cream colored beaded one she'd already prepared to take. Margaret turned slowly, in slow motion actually, toward the suitcase open at the foot of the bed. She riffled through for pantyhose without even looking at the packaging or color. 

Sitting squarely on the side of the bed, she rolled one stocking leg and slide her foot in first up to the ankle, then she rolled the other stocking leg and slid her other foot in up to the ankle.  As she stood up to wiggle them upwards into place, she looked down at her feet. 

Margaret made an executive decision: It doesn't really matter what I wear here. No one will notice. 

 

Margaret: A Very Uptown Gal

Margaret has had a difficult week. Not because she works in the financial industry, not because she's losing clients left and right, not even because she's been too busy to shift her summer wardrobe to the back of the closet. 

She's been in a Midwestern city for a wedding. First the humidity bombed her blond stylish long-bob, and, on the same day ruined her white silk Dior blouse.

"Ring around the collar," she emailed her secretary. "For what I paid, it should have been good for at least 25 wearings. It's white! Oh, what am I going to do? There's not a single decent store here that could replace it." 

Her secretary did not email back. However, she did forward it to her co-workers who all got a good laugh.

"I guess Margaret's social skills will just have to pull her through," one woman  replied, laughter crackling between every word as she typed. "I wonder what she will do? Wouldn't it be fun to be a fly on her wall."

The day of the wedding Margaret stood in front of the full length mirror in her hotel suite, which by the way, had a brown floral polyester comforter, and matching drapes. "I'm 50 years old," she said to her husband as if he didn't know she was actually 60 years old, "and my chin has such bad acne that my make-up won't cover it. I've never had acne in my life!" Another untruth.

Her husband sat on the bed and tied the laces on his black Johnson and Murphy wing-tip dress shoes. "It's not so bad here. Be nice if we had a little rain storm."

"Don't say that, " she snapped. "I didn't bring a rain coat although that would cover up a multitude of sins." Bedraggled, that's how I look, she thought to herself. Be-draaagggle-d.

"I'm ready," he said, standing up and adjusting his navy suit jacket without even looking in the mirror. "We need to leave soon. I'll wait in the lobby downstairs." 

As the door slammed, Margaret jumped. Hotel doors always have to slam, she thought. Why?

Did Princess Diana's hotel doors slam? I'll bet they didn't.

Margaret flat-ironed her hair, section by section , just as she had done for the last howeverlong. Oh how I envy those women with cuts that fall into place no matter the weather. She imagined a thin statuesque blond striding through a crowd, head held high on a swan neck, every hair in place, grey eyeliner emphasizing individual false eyelashes attached more closely at the outer corner than the inner corner of the eye. Iridescent pale cheeks, raspberry lips, and a creamy smooth chin with just a hint of pink along the jawline.

Oh, a lace collar with the burnished long necklace, that chunky one, weighted with the pale jade whatever it is, doesn't matter. I'll look fabulous.  

Margaret grabbed her Blackberry, punched in her husband's number and waited while it rang and rang. God Lord, what is that man doing, doesn't he ever hear this thing? Ah..

"What?" he said, slightly slurring the word. "What?"

"Get my jewelry. Go to the concierge and have them bring it up to me, right now," she said.

"They don't have a concierge here," he said. "And your jewelry is in the suitcase. Just do something, we need to get there."

"Oh, of course, " she membled with her last ounce of breath.

She put the phone in her bag, the small cylindrical cream colored beaded one she'd already prepared to take. Margaret turned slowly, in slow motion actually, toward the suitcase open at the foot of the bed. She riffled through for pantyhose without even looking at the packaging or color. 

Sitting squarely on the side of the bed, she rolled one stocking leg and slide her foot in first up to the ankle, then she rolled the other stocking leg and slid her other foot in up to the ankle.  As she stood up to wiggle them upwards into place, she looked down at her feet. 

Margaret made an executive decision: It doesn't really matter what I wear here. No one will notice. 

 

Dead Souls in Chatsworth, California

Today is the day after the train collision just around the bend on a single track in Chatsworth, California. Desi and Lucy Arnez lived there with their children. John Wayne made movies out there at the Paramount ranch. I think it was him. Five decades years ago it was a place to get away from the city. It has long since become a suburb.

Now it is a place of sadness, anguish, and 18 dead souls and counting. 

Today, my friend from Northridge, next door to Chatsworth is coming over to pick up a coffee table that she loaned to my daughter. Tomorrow, the coffee table is going to Sacramento with my friend's daughter who is about 10 minutes pregnant, suffering morning sickness and exhaustion and excitement all at the same time. Her daughter and my daughter were married about two weeks apart last summer. All so carefully planned. 

Not so for the people in those train cars. The freight car probably had a couple people in it. Those happy-sad, mad-glad, short-fat, tall-thin, old-young people going home on the metrolink, tired from a day's work, excited or disappointed from a day at school where they had accomplished something worthwhile--or not--and those who just happened to be on that train going in the direction of Moorpark because it was their day for one of life's rite-of-passage, they all had souls.

Hopefully, they all had families. Families who will grieve for them, or with them, and what happened to them. For those, even that one single person, who did not have anyone, I grieve. It doesn't matter whether they are at the big banquet at the right hand of God, or their soul has been set free, or they are simply gone from this earth. 

Celebrating a life well-lived is a way to let go, float them away on a pyre, sprinkle them on a hillside, or bury them in a casket. But loss is real. A home sits empty, a chair unused, a bed half empty, an apple uneaten. That is real and someone must attend to it.

I shall mourn for the life lost in the shuffle. I shall pray for all the rest, that they may rest in peace or someone's loving care. This is pain and hurt and loss. It best not be buried beneath anger.

May no one use these dead souls as property in the name of a self-righteous get rich scheme.

Dead Souls in Chatsworth, California

Today is the day after the train collision just around the bend on a single track in Chatsworth, California. Desi and Lucy Arnez lived there with their children. John Wayne made movies out there at the Paramount ranch. I think it was him. Five decades years ago it was a place to get away from the city. It has long since become a suburb.

Now it is a place of sadness, anguish, and 18 dead souls and counting. 

Today, my friend from Northridge, next door to Chatsworth is coming over to pick up a coffee table that she loaned to my daughter. Tomorrow, the coffee table is going to Sacramento with my friend's daughter who is about 10 minutes pregnant, suffering morning sickness and exhaustion and excitement all at the same time. Her daughter and my daughter were married about two weeks apart last summer. All so carefully planned. 

Not so for the people in those train cars. The freight car probably had a couple people in it. Those happy-sad, mad-glad, short-fat, tall-thin, old-young people going home on the metrolink, tired from a day's work, excited or disappointed from a day at school where they had accomplished something worthwhile--or not--and those who just happened to be on that train going in the direction of Moorpark because it was their day for one of life's rite-of-passage, they all had souls.

Hopefully, they all had families. Families who will grieve for them, or with them, and what happened to them. For those, even that one single person, who did not have anyone, I grieve. It doesn't matter whether they are at the big banquet at the right hand of God, or their soul has been set free, or they are simply gone from this earth. 

Celebrating a life well-lived is a way to let go, float them away on a pyre, sprinkle them on a hillside, or bury them in a casket. But loss is real. A home sits empty, a chair unused, a bed half empty, an apple uneaten. That is real and someone must attend to it.

I shall mourn for the life lost in the shuffle. I shall pray for all the rest, that they may rest in peace or someone's loving care. This is pain and hurt and loss. It best not be buried beneath anger.

May no one use these dead souls as property in the name of a self-righteous get rich scheme.

Loretta who takes a bath instead of medicine

September in Van Nuys can be the hottest month of the year. Loretta had just taken a bath, and it was a question of whether to put on her nightgown or not. She'd taken a bath after dinner for more than 65  years, ever since she left home for nurses training. Lots of women her age took medicine, all she needed was a bath. 

When the phone rang, she held the towel around herself with one hand and threw open the window with the other, then promptly tripped and smacked her backside on the floor. By the time Loretta hobbled into the bedroom and fumbled for the phone, she snapped. "What do you want?" 

She wanted to cry, instead she leaned against the edge of the bed, closed her eyes and listened to her caller, who wanted something.

"Yes. I can walk the dog over there, and check on her," Loretta said, evenly, without an ounce of emotion, but with a long pause before she continued. "She's your mother, wouldn't she rather see you, especially since you haven't been there recently." It was not a question.

The woman on the other end of the line had been married to Loretta's son 25 years ago. That was three husbands, 2 rehabs, half a dozen different jobs and one lazy-ass life time ago. Sure enough, some man's voice in the background made it clear why she was too busy. 

Loretta took a Valium, waited 15 minutes, then pulled on shorts and a shirt and set off with the dog down the sidewalk. A pink and grey and yellow streaked sunset took her back to the trip she and her sister had taken to Maui, back in 1985, maybe. That drive along the road to Hana, all those waterfalls in the rain forest had been so beautiful. They'd stopped at a roadside fish shack and paid a dollar for two steaming wrapped fish things.

"Fresh, just caught," a little smiling man had told them. "I caught, myself," he added. "Take your pictures?" 

They should have gone again. It wouldn't have been the same. Loretta had already retired. Her sister had her own life, a new man friend even. Loretta had figured it all out, long ago. You have to get on with life. Take care of business. Don't let the foolishness get in the way. For goodness sakes, everyone just wants to have a good time, all the time. It just gets ridiculous. There's work to do. 

Loretta picked up her stride. The twinge in her back barely perceptible. The dog wagged his tail as fast as his little legs moved.  Loretta chuckled and pushed her bangs to the side of her face. 

"You're fit to be tied," her little sister would have said with a laugh. "Just look how beautiful the sky is. Why are you so upset?"

Loretta rang the doorbell at the old house on the next corner. She rang it three times. The old woman was half deaf. Loretta peeked in the window but didn't see anyone. What a waste of my time, she thought. The poor old thing is probably taking her bath. Loretta went around back, and saw the screen door hanging open. 

"Hello," Loretta called out. "Anybody home? Hello. Hello."

She went inside. The kitchen smelled of rotten fruit and flies buzzed the countertops and cabinets. The dog whined and pulled her forward. There was the poor old soul. On the sofa. Stretched out. Feet up. Head on a cushion. Mouth open. 

"Wake up, woman," Loretta called to her. "Time to get up. You can sleep in bed." 

It came to Loretta slowly. The old woman was dying. Her breath was shallow, her skin was dull and flat. Loretta lifted a stack of magazines off of a chair and sat down. Her back hurt. Her head ached. She held the old woman's hand and patted her scroungy head. By nightfall, the old woman was gone. Loretta switched on the table lamp and called for a coroner.

But she didn't call the daughter. She knew she'd hear about it later. But for now, there was work to do. A pyrex bowl of hot water and dish detergent served well with a toothbrush to clean the old dead woman's fingernails. No one needed to see her so unclean.

Loretta who takes a bath instead of medicine

September in Van Nuys can be the hottest month of the year. Loretta had just taken a bath, and it was a question of whether to put on her nightgown or not. She'd taken a bath after dinner for more than 65  years, ever since she left home for nurses training. Lots of women her age took medicine, all she needed was a bath. 

When the phone rang, she held the towel around herself with one hand and threw open the window with the other, then promptly tripped and smacked her backside on the floor. By the time Loretta hobbled into the bedroom and fumbled for the phone, she snapped. "What do you want?" 

She wanted to cry, instead she leaned against the edge of the bed, closed her eyes and listened to her caller, who wanted something.

"Yes. I can walk the dog over there, and check on her," Loretta said, evenly, without an ounce of emotion, but with a long pause before she continued. "She's your mother, wouldn't she rather see you, especially since you haven't been there recently." It was not a question.

The woman on the other end of the line had been married to Loretta's son 25 years ago. That was three husbands, 2 rehabs, half a dozen different jobs and one lazy-ass life time ago. Sure enough, some man's voice in the background made it clear why she was too busy. 

Loretta took a Valium, waited 15 minutes, then pulled on shorts and a shirt and set off with the dog down the sidewalk. A pink and grey and yellow streaked sunset took her back to the trip she and her sister had taken to Maui, back in 1985, maybe. That drive along the road to Hana, all those waterfalls in the rain forest had been so beautiful. They'd stopped at a roadside fish shack and paid a dollar for two steaming wrapped fish things.

"Fresh, just caught," a little smiling man had told them. "I caught, myself," he added. "Take your pictures?" 

They should have gone again. It wouldn't have been the same. Loretta had already retired. Her sister had her own life, a new man friend even. Loretta had figured it all out, long ago. You have to get on with life. Take care of business. Don't let the foolishness get in the way. For goodness sakes, everyone just wants to have a good time, all the time. It just gets ridiculous. There's work to do. 

Loretta picked up her stride. The twinge in her back barely perceptible. The dog wagged his tail as fast as his little legs moved.  Loretta chuckled and pushed her bangs to the side of her face. 

"You're fit to be tied," her little sister would have said with a laugh. "Just look how beautiful the sky is. Why are you so upset?"

Loretta rang the doorbell at the old house on the next corner. She rang it three times. The old woman was half deaf. Loretta peeked in the window but didn't see anyone. What a waste of my time, she thought. The poor old thing is probably taking her bath. Loretta went around back, and saw the screen door hanging open. 

"Hello," Loretta called out. "Anybody home? Hello. Hello."

She went inside. The kitchen smelled of rotten fruit and flies buzzed the countertops and cabinets. The dog whined and pulled her forward. There was the poor old soul. On the sofa. Stretched out. Feet up. Head on a cushion. Mouth open. 

"Wake up, woman," Loretta called to her. "Time to get up. You can sleep in bed." 

It came to Loretta slowly. The old woman was dying. Her breath was shallow, her skin was dull and flat. Loretta lifted a stack of magazines off of a chair and sat down. Her back hurt. Her head ached. She held the old woman's hand and patted her scroungy head. By nightfall, the old woman was gone. Loretta switched on the table lamp and called for a coroner.

But she didn't call the daughter. She knew she'd hear about it later. But for now, there was work to do. A pyrex bowl of hot water and dish detergent served well with a toothbrush to clean the old dead woman's fingernails. No one needed to see her so unclean.

Yoga: 9 - 10:30 AM on Thurday

COMPLACENCY.  I've worn it like a mink coat on a summer day for awhile now, feeling smug that I had this great coat but complaining how it was miserable. The word's been around since the mid 17th century, so it would seem a lot of people have been stuck in the complacency rut. 

The word itself came to me in yoga class after a conversation about using a mental eraser in order to start over. Yes, my mind was wondering, but that's what complacency will do. There was so much mental goo to erase. Where to start?  

Meantime, I was flowing through sun salutations, I especially like upward facing dog. It takes strength, a flexible back, and an open heart which means the shoulders should move easily onto the back. Thing is, from here the body flows into downward facing dog. That means the toes, see them in the picture, the nails clicking on the mat--ruins a pedicure--must roll over backwards.

         

I rolled one foot's worth of toes over, then the other, Gosh darn, I was good at this. Done it hundreds of times. I'm just going with the flow. The instructor plopped down on the bamboo floor in front of my plush mat and rolled all ten toes over at the same time.

Okay, I'll give that a try. Whoa. Lost my flow when I gave it a go. There was no extra foot to take the weight of my body. The discomfort, okay it was pain, gave me the mental jolt that I'd been looking for. When I went for the second dual rollover, it was necessary to go back to the one foot, other foot method.

Mental eraser at work. I was on a new journey. Where would it take me?

This isn't me in the picture, below, but it could be.  Looks like me from a distance. For the first time, I balanced myself on my arms and shoulders. I didn't get up so high. I like to think my butt is smaller. Maybe it isn't. I know it isn't a flattering posture. But, hey, you try it.

It's called Crane Pose. It's vital to breath while perched in this position. Thought I'd share just in case you're in a rut. Complacency. Since the 17th century.

Yoga: 9 - 10:30 AM on Thurday

COMPLACENCY.  I've worn it like a mink coat on a summer day for awhile now, feeling smug that I had this great coat but complaining how it was miserable. The word's been around since the mid 17th century, so it would seem a lot of people have been stuck in the complacency rut. 

The word itself came to me in yoga class after a conversation about using a mental eraser in order to start over. Yes, my mind was wondering, but that's what complacency will do. There was so much mental goo to erase. Where to start?  

Meantime, I was flowing through sun salutations, I especially like upward facing dog. It takes strength, a flexible back, and an open heart which means the shoulders should move easily onto the back. Thing is, from here the body flows into downward facing dog. That means the toes, see them in the picture, the nails clicking on the mat--ruins a pedicure--must roll over backwards.

         

I rolled one foot's worth of toes over, then the other, Gosh darn, I was good at this. Done it hundreds of times. I'm just going with the flow. The instructor plopped down on the bamboo floor in front of my plush mat and rolled all ten toes over at the same time.

Okay, I'll give that a try. Whoa. Lost my flow when I gave it a go. There was no extra foot to take the weight of my body. The discomfort, okay it was pain, gave me the mental jolt that I'd been looking for. When I went for the second dual rollover, it was necessary to go back to the one foot, other foot method.

Mental eraser at work. I was on a new journey. Where would it take me?

This isn't me in the picture, below, but it could be.  Looks like me from a distance. For the first time, I balanced myself on my arms and shoulders. I didn't get up so high. I like to think my butt is smaller. Maybe it isn't. I know it isn't a flattering posture. But, hey, you try it.

It's called Crane Pose. It's vital to breath while perched in this position. Thought I'd share just in case you're in a rut. Complacency. Since the 17th century.

Karen's epiphany

Karen is a housewife in the San Fernando Valley part of Los Angeles, neighborhoods of single family residences complete with lawns and swimming pools and gardeners. Suburbs. All of it.

So anything to get out of there, over the hill into the city, is a get out of jail card. Going to the opthalmologist in Beverly Hills was an occasion for khaki dress-up carpi's, a Brooks Brother polo shirt and good gold hoop earrings, fresh loose curly hair and lipstick. Obviously mascara and concealer were out of the question. Oh well...

"Traffic's so light we have time to stop for your suit at the tailors,"she said. The car's air-conditioning blew her hair like a stylist's fan. "How do I look?" she asked her husband. 

He had picked up a mobile call from his office which went on most of the way. Oh well...

Her husband stood ramrod straight in front of a three-way mirror in his new Burberry suit with a Barney's tie and Brooks Brothers shirt as an elderly Russian tailor pinned the jacket.

Karen flipped through a W magazine. Cat eyes and electrocuted hair on  14 year old, she thought. Who actually wears this bizarre stuff? The booty shoes aren't flattering on anyone. 

Her years in the l980s in New York City came back like a dream. Standing on the corner of 43rd street and 9th avenue with two friends. Karen had worn a starched short white cotton low cut wrap dress with a sash that tied twice around her tiny waist. Tanned ballet-trained legs and arms, perfectly coiffed big hair, and Oscar de la Renta neutral suede flats. 

"You look good enough to eat," her boyfriend, not yet her husband had said. 'We'll make an early evening after you get back."

She had known what he meant.

The friends shared a cab to the townhouse where Moss Hart's widow lived to  convince her to give them the rights to one of his plays for an off off Broadway play. She had agreed, but... 

"It wasn't meant to be," Karen's boyfriend had said later at their candlelight dinner. "Not enough money. It happens to a lot of would-be producers. Find it somewhere else."

Desperation bubbled just beneath the surface. Nothing worked out until Oscar de la Renta stopped her on Madison Avenue, and asked if she would try out his new rain boots. She wore the red boots, his beige suede ankle strap shoes, a brown jersey evening gown cut to the waist, held together by one tiny ribbon, his afternoon dresses. If you can succeed in New York... 

When he invited her to a salon at his Hampton beach house, she hadn't even RSVP'd. The other girls will be thinner, taller, more beautiful, they wouldn't get drunk on champagne. There had been a hundred excuses.

Our wedding was special, Karen thought. So what if I switched to denim skirts and flats. Heels and a baby stroller don't go together. My hair always looked great. Usually looked great. Oscar de la Renta's gifts hung in the closet for years. I donated them to a worthy cause.

She walked over to her husband with the W magazine and showed him a particularly provocative outfit. "I could have worn this," she said.

  

"Just a moment, sir," the tailor said, pining the pant's inseams. "I don't want to hurt you." 

Flipping her hair, pouting her lips and turning sideways with her arm on her hip, Karen gazed into the mirror. I may be a woman of a certain age but I'm only one size larger now.

"It's still there, " he said, glancing over at her. "Whenever we go out black-tie, you turn heads. A little make-up and you're more beautiful than ever."

"I really need to get to the opthalmologist," Karen said. It's the yoga, she thought to herself.  

Karen's epiphany

Karen is a housewife in the San Fernando Valley part of Los Angeles, neighborhoods of single family residences complete with lawns and swimming pools and gardeners. Suburbs. All of it.

So anything to get out of there, over the hill into the city, is a get out of jail card. Going to the opthalmologist in Beverly Hills was an occasion for khaki dress-up carpi's, a Brooks Brother polo shirt and good gold hoop earrings, fresh loose curly hair and lipstick. Obviously mascara and concealer were out of the question. Oh well...

"Traffic's so light we have time to stop for your suit at the tailors,"she said. The car's air-conditioning blew her hair like a stylist's fan. "How do I look?" she asked her husband. 

He had picked up a mobile call from his office which went on most of the way. Oh well...

Her husband stood ramrod straight in front of a three-way mirror in his new Burberry suit with a Barney's tie and Brooks Brothers shirt as an elderly Russian tailor pinned the jacket.

Karen flipped through a W magazine. Cat eyes and electrocuted hair on  14 year old, she thought. Who actually wears this bizarre stuff? The booty shoes aren't flattering on anyone. 

Her years in the l980s in New York City came back like a dream. Standing on the corner of 43rd street and 9th avenue with two friends. Karen had worn a starched short white cotton low cut wrap dress with a sash that tied twice around her tiny waist. Tanned ballet-trained legs and arms, perfectly coiffed big hair, and Oscar de la Renta neutral suede flats. 

"You look good enough to eat," her boyfriend, not yet her husband had said. 'We'll make an early evening after you get back."

She had known what he meant.

The friends shared a cab to the townhouse where Moss Hart's widow lived to  convince her to give them the rights to one of his plays for an off off Broadway play. She had agreed, but... 

"It wasn't meant to be," Karen's boyfriend had said later at their candlelight dinner. "Not enough money. It happens to a lot of would-be producers. Find it somewhere else."

Desperation bubbled just beneath the surface. Nothing worked out until Oscar de la Renta stopped her on Madison Avenue, and asked if she would try out his new rain boots. She wore the red boots, his beige suede ankle strap shoes, a brown jersey evening gown cut to the waist, held together by one tiny ribbon, his afternoon dresses. If you can succeed in New York... 

When he invited her to a salon at his Hampton beach house, she hadn't even RSVP'd. The other girls will be thinner, taller, more beautiful, they wouldn't get drunk on champagne. There had been a hundred excuses.

Our wedding was special, Karen thought. So what if I switched to denim skirts and flats. Heels and a baby stroller don't go together. My hair always looked great. Usually looked great. Oscar de la Renta's gifts hung in the closet for years. I donated them to a worthy cause.

She walked over to her husband with the W magazine and showed him a particularly provocative outfit. "I could have worn this," she said.

  

"Just a moment, sir," the tailor said, pining the pant's inseams. "I don't want to hurt you." 

Flipping her hair, pouting her lips and turning sideways with her arm on her hip, Karen gazed into the mirror. I may be a woman of a certain age but I'm only one size larger now.

"It's still there, " he said, glancing over at her. "Whenever we go out black-tie, you turn heads. A little make-up and you're more beautiful than ever."

"I really need to get to the opthalmologist," Karen said. It's the yoga, she thought to herself.