aloha, sweet Ruth

I've been trying to write about this for I don't know how long now and it just won't come out right. Three days after I wrote my last post I was back in Texas. Mom was in the hospital for treatment of an infection. Three days later she was gone.

We lost my dear mother on Saturday, the 14th of October. It may seem strange or even foolish to you to say, given her 93 years, but I never saw it coming. My mother was such an overwhelming presence in my life that I can't believe that I will never see her ~ whom my brother called 'That Little Smiley Face' ~ beaming up at me again.

Less than two weeks earlier we'd spent some quality girl-time shopping for clothes. We had bought her three new outfits ~ one in mulberry, one in camel and one all blue. A few pretty tops. She was still so full of life, then, and spirit and style. We'd gone 'antiquing' together, and to lunch at her favorite Chinese buffet restaurant. I'd wheeled her chair past the offered dishes, describing each and filling her plate with whatever struck her fancy. She wasn't wearing her beloved Chinese robe, but I wish she had been. She'd eaten heartily and happily; she loved the egg drop soup. She told me to be sure and leave the waiter a good tip. We were making plans.

We'd discussed my coming back to get her in January to bring her to my place; to her sunny blue room in California, when she was feeling up to travel. We would do more shopping, and she was going to buy me a Buddha statue, just because I'd said I needed one. Or wanted one. She was always wanting to give me things. We were both looking forward to her coming.

When my brother called just a few days after I left to say she was in the hospital with an infection and that I should come back, I thought it would be to keep her company while she went through her course of antibiotics in the hospital. He said she improved as soon as I got there.

"When you come back to get me, I 'm gonna come live with you, " she'd told me when I'd left a few days prior. Her eyes twinkled mischievously as she pointed at me.

"We'll see," I'd told her smiling. I loved taking care of her. She found ways to make it easy.

"Hug me like you mean it, Ma" I said one day, instructing her to put her arms around my neck so I could help to lift her out of her chair.

I can stll feel the soft skin of her cheek and gentle breath in my hair as she whispered emphatically into my ear, "I do mean it!" I treasure that moment.

My mother was beautiful, in every meaningful sense of the word. Auburn-haired, petite and lively, she met my tall, blonde and handsome father while working as a dance hostess at the Arcadia Ballroom in New York City. They were married one month later. During the war, while my father served in the Army, Mom became a civilian employee of the Navy,where she worked as a radar inspector, a fact she was extremely proud of all her life.

In their late forties, at an age when most of their friends were looking forward to kids leaving for college and grandchildren, she and my father adopted two tiny tots, in an era long before Angelina and Madonna made orphan-shopping acceptable and chic. They opened their home and their hearts, and gave my brother and I a sense of security we would never have otherwise known. They gave us a family.

I am sorry to say that I was not always grateful. As a teenager, my mother and I battled long and often. She was a daughter of the Depression trying to raise her own in an age of rebellion, and I was not of a disposition to make it any easier. It wasn't until I grew much older that I clearly understood the bravery of what she had done; the everyday heroism involved in taking two complete strangers and offering them your heart and your soul; a lifetime of unconditional love.

I admired my mother. She was strong-minded and big-hearted; funny, generous, and kind. Quirky. Eccentric. Unique.

Above all else, she was true to herself always, and she tried to teach me to be the same. I wish I were more like her.

She consistently made me laugh, and imbued me with her sense of whimsy, not always to our credit. As we were wheeling our way down the hall of the assisted living home one day just a few weeks ago, mom turned to me and asked, "What's that song we like?"

We like many songs, but I know which one she means.

"Que Sera," I say, and she laughs delightedly.

"Yes, that's it!" We start singing out loud,

When I was just a little girl I asked my mother,

what will I be

Will I be pretty,

will I be rich

Here's what she said to me...

A couple of the old birds working the puzzle table glance up at us and quickly avert their gaze; they're 20 years younger than Mom, and seem to think us odd. Go figure. We sing louder.

Que Sera, Sera,

Whatever will be, will be

The future's not ours, to see

Que Sera, Sera

What will be, will be.

In the end, her tiny, frail body just couldn't take any more. My wonderful, beautiful, resilient little mother spent her last hours surrounded by loved ones ~ my brother, my sister-in-law and me. I barely left her side. I wanted to be holding her hand when she died, letting her know I was there. That it was ok. That we were ok. That she was cherished.

A few days later, in a chaotic and somehow comically surreal blur of activity and grief we all ~ my husband, my brother, my sister-in-law and their two sons ~ saw her safely home to New York, where she rests now with my father under a bronze headstone that reads "Together Forever". I want that to be true.

A few weeks ago, I could not have imagined a world without my mother in it. Now I can, and for me it is a more frightening and lonely place. I have never known such profound sadness. Yet I know that the world is a better place for her having been in it, and for that I am forever thankful.

Aloha, Mom. I miss you.

not enough sleep

One of the problems with writing a personal but public blog is that while one is certainly free to write about one's own life as thoroughly or as superficially as desired, that life is never truly one's own. And those whose paths are inextricably entwined with ours are entitled to the privacy that used to be the societal norm, before the days of internet confession and reality television encouraged everyone to believe that their every waking moment had to be lived out loud in the public square. As if everyone had a right to know. As if everyone cared.

In the past few days things have not been going well for my little mother, and I find my concerns for her too raw, too difficult to put down here in this, my flimsy little conceit of a journal. I cannot forget that these pages are accessible to all, equally to those of good or ill will, and that while I have the right to expose myself to any sort of scrutiny I wish, I cannot assume that right for anyone else.

But I've been reading A Salty Piece of Land by Jimmy Buffett, a reliably breezy, occasionally reflective and always snappily narrated tale of adventure in the Caribbean, and I came across a passage (very) late last night that gave me pause and odd comfort. In it, Cleopatra Highbourne, the 101 year-old captain of the 142 foot Lucretia muses at the end of her long, adventurous life:

"Tully, this is not the same city I knew as a teenager, when my father and I raced from Martinique. Hell, there were rapids on the river not far from where we sit. Miami was just a trading post then, where the Seminoles would bring their fish, fur, and gator hides down to the market. Tully, I am damn near as old as this city. Age is like an opium dream. I'm not quite sure what is real and what is not anymore. I find myself rambling more, and I think I talk to as many ghosts as humans."

It is that kind of wisdom that I already miss.

My mother has never sailed or been to Martinique. But her life was full of hope, wisdom and beauty, and her reality these days has the fluid quality of those opium dreams, seeming to weave effortlessly back and forth between the world I know to be true and another which I cannot or will not see. There is some solace in knowing that such dreams are universal and timeless.

Mom has always been a stubborn and resilient woman. And although I need her to continue to be, I acknowledge that her own needs may be otherwise, and greater. I know it isn't my call. Right now, I have a feeling it's hers. And right now, I have a feeling I'm 1346 miles from where I should be.

mia

Posting from Houston for a quickie fly-by while my little Mom catches some zzz's. She insists she isn't tired and wants to go shopping but then nods off somewhere between the 'shop' and the '-ping'. It's what happens in your 90's - the spirit is willing but the flesh really just wants a nap.

So I just dropped in to say hey, and if I haven't been around it's because these have been some alternately hectic and hazy days. Not unlike my youth, come to think of it, drugs and all - only now in Mom's case they call it 'assisted living'. I think I always did. Anyway, Mom and I are fixin' to blow this popsicle stand any second now. Six-thirty curfew be damned.

Catch you later. Or as we say in Texas, ciao! Y'all.

on becoming a better wino

It's 2:00 in the afternoon and about a dozen or so of us are gathered around the bar in the tasting room of the Beringer Estate in Napa Valley, holding our glasses by the stems like the sophisticated oenophiles we have become, and not the plonk-swilling cretins that we once were.

Swirling, sniffing and 'chewing' our wine in the proper fashion, we are learning to use descriptive phrases such as, "...an amusing little wine, with just a hint of tobacco and cork and a nice, strong finish," without smirking. Turk holds his glass aloft, squinting into it's ruby depths and murmurs, "It's a saucy little floozy, with just a whiff of cigarette butts, long nights and turpentine, and a strong, strange finish." Excellent. But I think he's talking about me.

He is bonding with Kevin, the barman who came in after the tour to help with the tasting. Kevin, a very funny guy who retired from a desk job a couple of years ago, allows as to how he has moved on to what is probably the best job in the world.

"I just have to remind myself," he said as he sipped an light-bodied chenin blanc with traces of melon and grapefruit and just a suggestion of lemongrass, "not to drink the whole glass. I have two more tastings this afternoon. I don't get to finish a glass until the last one. And then..." He winked.

Aaron, our tour guide, is explaining the importance of holding one's glass in the correct manner.

"In some of the local restaurants, grabbing the glass like this, " he says, grasping the goblet by the bowl, "will result in bells, sirens and whistles going off all around you." Kevin adds the sound effects.

"A spotlight will hit your table, the staff will come running, and you will be forever ostracized by the locals as a beer drinker from Chicago." Turk laughs out loud. He is not just a beer drinker from Chicago. He is their king. And he doesn't care who knows.

We had been in one such restaurant the previous night, and it was the only disappointing meal of the trip, all the more so because it was Julia's Kitchen at Copa, named for the late and much lamented Julia Child. The food was bland and the service stiff ~ Madame Julia would not have been pleased.
In fact, although we were lucky enough to indulge in some scrumptious repasts, the very best meal of our tour may have been the picnic we enjoyed on the peaceful grounds of the beautiful V. Sattui winery; a loaf of bread, a jug of wine, a book of poems and...well, no poetry exactly, but we did substitute a hunk of some exotic-sounding Spanish cheese and a nice salami. Which is almost the same thing, I'm sure. Cheers.

A Book of Verses underneath the Bough,

A Jug of Wine, a Loaf of Bread—and Thou

Beside me singing in the Wilderness—

Oh, Wilderness were Paradise enow!

~~~Omar Khayyam

the road to monterey

The last time we visited Monterey we breezed in without plans or reservations. Turk calls this 'flying by the seat of our pants', and it is by far his preferred style of travel. In this case spontaneity worked in our favor and we lucked into a luxurious room at the splendid Spindrift Inn. Our room had a cozy double bed covered by a plump duvet and soft, downy pillows, and boasted a wide balcony with wicker chairs overlooking the action down below on Cannery Row. It did not have a view of the ocean. What it did have was it's very own private sauna.
Now, I don't know if you've ever had a room with it's very own private sauna ~ we certainly hadn't ~ so just let me say this: if you have a choice between a room with an ocean view and a sauna, take the sauna. If you have a choice between a balcony and a sauna, take the sauna. If you have a choice between a TV, a mini bar, a phone, internet access or even a window, take the sauna. You will not be sorry. And you will thank me later. Hoping to recreate what had been a perfect evening the first time, we hit town again gambling on the availability of our room. Needless to say, the hotel was booked solid for some business convention or another in what I can only imagine was a terrible waste of our room and our sauna. Forlorn, we moved on.
Just around the corner from Cannery Row is Pacific Grove, a truly beautiful community of stately Victorian homes and elegant beach cottages. Originally settled as a Methodist summer camp, Pacific Grove grew in population as word got out of the area's breathtaking scenery and unrivalled beauty. Today, many of the old mansions have been converted to popular Bed and Breakfast inns, and we found a room in one of these. The first thing you notice about this stretch of the coastline are the colors; each time we come this way my travel log reads the same ~ remember the colors! There are no blues or greens or grays here. Here there are only azures and turquoise, heathers and mauve. The sky is cobalt, the flowers fuscia. Wild mustard and orange cactus cover the slopes and hills. The sea is wild, the coast spectacular ~ the famously gorgeous 17 Mile Drive is here, winding along adjoining Pebble Beach. When I win the lottery, (which, let's face it, I'm due to do any day now) this is where you'll find me, enjoying the fruits of my non-existent labors.
We spent the day hiking the coast and had a delightful dinner at the same restaurant we'd enjoyed on our last visit. The genial young host at Abalonetti's on Fisherman's Wharf was adorable, and even saw to it that we got 'our' table in time to enjoy the sunset. We dined happily on artichoke hearts and sauteed eggplant, succulent mussels, fresh King Salmon, and a rich mushroom ravioli.Afterwards, we strolled back to the Martine Inn, where we took a bottle of wine and sat outside at a tiny stone table in the terrace garden, watching the waves crash along the shore and musing dreamily as one does, deep in merlot and the moonlight, about sailing and serenity, everything and nothing. And which house would be ours when our ship came in.The lovely Martine had everything we could have hoped for in a romantic inn: a warm and cozy room decorated with period antiques; wine and hors d'oeuvres in the library, an amiable staff and, of course, that spectacular view.





There was only one thing it didn't have. It didn't have it's own personal sauna. Sometimes, life can be so hard.

moonstone beach

There are as many romantic places in this world as there are romantics to seek them, and I've been lucky enough to have spent sometime in several ~ Florence, Paris, Rome. The streets of Venice. The beaches of Maui. The backseat of a vintage '67 Mustang.

But none are more romantic than the fabulous Moonstone Beach, just off Pacific Coast Highway 1, and one of the most wildly beautiful bits of coastline I've ever seen.

I'm not sure what a moonstone is precisely, except that it's one of my birthstones and I'm sure I should have one. Probably several. But whatever a moonstone is, I know it must be enchanted, for I never fail to come to this beach of coarse dark sand and diamond-tossed, blue-green waters and find creatures of myth or whimsy. Sometimes it's just stars on the water. Or it could be that mysterious lean-to, intricately constructed of driftwood and tied with seaweed, looking for all the world like the skeleton of a prehistoric giant, gazing mournfully out to sea.

It might be a seawitch, undone by her own sorcery and trapped forever in spectral driftwood.

Or it could be a sleeping dragon, a shaman's stick left resting on his charmed neck.

On black rocks sleepy sirens wail and whisper siren calls.

The sea elephants of Moonstone Beach are a friendly lot and quite accustomed to respectful commune. I'm not sure how long I spent gazing soulfully into my merfriend's eyes, or watching her pals splash, dive and swim mischievously toward me. I'd steel myself, wary, and dare not move, meeting inquiring eyes with my own and wondering just how close we would dare each other to come. Each time they dove, they'd surface just a small bit closer, before laughing (I thought) and swimming gaily away.

Time and reality fall away in places such as this, leaving behind only essential truths, which are felt more than reasoned. I am no clear-eyed seeker; what little wisdom I possess has had to chase me down, knock me on the head and beat me sensible. And yet serenity finds me at this beach. Always.
We are all connected on this planet. In this universe. We need to take better care of each other. We need to take better care of every living thing on this earth; of this ocean. We need to take better care.

This is beauty. This is truth. And that is all I know, or need to know.*

* with many abject apologies to Keats

it takes a castle

When I was a kid growing up in New York, one of my favorite things to do on family outings was to visit the stately homes and mansions built by the Astors, the Rockefellers, the Vanderbilts and assorted other robber barons of the Gilded Age, now turned over to the public in the form of state parks and private endowments.

One of my favorites was the old Westbury House in Babylon, and I would constantly nag my parents to take me there. The room I loved the most was the one I thought of as the 'garden room'. It seemed huge to me then and beautiful, with tremendous, overstuffed chintz sofas and lounges and wide, floor to ceiling windows that looked out over the vast gardens, including a pool that was home to white swans and ducklings. I would stand in that room consciously willing myself into the picture. Someday, I thought, if I can just live in a place like this, then I know I could be happy.

We left friendly little Los Olivos after an overnight stop at Solvang, a tourist-happy town of Danish inspired buildings, shops and restaurants (Solvang- So vat?) and set off bright and early for San Simeon, home of the 127 acre estate of newspaper publisher Willlian Randolph Hearst.

We were milling around the base of a magnificent stairway, listening as our docent, a stern faced woman with a wickedly dry sense of humor paused in her history of the estate and gestured toward the elegant mediterranean mansion before us.

"Impressed?" she asked the group of about 20 or so before her, oohing and ahhing and snapping many identical pictures.

We nodded in several languages. Hell yeah, we were impressed.

"That's one of the guest houses," she said.

Oh, my. That is impressive. On those occasions when I am invited to stay with friends and family (and even on those when I just kind of show up) I'm usually lucky to get a couch, a blanket and a bag of Doritos. Clearly, my people need to step up their game.

The 'Castle' consists of 165 rooms, including 115 in the main house and three guesthouses. No less than four separate daytime and one evening tour are offered to fully appreciate the entire estate. We took 'The Experience Tour" for first-time visitors, which took us through the gardens, one guesthouse (Casa del Sol) and the ground floor of the main building. Frankly, I lost track of the pools.

Unfortunately, all my interior shots came out dark and blurry, probably because I had yet to manage the settings on my new camera and was just sort of waving it around, crazed papparazzo-style and snapping pictures pretty much at random: fresh flowers overflowing the urns that graced medieval mantlepieces; beautiful burnished woods, lovely and rare examples of European art; the myriad exhuberant details that filled every room.

It is truly an astonishing place.

The gardens are exquisite, the art stunning; the bedrooms and living quarters surprisingly livable for all their opulence. My inner scold, always quick to admonish, kept insisting that I be appalled at the hubris, the greed, the sad, rampant materialism; the Citizen Kane-iness of it all, but I wasn't in the mood. I longed to wake up in the morning to the view from that wisteria-draped balcony; to paint in the Egyptian garden; to meditate by the lotus pond. I wanted to swim naked by moonlight in that gold and azure pool.

And as I stood in the shadows of a sitting room; not much more than a den really, albeit a den decorated with handwoven tapestries, a Ming vase or two and one of those deliciously overstuffed sofas that I have always found so irresistible, I couldn't help thinking, if I could just live in this guesthouse, then I know I could be happy...

wine tasting in a small town

If it's a warm and breezy afternoon in late May and you find yourself in one of the tasting rooms in the tiny town of Los Olivos, chances are it's your birthday.

At least that's the way it seemed on the afternoon we arrived for our very first official wine tasting experience. Of course, we've been drinking wine since Bacchus first donned a toga, but don't really know much about it and had never been to a tasting per se. Everywhere we went, groups and couples were coming or going from tasting room to tasting room accompanied by the cheerful sounds of birthday wishes.

We started at the pretty little family run Longoria (http://www.longoriawine.com/tasting_room.html) where we were pleased to let the friendly woman behind the bar guide us. We ordered a flight of whites and sipped slowly, trying to look savvy as a party of a dozen or so revelers enjoyed their glasses, the jazz paintings on the wall and needling the birthday boy in their midst. It was a scene that repeated itself everywhere we went that day ~ as if everyone were having a birthday and the entire town wanted to celebrate. Very much like a cozy little garden party, people drifted in and out, winding from house to patio and patio to garden, acknowledging friends and strangers with each passing encounter, full of good spirits of and some very nice wine.

As it happened it was also the estimable Turk's birthday, which was partly the reason we were following the Sideways trail, which was of late one of his favorite movies. Normally he is a reticent guy and adamant that we never let on to anyone in public on such occasions; he's afraid they'll sing at him in restaurants or much, much worse. He's shy that way.

Me, I'm just the opposite; they can sing, they can shout, they can shoot me out of a cannon for all I care, just as long as it gets me a free mud pie and maybe a candle or two. I love candles. Bring on the dancing waiters.

But Turk is emphatically not that guy, so it was with some surprise and delight that, as we wandered along the half a dozen or so blocks of art galleries, quirky cafes, and classic California style bungalows he started announcing his birthday somewhere around our third tasting stop.

"Today's my birthday, too," he said, by way of conversation.


"Happy birthday, man," said the barman. We chatted for a while, the barman telling us about the history of the town and the surprising fact that the predominant field of employment for the locals was not the wineries but the growing construction business. It seems there is much new wealth in the area and quite a few new estates being built. We joked about being able to afford one, and wondered about the loss of such a bucolic lifestyle.

"Happy birthday, man!" our new friend said again on our way out, handing the Hubs a bottle of a Starwood Sauvignon Blanc .

"Thanks!" he hollered, grinning from ear to ear.

I don't know why. But it made me quite proud.

cold spring tavern

We were headed north toward Solvang and Los Olivos on Day One of our little Sideways getaway. Winding our way along Highway 54, the San Marcos Pass through the Santa Ynez Mountains I spotted a smallish cedar brown sign with narrow yellow lettering. Stagecoach Road, it read, followed by the tantalizing words Cold Spring Tavern. An arrow pointed left.

"Turn here!" I hollered.

"Turn where?" a startled Turk hollered back. He hit the gas and we headed straight for a cliff.

"Back there!"

"Back where? Why? It's too late."

"No, no, it isn't! It's Cold Spring Tavern! I've heard about this place. I've seen pictures ~ it looks great! I've always wanted to go. I didn't know it was in here. Turn around!"

"Okay okay okay. Hold your horses," he intoned with the zen-like equanimity that has seen him through 23 years of road trips and nearly 20 years of marriage.

Rule Number 1 of Road Travel ~ never argue with your wife when she's shouting at you on twisting mountain roads. Whatever it is, it can't be as bad as going over the rail. Not usually.

We U-turned back, hung a sharp right and wound our way along a narrow path. We found it by a tiny waterfall and parked in the small clearing bordered by a steeply sloped, rocky embankment. I grabbed a jacket as a sweet cool breeze rustled the leaves overhead and we stepped out of the car into the sylvan glade. Built in 1885 as a stagecoach stop for weary travelers along the Pass, the tavern was all I'd imagined it would be ~ a deliciously cozy haven; authentically rustic and thoroughly romantic. I was enchanted.

"Let's live here," I murmured as we entered the front door.

"Let's eat first," replied the Turk.

He ordered a huge house burger served on artisan bread with fat fries and a large glass of freshly brewed iced tea. I had a lovely house salad with lingonberry dressing, followed by the special. The grilled King Salmon glistened plump and coral on it's bed of bright red and green grilled peppers, lightly sauteed spinach and creamy mound of garlic mashed potatoes. The house Chardonnay was crisp and light and filled my head with a soft amber mist. Everything glowed with the golden warmth of old wood, afternoon sun and decades of hearty conviviality. Even the stuffed goat's head in the corner smiled down on all benignly; forgivingly. Life, I thought musing happily over that luscious salmon, was sometimes something very close to perfect.

"I'm not leaving," I told the Hubs as we left.

"I know, dear," he said, hands in pockets, shooting me a sidelong glance. "But that means, of course, we'll never get to Cambria."

I sighed. He was right. A very wise man, that Turk. I've always thought so, and I thought so even as he backed into the steep rocks with a resounding crunch on our way out of the lot.

"Shit!" he said, abandoning all aforementioned composure. "Did I damage the bumper?"

I got out and looked. "I don't think so," I said. We were tight against the rock, and I couldn't really see anything.

"Thank god," he said.

I hoped for the best. You don't mess around when life is busy being something very close to perfect.

Rule Number 2 of road travel; never tell your husband that he may very well have put a sizable dent in his beloved bumper. Not on the first day of your road trip. Not if you want to make it to Cambria.

self-helpless

The heat must be getting to me. As temperatures continue to hover in the triple digits pretty much everywhere from Albuquerque to Anchorage (105 degrees here so far today) the lizards are invading my house now in search of shade. One the size of a Gila monster just showed up in my garage while I was doing laundry. I jumped up on the washer and screamed until my husband came running in.

"Look look look!" I yelled, pointing down at the floor. The lizard shot his forked tongue out at me.

"What what what?" my husband yelled, looking straight at me and completely missing the monster, who turned and skittered under the car.

I have an absolute horror of lizards. I have nightmares about them wherein they invade my yard, my house and my closets, entirely covering the ceiling and the walls. They attack. I don't know what it means. It's a phobia, I guess. But I digress. It must be the heat.

So I found myself the other day in a place I never believed I would. There I stood, looking suspicious and vaguely ashamed of myself in the self-help section of my local Borders bookstore.

I have an aversion to the self-help industry in general. It isn't that good people haven't sought and been helped by some books/television shows/seminars/cults ~ I know that they have. There are legitimate practitioners with expert knowledge in their field whose primary goal is indeed to help people overcome serious problems, and they are to be lauded.

Unfortunately, these authors are overwhelmed by the glut of formulaic 'Pablum for the Chicken-minded Soul' style books written by opportunists with no more legitimate claim to a superior understanding of life, love, or how to lose 10 pounds than you or I. Common sense is repackaged as new and significant insight by some media guru or another, when in fact we all already know exactly what we ought to be doing to improve our lives: Eat less, exercise more. Do unto others as you would have them do unto you. Get some sleep. Share. Enjoy all things in moderation. Choose your friends wisely and seek their council. That way, when your boyfriend forgets your birthday and stands you up for the fourth time this month you won't have to shell out $24.95 for a book by an erstwhile stand-up comic that explains that "He's Just Not That Into You." You'll know. Your mates will tell you. Ask.

Besides, there is probably more wisdom to be found in one poem (the world is too much with us, late and soon...) and more truth in one novel (We live as we dream - alone...) located in the aisle dedicated to 'Literature' than in the entire 400 titles designated as 'Self-help'.

And yet, there I was.

I have been lately inspired by the blog of Danny Gregory; artist, author, teacher and genial journalist whose exhortations to just sit down, shut-up and draw something have jump-started a slumbering desire to take seriously and improve my own efforts. I expected to find his book, "The Creative License: Giving Yourself Permission to Be the Artist You Truly Are" in the 'Art' section but apparently wanting to draw better is a form of self-improvement. I never would have thought of it that way.

Looking around to see if there was anybody I knew, I risked eye contact with a middle-aged man with dark hair and glasses perusing a book in the History department. He quickly averted his gaze and I found myself hoping he didn't think I was there for that prominently displayed Dr. Phil "Love Smart" title. Why should anyone care about the judgement of strangers, you may ask. Well, I don't know, but I'll bet Don Miguel Ruiz, the author of "The Four Agreements" which promises to "reveal the source of self-limiting beliefs that rob us of joy and create needless suffering," does. I had no time to find out. I headed at once for the 'G's, grabbed my book and trotted off to listen to some music.

In retrospect, maybe I should have checked to see if Ruiz or Oprah or somebody could help me with my lizard phobia thing. If the weather gets any hotter and those damn reptiles any bolder (one just rang the doorbell and demanded protection money) I will have to go back for self-help or go on medication. You never know. I wonder if Phil's really a doctor. He might be able to fix me up.

In the meantime, I'm working the book. I'm enjoying it. It's opening up my tiny mind. I'd post pics, but once again I'm having difficulty uploading images. Must be the heat.

all about the wordplay

I do not do crossword puzzles, but I am tormented on a daily basis by someone who does.

"You've read Eliot," he'll begin casually, not looking up from his paper.

"A...little," I'll reply. I find it in my best interest to let him think I am more intelligent and erudite than I really am. It's part of my imaginary mystique, and the only way I can get him to let me make major purchasing decisions. Still, I am cautious.

"It was a long time ago," I warn.

"What's an eponymous Eliot title; Dash dash dash M; dash dash D dash?" He says it like that; dash dash dash, which only serves to bewilder me further. Again, I reflect upon my staggering lack of culture.

"Cats!" I trill, confusing T.S. with George, 8 letters with 4, and ignoring M and D completely, as it does not conform to what seems to me to be the fairly obvious solution.

"Cats?!" He shoots me an incredulous look. I can read his mind. Sometimes he is wondering what he ever saw in me, and where I really went all those times I claimed to be on campus earning a degree. Other times he suspects I am holding out on him, the perpetrator of some cruel effort to deprive him of the joy of finishing the Sunday Times crossword puzzle before the golf tournament comes on. This does me a grave disservice. I am not unkind. I am just functionally illiterate.

Still, as my choice of mate would indicate I am drawn to intelligent men with a well-developed sense of humor and a firm knowledge of who they are and what they want out of life. On Thursday I got to spend some time with a few of my favorites.

"Wordplay" is a fresh, funny and fascinating little film featuring self-described enigmatologist Will Shortz and a cast of like-minded puzzle enthusiasts, most of whom bring unabashed nerdiness to dizzying and joyful new heights. Shortz himself, alternately described as "monk-like and remote" or the "thinking-girls' pin-up boy" is decidedly the latter ~ with a wide-open countenance and charmingly amiable manner, he is a man who has found his true vocation and is simply delighted to be able to share his gift with anyone else who cares to play along.

Play along they do, and it is an unadulterated pleasure to hang out with (my personal pin-up boys) Bill Clinton and Jon Stewart, in addition to as varied a crew as (Yankee pitcher) Mike Mussina, the Indigo Girls, Ken Burns and Bob Dole as they demonstrate their crossword-solving prowess and routines. (Bill does his in pen, Jon is so confidant he volunteers to do his in glue stick; Bob Dole claims that the whole election thing was "a puzzle to me.")

We ride along as professional puzzle constructor Merle Reagle drives down the road spontaneously rearranging letters on passing signs ( Dunkin' Donuts becomes Unkind Donuts, and Noah's Ark; No! A shark!) and then watch, rapt, as he builds a puzzle sitting at an empty dining room table with nothing but his pencil, a piece of paper and an impressively agile mind.

The film's heart is to be found in the crossword competition held annually at the Stamford Marriott, Connecticut, where the contestants are invariably brilliant, endearing, consummately competitive and yet thoroughly decent human beings, and it is to their endless credit (as well as that of the filmmakers) that the sight of what appears to be a roomful of brainiacs taking a series of competitive tests becomes an engrossing, even thrilling event.

I won't tell you who wins. But Bill, Jon ~ boys? Make some room on the wall ~ mamma's got a brand new pin-up. Proper name, ten letters meaning 'sexy'.

I'll give you a hint. It's W dash dash l; Dash dash o r t z.

ideas I wish I'd had first

Fortunately for the Bill of Rights and free-thinking Americans everywhere, the dread but seasonally ubiquitous Flag Measure has failed again ~ this time by a single vote.

The best suggestion I'v heard so far to retire this ridiculous waste of time, money and civil liberties once and for all came in the form of a letter to the editors of the LA Times:

I suggest that flag wrapping, not flag burning, constitutes the most egregious desecration of the flag. Flag wrapping is the practice by politicians of wrapping themselves in the flag, especially during an election year. An excellent example of flag wrapping has just been provided by members of Congress who pushed for a constitutional amendment that would give them the power to ban flag burning by private citizens. I propose a constitutional amendment that gives Congress the power to ban flag wrapping by elected officials, beginning with all members of Congress.

SCOTT MCKENZIE
Los Angeles

Brilliant! Now, why couldn't I have thought of that? It's an elegant solution to a problem that seems to exist nowhere as much as in the minds of the greedy, dim-witted, hypocritical blowhards that we the people, in spite of all the howlingly obvious reasons not to, still insist on sending back to their cushy congressional cash couches year after year after demoralizing year.

I urge you to write your congressperson today regarding this important constitutional amendment. BAN FLAG WRAPPING NOW! Write early, write often.

Happy Independence Day!