Remembrance of Cindy

When an old friend dies, part of us dies because their memories of us are dead. Part of who we are is gone. Recently my dear old friend Cindy died and with her part of me died. Cindy knew me well, enjoyed my wit, appreciated my strengths, quietly tolerated my shortcomings and, over the 40 years of our friendship, never spoke an unkind word to me. I loved her long.

Cindy was one of the small cadre of women to pass the bar back in the ’70’s; she was the first, and the best, of her kind. Nothing held her back. She was fearless. She could race a car, fly an airplane and navigate a boat. She was quick witted, fun and kind. Then again, in court, she was brutal. Oh yes, and she was a beautiful blonde. I remember a day, in the ’80’s, we three ladies flew to SFO in her newly acquired Cessna, leaving our husbands behind in LA. At the small airport, the controller, unused to speaking with a woman, became quite animated. Jane noticed a couple of traffic controllers standing at the full length window. As we hopped out of the plane: me, with my brunette mane, blonde long legged Cindy, and flame haired Jane, these wide eyed guys, smiling broadly, were staring at their Playboy dream.

We spent a few winters skiing in Aspen. Black diamonds, double diamonds; while I stood behind her, terrified, unsure about my skills, she forged ahead. Spills ensued, but forth we went. She was thin, as was I. There is a pink ski outfit that still hangs in my closet. I fit in the outfit, she did not. It wasn’t much of a ‘besting’ but it was the best I could do.

One summer in Hawaii, I bravely attempted parasailing; Cindy went hang gliding. She was a natural athlete and only needed cursory instructions to get the gist of any sport. Her accomplishments were many; she went scuba diving, while I went snorkeling, but she was so lacking in conceit or pretense that it was impossible to be jealous. She never judged, always encouraged, for which I was grateful.

When she retired, I inherited her fabulous work wardrobe, collected from the small boutiques of Beverly Hills. She never wore a dress again. They moved to a twenty acre ranch in Santa Ynez, just outside of Santa Barbara. Over the years, especially after my divorce, I was a frequent and, thankfully, welcome guest. The sprawling ranch sat atop a ridge. Locks were unnecessary. There was no public lighting. The roads were pitch black. I had to know exactly where I was going in the dark. One busy Friday eve I found myself in bumper to bumper traffic heading to their ranch for a party, but the traffic was so bad that I called and said to go without me. I would try again the next morning. Right after I hung up, the roads cleared so I kept going. By the time I arrived they had left so I helped myself to the food in the icebox, watched a pay-per-view movie and later went to bed. The next morning I marched into the kitchen and scared the wits out of both of them. They did not realize I was in the house.

And when I was ill, she cancelled everything, collected me from the hospital, moved into my home and never left my side for four days and nights. She was fiercely loyal and caring. I couldn’t have asked for a better friend and will remember her always. I hope her last memories of me were equally grand.

Wine Before Its Time

Speaking of wine, not to mention over-imbibing, a group of us ladies was talking about our terrible experiences with youthful excesses. While I listened to one story after another about one drink too many in bawdy bars with all too alluring bad boys, I remembered back to my first drinking experience, and its aftermath.

One cold and rainy afternoon, Mom kicked us downstairs to the finished basement, or rec room, as it was called in tonier neighborhoods.  I was eight; my brother was nine. We played board games for a while then decided to do a bit of exploring at the other side of the basement. As was common on the east coast, in addition to a play room, there was the laundry room, the utility room and the cold storage room that contained pinwheels of cheeses, hanging dried meats, stored soft drinks, sacks of potatoes and two casks of home made wine that were now aging. We were fascinated by all the hanging meats, big bags of onions, the smell of the wine must and the long thin rubber hose that sat atop one of the casks.

My brother, competitive spirit that he was, proclaimed that he could drink more wine than I could; I demurred -- no way.  He unplugged the cork, thrust the rubber hose into the barrel and sucked on the hose. Then he pinched the tube and handed it to me. The wine still had a certain piquant grape sweetness so I drank without hesitation. It was good. He drank, I drank, he drank, I drank. This to and fro went on for quite some time, in fact, until mom called and asked that we wash our hands before dinner.

The trip upstairs was uneventful, as was the evening washing of the hands ceremony. However, when mom placed the plate of red spaghetti in front of me, things got weird. I stared down at the plate and noticed that the spaghetti strings were moving. Apparently when one is especially inebriated, strange things happen; spaghetti moving on a plate is a common event.  I stared, unblinking, fascinated by the movement of this plate of worms. Mom finally admonished me to start eating before the food got cold. I picked up my fork and then things got more weird.

Dad finally noticed that while my fork occasionally made contact with the spaghetti, it wasn’t quite making it into my mouth. Or the fork made it into my mouth, but it was bare. Being dad, he turned to mom and said “what’s wrong with this kid”. I looked up, hoping my big brown eyes would stop further conversation, but my brother chose that particular moment to stand and claim that “I drank more wine than she did”. I disagreed and chose to argue the point by tossing my cookies all over the plate, the table, the floor and whatever other surface happened to be available.

Who drank more became a moot point. While it was obviously apparent what had transpired, the moment could not go unpunished. While mom professed innocence to this catastrophe, Dad spanked us both and immediately sent us to bed. I slept like a baby. The next morning he was quite impressed that neither one of us displayed any signs of a hangover. Damn, kids are resilient. In fact, he was so impressed that on one or two occasions he actually bragged about his kids’ drinking abilities --  mom, not so much. She attempted to mitigate the damage by humorously chuckling that dad was exaggerating for the sake of the story. Of course her children were not drunkards. I knew my girlfriends couldn’t compete with this story. I won.

And then I had another story of another time; another moment in life. All grown up now and with it came memories of the California wine country’s harvest. One late fall we were spending a few days at the Sonoma Mission Inn, an exquisite spa-hotel that was known for its wondrous chef and its stellar cellar. We had just finished an excellent dinner and were walking back to our room at a separate building from the main house, commenting on the crisp clearness of the night, allowing us to see the hundreds of millions of stars and the full moon, shining brightly against the inky darkness. We likewise felt the slight chill in the breeze, a breeze that brought with it the aroma of the deep grape must, coupled with the rich odor of fresh earth. We stood quietly, musing on the ambience, then lay down on the grass, inhaling the moment, the stars, the breeze. It could only have been more perfect if the air was filled with the voice of Pavarotti singing Nessun Dorma.

Oxford Cardboard Boat Races

Even the name of the races sounds like a joke. Cardboard boats? These races have been taking place for 27 years, and are a much loved summer farce under the summer sun and over the blue waters of the bay. The event includes the ubiquitous over-cooked hot dogs, somewhat soft ice cream, and overly sugared sodas stands, crying babies and young steely eyed lads skipping stones on the water. The proceeds benefit the Special Olympics so it’s all good.

The rules, such as they are, suit the occasion:

1. the boat must be constructed of cardboard; no restrictions on the type of cardboard. 
2. only three board feet of wood is allowed, be it three 1”x12”x12”, or 1”x1”x36” -- any mutation will do but only three board feet.
3. boats must be biodegradable, ergo the paint can only be water based.
4. fasteners may be staples, string or tape (duct, masking, scotch or gaffer).
5. all persons on crafts must wear life jackets and only one paddle per person per boat. 

Armed with beach chairs, suntan lotion and our very best flip-flops, we arrived, prepared for this most grand occasion at this beautiful town, and thrilled to be water front observers, having arrived by ferry boat an hour earlier to stake out our spots. Yes, a ferry boat travels between one waterfront town and another and charges the handsome price of $5 for a return trip.

The pre-event begins with a coterie of local seniors who walk into the water to see, literally, whether it is cleaner than last year and to determine how well the oysters are doing their work. The oysters can heal the bay like no other contraption made by mankind. A single oyster can filter and clean 50 gallons of water per day so it is incumbent on the local two legged animals, us, to keep the oysters safe and allow them to go forth and multiply. It’s almost biblical. This year the walkers were able to see 3.5 feet deep before the waters turned muddy. A step up from last year and a cheer that the oysters were doing their work. 

After a stirring rendition of the National Anthem, we were ready to sit comfortably in our chairs and await our first race. The official races were ready to start. Let the guffawing, chortling and knee slapping begin. 

The “Iron Man” race is a race between the iron men of law: police, sheriff, fire and DNR departments.  Money was on either “Pistol” (the police) or “Trooper” (the sheriff). The other boats sank immediately. The start gun shot blasted and Pistol immediately tried to T-bone Trooper. Treachery and guile, however, did the police no good. Trooper’s men expertly worked in unison, oar, dip, turn, oar, dip, turn. And won the race.  

Of course, local politicos had to get into the act with their “Politicians” race. One boat, ironically, was named “Integrity” and won, but further inspection proved that it had more wood at its bottom than was allowed by the rules (see Rule 2). Nothing is sacred.

The “Childrens” race was charming, hilarious, heartwarming and left me with a certain nostalgia for the wondrous joys of childhood. The racers’ age limit was 15. Eight and nine year olds, judging by the inordinate amount of unevenly applied duct tape, clearly had put together their own boats, with very nominal assistance from their elders. My heart went out to the captain of the “Ark”. Clearly he ought to have considered a lighter first mate. Neither man went down with their ship; they merely floated away from their sinking boat into their parents’ arms, who then pulled the boats back to shore. Likewise, “Titanic” proved to be an ominous name for a boat, considering its name’s history and, once again, history repeated itself. Interestingly, the “Shark” won the race; probably the son of a lawyer. Fortunately for all, the races are held in about three or four feet of water, everyone is outfitted with life jackets and the only real pain comes to a young boater’s wounded ego, but even that is tempered with the joy that has been brought to others who came out to watch children and parents having fun on a hot summer’s day.

And lest we forget, there are prizes. The prizes, oh, the prizes: a well earned tee shirt that claims “I won. . .” or “I lost. . . ” or “I went down. . .” “at the Oxford Cardboard Boat Races”.  Ah, the lazy hazy crazy days of summer. 

D-Day And The Women Left Behind

My brother sent me a very old photo of our mother recently. It was taken during WWII, so the photo had to be at least 70 years old. Once we joined the war the local stockings factory was retooled to make socks for the soldiers and since the men who operated the factory were conscripted, their presence was replaced by women. The photo shows my mom and her girlfriends, smiling, happy, glad to be in each other’s company and working together, doing something useful while the men were away. Mom was standing in the center of the group, surrounded by her girlfriends. She had a small but well constructed figure and was wearing a dress of the day, modest but pretty and flattering to her figure. Even though there was a war on, their eyes and smiles showed the promise of a bright future. In the background were the machines they operated.

Mom often told stories about “the sock factory” days. She and her girlfriends would be gathered up by a bus that arrived at their front doors each morning and deposited them back to their largely female family every evening. Each family had turned their men over to the war. Their brothers, my uncles, were all at war. Sometimes it seemed that only old men and women were left in the country. It was probably so.

Their entertainment resources were meager but they made their lives fun. Mom would tell how oftentimes they would slip notes in the socks just before they were boxed up and shipped off. Knowing that the socks would be worn by soldiers far from home, the notes would let the soldiers know that they had not been forgotten. “Come home safe”, “Yes, I will wait for you” and of course the ubiquitous “P.S. I love you”. One young lady had the perfect lipstick kiss on paper, so she would be asked to kiss up to thirty slips of paper at a time. Mom said that by the time the war was over, she was undoubtedly a very good kisser. I wondered how the puzzled soldier who found a note in his socks felt; someone was thinking of him. Hopefully he too smiled, felt remembered, felt safe and warm, even just for a moment. "Come home safe, soldier." We're glad you did.

When I showed my husband the photo and told him the story, he said that his mother and her friends too would have something for “the boys”.  His mother proudly held that she and her friends met each and every trainful of soliders that stopped through the town of McCook, NE ---- no matter the hour, day or night, the ladies were there on the platforms, waiting. Never was a train missed, his mother told. And when each train stopped, the soldiers were surprised and thoroughly pleased to be treated to cookies and sandwiches by pretty ladies who looked their best for “their boys”, knowing that these would be the last “home made” foods they would eat for a very very long time. For most of those young soldiers, this was their first time away from home. The food was devoured quickly and earnestly. Undoubtedly, a freshly baked cookie and a gentle smile was worth its weight in gold to an 18 year old lad. Many a young soldier smelled the cookie, closed his eyes and momentarily let his thoughts take him to a waiting place, somewhere safe and warm. To paraphrase then General Eisenhower's words: "boys left, men returned." And return they did to the women left behind. 

Bullshit Baffles Brains

"Merda taurorum animas conturbit" (Bullshit baffles brains). T’was even so when Latin educators ruled the world. 

Now that Mad Men is over, I worry about the ad industry. Has there been a greater Coke ad since Don Draper retired. . . well, there was that cute Nationwide commercial that used a baby as the metaphor for a man’s car, but I’m not concerned with the obvious ads. Yes, we know that blondes have more fun and that Certs is both a breath mint and a candy mint. I’m worried about the insidious green ads that are permeating the none too functional brain cells of the newly arrived ‘adults’ struggling to find meaning in their lives.  Each generation has its own foibles, and so I present the following:  

“Sustainable cashmere”  While thumbing through a catalogue, I noticed the various flowery descriptions for cardigans included the words “sustainable cashmere”. What do those words imply? The Merriam-Webster dictionary defines 'sustainable' as “able to be used without being completely used up or destroyed; involving methods that do not completely use up or destroy natural resources”.  Since cashmere comes from goat hair, how does “sustainable” apply? Goats are not killed for their hair, instead, the hair is clipped, which then grows back, is clipped again, etc., or is this a reference to the licentious behavior of goats. Are they allowed to “free-range” procreate and thus sustain their cashmere legacy?   

And while I’m on the subject of the absurd, may I introduce the spanking new concept of “Solar shelf” - overnight our pool has become eco-friendly, regardless of the fact that the pool guys routinely pour noxious chemicals into the water on a weekly basis. So much so, that we frequently find dead frogs that have innocently jumped in to their early demise. Nonetheless, we have a “solar shelf” that warms the water via the sun’s rays. The warm water is then distributed throughout the pool, says the ad. It seems like only yesterday that the new ‘solar shelf’ was the old fashioned shallow end of the pool.

Likewise, the “gluten free” label is now found on food that never had gluten. Cranberries, for instance. 

My pyjama label not only bears the size but includes a note stating “green cotton”. I googled the words and came up with ---- nothing. Cotton is a perennial crop that grows from the ground. Cotton is no more green than beets. That said, I’m pretty sure there are many fairy brains (not to cast any disrespect on Peter Pan) out there snapping up “green cotton” pyjamas because they are sustainable. If only their brains were so. 

While opening a package that contains a can of sardines, I noticed that they (the sardines) were ‘sustainably harvested’.  Personally, I think it’s cruel to be nice to sardines that will be killed and eaten.