Born on the 4th of July

Here I sit, a few days away from my 70th birthday, impressed with myself for having reached this age and still able to feed myself. Looking back, there are certain memorable birthday years: my 21st birthday was celebrated by many friends who managed to make it a month long event. My first birthday as a married lady; my husband had created a very intricate scavenger hunt for my present. Numerous other years came and went, always with fireworks, not especially for me but I liked to think so anyway. I remember my last birthday in California. I was 53 that day.

My day began very early since my mother seemingly could not comprehend that if it was 9 am on the east coast, it was 6 am on the west coast. She wanted to be the first to wish me happy birthday. Time zones mean nothing to a woman whose first vision of America as an eight year old child was passing the Statue of Liberty and working her way through the maze of Ellis Island. That’s what freedom and America are all about, and I am sure that’s why she had me on the 4th, even though this is not her native country; this great country, this great big country, with three different time zones. That said, it is not enough that she brought me into this world, but at 6 am I had the distinct impression that she was trying to take me out.

To make matters worse, I had a bit of a thumper headache due to the previous evening’s events. I had attended the Hollywood Bowl pre July 4th concert with half a dozen friends. It was a very relaxed California weather evening, that is to say there was no humidity or mosquitos, only a soft breeze and a clear sky that held the full moon. We sat in our private box dining, drinking, listening to Tchaikovsky’s 1812 Overture while oohing and aahing the fireworks at evening’s end. There was an awkward moment, earlier, while enjoying highlights from Porgy and Bess, when one of the younger members of our group turned to me and asked from which movie Summertime was from; movie? After a short introductory pep talk about American opera, the theme of the evening, peace was restored, somewhat (was I that old? was she that young?).  We went back to tapping our toes and sipping our wine under a warm summer sky.

In any event, that was last night, this was this morning; more phone calls ensued and I was up for the day. I packed and headed for Manhattan Beach where I was meeting more friends for another day of sunbathing, dining, drinking and oohing and aahing the fireworks. One girlfriend and I took a stroll along the strand. We had both lived in the rafting beach towns during our youth. Now, 25 years later, it warmed my heart to see that the kids were still the same: young, long haired, beautifully healthy, suntanned (they’ll pay for that later), irresponsibly drinking too much and still singing their own a cappella version of the Rascals’  “It’s a beautiful morning”.

Upon returning to our self-described “young seniors” groups, safely ensconced under a large parachute canopy, extra sun umbrellas, beach chairs, and gallons of suntan lotion, we partook, in celebration of this great American holiday, of English lemonade and Boodles gin, margaritas, tacquitos, enchilladas, Spanish rice, cerviche, Bavarian creme, German chocolate cake and Aussie and Italian wines discretely decanted into Coleman coolers since drinking on the beach was not allowed by anyone over 50. What a great country!

Another girlfriend and I were idly enjoying the young male eye candy playing volleyball nearby. Our conversation oftentimes stopped abruptly, an occasional eyebrow was raised when an intricate lob was executed and young male muscles rippled accordingly. It was summertime and the ‘young senior’ mind ought to be forgiven if it should wander, under the guise of some sort of heat-sun spell, along other miscreant lines. A young man jogged over to retrieve an errant volleyball. His oh so low bathing trunk hung precariously on his oh so narrow hips and when he bent over, oh mon dieu, my friend fell backwards on her sand chair during her attempt to covertly admire this oh so handsome and ever out of reach young sun god. Of course it was impossible to explain to her loyal faithful age appropriate husband how and why it was that she had managed to tip herself over, but she knew, and I knew, and she knew that I knew, and we both knew that our secret would die with our giggles even while her husband helped her back into her chair.

The day progressed. Another two couples joined us. One man had a long tape bandage across his knee, the remnant of a recent surgery on his knee joint. After a long and much too comprehensive explanation, I remarked that I was glad that all my joints were still fine. One lady, who was not privy to the entire conversation, but only scattered remarks about joints, remarked:
“Linda, you’ve got joints?”
“Yes”, I replied “and they’re all good.”
“Are they cheap?” she asked.
“What. Joints? What? What are you talking about?” How could she not have taken my meaning? I wasn’t talking about cheap dive bars. I was talking about knee joints.
“No. Joints, as in tokes, reefers, fatties”.
I was struck dumb. No easy feat. At that moment, I realized that my advanced years had stopped being a joke when the definition of smokable grass was not even on my radar. A joint is (1) the uniting point of two or more bone parts; (2) a cheap dive; (3) a home made smokable product. There was time when number three would have been number one, and number one would not have been in my conscious thoughts. Where had the years gone. Clearly another discreet glass of “pink lemonade” from the Coleman cooler was needed.

The day progressed in equal folly, friends came by, passed the time and went off to their own blankets. The day was coming to a close. The sky, the sea and the sand had all mutated into that unifying translucent silver grey glass color. All three textures had merged into one making it impossible to tell where the sky ended and the sea or sand began. The ocean took on a stronger voice while the human noises ebbed away. Always, this time of day would fill me with a certain wistful melancholy; a timeless moment where anything seemed possible and probable. If time travel was possible, this was the moment when I could step into another era. So I stood and watched, waited and listened and wished the moment of peace would last forever. And then the moment was gone; dissolved into the everyday reality. Society’s bright lights bore holes into the grey canvas. The sky very very slowly darkened and the full moon made its presence known low and large on the horizon.

We pulled down the canopies, and spread the blankets to watch the fireworks that would soon appear before us.  Some of us added sweaters to our ensembles. A couple of us ladies stood together quietly talking about this and that, when a young man came up behind me and asked if the fireworks had started. I politely responded no and went back to our conversation. A short while later another young man popped by and asked the same question. No, again. What was the matter with these young men? Couldn’t they see for themselves that the fireworks had not yet started. The mystery was cleared when one of our group came up to us, with a smile and a chuckle,  and said that he had overheard one of the young men talking to his buddies: “when I got up close and talked to her, it turned out that she was about 30; bummer”.

Could a California 4th of July end more perfectly?

Meeting the neighbors

I trudged downstairs after my workout and searched out Scott, who was sitting in the den with a strange look on his face. He said “I know this sounds weird but the door bell rang and when I opened it a woman in a bikini was running toward the driveway”.  Naturally, I asked about the quantity of scotch that he may have imbibed during my absence. He appeared quite confused. In response to my questions, he could only iterate that she was running towards the neighbors’ trees, had a nice figure and hadn’t stood at the front door long enough for his arrival. Neither one of us knew what to make of the event. As I walked to my dressing room, though, I looked out the window and saw red flashing lights next door. Calling Scott to come look, we both realized that the neighbor was in trouble and had needed help. 

We both raced to the neighbor’s home to see if there was anything we could do to help. I put on a light raincoat to cover my shorts and sports bra while Scott undoubtedly ran towards the bikini. All manner of madness was taking place: the fire trucks were alit, the coast guard boat had arrived, various generations of women were pacing and crying at the back patio. A young man with down’s syndrome was smiling at all the attention, while another equally young pony tailed teenager was scrolling through her cell phone, completely oblivious to the drama whirling around her. 

Apparently the 30 year old son, or nephew, I wasn’t clear on his lineage, had put on his wet suit, dove off the dock and never returned. There were theories that the strong tide had taken him out, or that he had a debilitating cramp. Scott dispelled the tide theory; there is no tide here, not to mention that the entire cove is about three feet deep at high tide. The guy could just stand up if he felt a cramp. Nothing nefarious could possibly happen in these waters. The cove is famous for its peaceful tranquility.  Pleasure boats dock in these waters all summer for just that reason. Nonetheless, dad went out in a kayak when they learned that Scott’s boat engine wasn’t working. I hugged and comforted the 91 year old grandmother, while Scott talked with the volunteer firemen. The bikini had taken her car and was driving around the area, presumably looking for, dunno, a body, albeit none of the public roads are located near any of the local waters.  

Somewhere in this madness the subject (or is it object?), of all this search and rescue, appeared. Apparently the waters were too shallow, he was done with diving, had returned, removed his wet suit, took a shower and spent some time in his room playing with his cell phone. Evidently no one had seen him return and he hadn’t thought anything of it either. When he noticed the red flashing lights he came downstairs to find out what was going on. Discovering that he was the object (or is it subject) of all this attention, he dispelled the notion that he had drowned. Nonetheless, that didn’t stop everyone from yelling at him, angry, tearful and grateful at the same time. Scott and I, realizing that all was well, removed ourselves from this family drama and came home. Anyway, this is a long way to say that we met the neighbors.