Straight Into August

 "Straight into August." So says Scott, as he stands at the newly opened front door, momentarily overwhelmed by the blast of hot air, and it’s only 9:30 am in June.  The day won’t get any cooler but the evening will and it will be magical.

Last night, twelve hours earlier, as I walked the brick path toward the dock to watch the moon’s reflection mirrored on the water I was inundated with fireflies, hundreds of tiny fireflies blinking in the evening’s late dusk. I stopped, then slowly sauntered among their flickering lights, not wanting to break the spell, imagining I could conceivably run into Puck. (For those who were not awake during high school literature classes, his antics existed in Midsummer Night’s Dream; love is not smooth and makes us do strange things.) I don’t remember seeing summer fireflies when I was a child. If I did, I would surely have tried to collect them in glass jars as children must have done through the ages. But here, fireflies endure, enchanting by their airiness. 

In Los Angeles, our little group would regularly hike the trails of Griffith Park during the summer evenings and occasionally encounter a little train of glowworms, another of nature’s anomalies. Inevitably, the Mills Brothers’ tune would come to mind. Perforce, I would sing the song to them, completely enthralled with their very existence, watching them change their neon like color as they appeared and disappeared along the rock formations. My hiking buddies were less than thrilled with my singing. Apparently I can’t carry a tune but as far as I’m concerned, it was their problem; I was happy singing to these little glowworms, wondering how it was they came to be and what their very being meant in nature’s grand scheme of things. Most of the time I think that once I’m dead, I’m dead and the party's over but every once in a while, when I see glowworms and fireflies, I wonder if perhaps there’s some creator putting this earthly package together. 

And then there’s the cicadas. Scott says I pronounce the name incorrectly. He says it’s pronounced si-kay-da, while I say it’s pronounced chi-kah-da. Too many years in Los Angeles with plenty of Mexicans, not to mention my own Italian roots, have taught me that “ci” is always pronounced “ch” and “ca” is always pronounced “kah”. Rather than argue, I tell him he’s right then go about my business and pronounce the word whichever way I choose. This year was to be the great cicada invasion and while that was the case on the western shore, no inordinate numbers invaded our little corner of heaven. Only the usual size swarms have passed through, noisily letting us know of their presence, enlivening the trees with their music, saying hello or hola. 

Facing the other side of the house, in the midst of the four acre pine forest, is a huge pond. We do nothing to it or about it. It continues to exist because it was there before us. It lives within its own ecosystem. Yellow lilies and white mallows preside at its edge and bull rush reeds sprout in the water on occasion. Then, just as dramatically, disappear. There is an entire civilization of frogs in the water’s midst, from what I can tell anyway. During the day, they quietly hang around on the pond’s edge, like louche barflies with nothing to do and nowhere to go. I see them when I walk the lane to collect the mail. They see me and jump into the water to safety. The twilight of evening carries the frogs’ songs. I understand the male frog sings prior to, or during sex, I’m not clear on that course of events, but whichever way the alluring “ribbits” work, there must be a lot of sex going on in those waters. It’s very noisy. So goes our summer.

What I Got For $50

 As I was explaining to my girlfriends at brunch, my also divorced brother and I had long ago decreed that if we were both single when retirement arrived we would move in together. I painted a picture of an eccentric bro and sis who lived in a strangely colored house with a shrieking doorbell, who dressed in worn chenille bathrobes at odd hours, with perhaps a few cats to round out the scenario. Both girlfriends listened politely, but ultimately were having none of it. Instead, each one had success stories from meetings via eHarmony. I explained that I had tried a few dating sites, then regaled them with the outcomes, the wretchedly sad and sorry outcomes. Dismissing my experiences, they held the hope of a four year old child on Christmas morning for my future happiness. This site was different, they contended. I would find joy in a relationship once again. Doubtful, but for their sake, and silence on the topic, I agreed; once more into the breach.

On line I saw that the smallest increment of eHarmony time would be a three month “introductory membership” for $50. I groaned out loud at that waste of hard earned money but, for friendships’ sake, patiently spent the next three or so hours filling out forms; long, tedious forms that asked long, tedious questions requiring long, tedious answers that hurt my head to consider. Was I neat or ‘casual’? Was I prompt or did I live on ‘Hawaiian time’? Was I formal or relaxed in manner? What was my attitude about money, socializing, travel — everything from ice cream to teeth cleaning to the sun’s proclivity for rising in the east.  Finally, long after the shadows of day had left the city, not to mention a few glasses of wine that had mysteriously evaporated, I hit the Done/Send button. Immediately, up popped a response: “We have no matches”, thus confirming what I already knew — no one in their right mind would even consider spending an entire evening with me, never mind the rest of his life. So much for the reckless misuse of $50.

Over the next few days, though, various anticipative suitors appeared on my screen. I noted a number of cautionary tales amongst the requests for my company. For my part there was many a no - no to extreme age differences (no to someone to whom I would be spooning oatmeal in five years), no to men with children ‘who meant everything to them’. Not to denigrate parenthood, but I never wanted children so did not want to live my life around someone else’s children; and last, no to any man who lived more than 20 miles away (‘cause I learned that he will drive to my home a couple of times but after that I would be the one to drive to his home and the 405 freeway on a Friday evening is the embodiment of a very disturbing and never ending Twilight Zone episode). 

Weeks went by, with many a fruitless prospect getting the boot. I was almost at the end of my “introductory membership” when one man of interest appeared. Damn. This candidate could alter my life plan. He was four months younger than me (a plus); divorced, no children (another plus); just barely made the 20 mile cut (close enough). With great trepidation, I hit ‘yes’ and was presented with more questionnaires. Lovely. More wine please. Was I a reader or a TV watcher? Ocean or mountains? Coffee or tea? The questions went on and on as did the replies. Finally, more mutually positive responses led to direct email address exchanges and we commenced a fruitful correspondence. However entertaining these missives were, though, after a couple of months, he still showed no interest in meeting me. I finally tired of the written repartee and counseled that unless we were to meet soon I was done with him. After all, I had not joined the site to find a pen pal. The ultimatum finally led to a date request.

He was a member of the private and charming Magic Castle club, so we agreed to meet at the door at 7 pm. I arrived at 6:50 pm. It was an unusually cool spring evening for June 7. My carefully chosen, but thinly woven, purple silk dress was doing nothing to keep me warm. I went to the reception counter and explained to the two young ladies that I was very chilly waiting outdoors. Since I was not a member, however, I technically could not enter the bar without my escort. I gave them his name which did match the reservation time of 7 pm. They noticed the alarmingly large goose bumps on my arms and kindly took pity, giving me the magic word that opened the book case which allowed me entrance to the bar. At the time, I was very grateful. 

He arrived promptly at 6:58 pm, dressed in his best navy blazer, pressed khakis and gleaming white shirt, but while the valet was trading his car keys for a ticket the aforementioned young ladies went off their shift and were traded by two new young ladies who took their place. He peeked inside the reception area and, after announcing himself, saw that the entry room was empty so he gallantly waited outside, in the cool evening air that was becoming cooler and windier by the minute. After half an hour he tucked his chilled head back in the door, stated his name again, then asked the young ladies if, perhaps, there had been a call for him. No. Nothing, they lamented. He continued to wait, stoically, outside for another half hour before giving up and heading to the Magic Castle’s bar. Clearly, he had been abandoned. 

In the meantime, I waited patiently at the bar, fending off the occasional magician offering a fancy libation or an even fancier card trick. Regrettably, as my patience abated, so did my sense of humor. By 8 pm I finally accepted, quite distressed, that I had been stood up and was collecting myself in preparation for leaving at the exact moment he chose to enter the bar, having decided that I had stood him up. Our eyes met. We stared at each other, both equally nonplussed, but tentatively willing to hear each other's explanations. His was eminently reasonable, as was mine. It appeared that we had both been wronged. The rest of the evening was spent most agreeably, as were the many more evenings to come. Ten months later, as the song goes, he asked:

What are you doing the rest of your life?

North and south and east and west of your life.

I have only one request of your life,

that you spend it all with me.