Anita Garner | The Aging of Aquarius – Page 23 of 33 – Anita Garner's journey from rock and roll disc jockey to grandmother.. what's next?

Eye exams make me insecure.

With multiple choice tests you stand a chance of getting at least some of the answers right. For me, multiple choices bring on second-guessing. This situation is not a confidence-booster at the eye doctor’s office while being examined before purchasing hundreds of dollars worth of glasses and contacts. The doctor clicks that giant face-mask-like black contraption with the eye-holes into place and asks, this one or this one?

Me: Uh…

Doc: A or B?

Me: A. No, B. I’m not sure.

Doc: Number 1 or 2?

Me: I think 2. No, could I see 1 again?

What is so tough about this? Am I worried that choosing the wrong letter or number will disappoint the teacher, I mean doctor? Glimpses of the past, of not living up to someone else’s expectations? Oh Lordy, here comes that machine thing again and now there’s also a number 3.

Next there’s the wall chart, accompanied by a feeling that I’m somehow a disappointment because I can’t read that last line.

I always wonder, after leaving the eye doctor’s office, was it my lame guesswork that determined my new prescription, or does the eye doctor’s knowledge somehow compensate for my insecurity about this whole process?

Right now my eyes are dilated so I can’t see squat, but when the effects of these eye drops wear off, will my brand new, very chic and very expensive glasses reflect my possibly incorrect choices, or the doctor’s skills?

Thanksgiving – Before and After

real-simple1 As soon as Halloween is over, I look forward to Thanksgiving. It’s my favorite holiday. No shopping. No wrapping. No costumes. Good mood. Good food. Great leftovers. We eat early and eat too much, then return to eat again. There’ll be a neighborhood stroll between snacks, but there will be more eating.

We’ll have delicious late-in-the-day sandwiches. We bring in special rolls (some of us love sourdough, others prefer wheat.) There’s nothing exotic about our Thanksgiving planned-over sandwiches, but there’s no other sandwich all year that tastes this good. Frank Bruni writes about his family’s similar sandwich tradition in Real Simple Magazine.

By dessert time, music starts. Christmas begins with Thanksgiving pie. Some years Johnny Mathis kicks off the season. Sometimes it’s Burl Ives, or Vince Guaraldi’s Charlie Brown soundtrack.

Meanwhile, I’m already humming a chorus of “Count Your Blessings.” Some years there’s a need to start the humming earlier, a reminder to myself that no matter what else happened during the year, there are still reasons to be grateful.

(photo from Real Simple)

October Thirty One-th

october-30-2010-first-tooth-gone-tooth-fairy-pillow Just had a conversation with a small friend. A very close friend. She reported that the first baby tooth has come out. First tooth fairy payoff received this morning. Her “Belle” princess costume is ready for trick or treating. Birthday party invitations were just sent out for a November date. When asked about so much going on, the five year old said that yes, she is very excited. She said, “Today is October thirty. Tomorrow is the thirty one-th and after that is November and that’s my birthday year.”

You go girl. Celebrate all over the place. Stretch it out as far as it’ll go. Make it last, and I’ll join your party in progress. Soon enough the world sends us reminders about real life, some of them the distinctly non-celebratory kind. So let’s get started on your birthday right away and keep it going all year.

Favorite Day Of The Week

By Anita Garner

Thursday’s my favorite day of the week. A Thursday’s as good as a Friday, in terms of anticipation, and anticipation is the key. Looking forward to something is often more fun than the “something” when it actually arrives. The one thing we can decide all by ourselves is what and how much we’re anticipating.

On Thursday, whether or not there are weekend plans, I look forward to the weekend. This was true even when I worked weekends, and it’s true today when I am more or less in charge of my own work schedule. There’s no accounting for this little fizz of joy that bubbles up around afternoon coffee time on a Thursday. It’s the feeling that something good might happen.

When I was a kid and a brand new member of the workforce, I bought the “hump day” reasoning. Everyone talked about how great Wednesday would be, because it’s the halfway point in the week. But that didn’t last long. It never did carry the anticipation of a Thursday.

On the opposite side of this falls the least favorite day of the week. Sunday seems to be the letdown point for lots of us. Some say it goes back to childhood when, by Sunday afternoon, fun was done and a new school week loomed.

I’m thinking maybe it’s the letdown from all that Thursday anticipation. But I’m not giving up the Thursday feeling just to alleviate the Sunday afternoon blues. Anticipation is still the only part of the week I can control.

Read the instructions first? Really?

Now comes the time for getting acquainted with our new products. Assembly instructions. Operating manuals. Warranties. Oh my. It’s not just the digital camera, the cell phone, the hand steamer, the bagless vacuum with three different filters, it’s also the computer which had to be replaced in an ill-timed holiday rush.

Because of gifts received and necessary purchases and appliances that broke and even furniture (good old Ikea) there’s a stack of booklets on the table screaming, “Read me.” I say, “Fat chance” and keep walking.

The simplest gadget of all – the hand-held steamer – is the one so far that refuses to cooperate. It has two attachments – a brush and a lint thingy – meant to keep the steam a safe distance away from delicate fabrics. The attachments won’t attach. We resorted to reading the three page booklet -obviously translated from another language. It says, specifically, “Slide the attachment into place.” There’s no possible way to “slide” anything. If it’s going on there, it’d be more of a “snapping” into place. We tried snapping. Then forcing. The parts don’t fit.

So I filled the reservoir and steamed away without attachments, carefully keeping it away from the silk blouse I need to wear immediately. It spat at me.

At this point I’m farther along with the new computer than the so-simple-a-child-can-do-it hand steamer.

Top of To Do List before the new year: Must sit down and read all instructions. Yeah, that’s gonna happen.

My Own Christmas Newsletter. Spoiler Alert – Includes Swine Flu

December, 2009

It may be better to give than receive, but I’d rather read your newsletters and cards than try to remember the past year in enough detail to write my own.

Memory isn’t always accurate in my case. A friend once accused me of “painting the past in pastels.” I beg to differ. Every writer I know paints the past in different colors but not all of them are pale. I don’t always note in which months these things took place, but I do recall the emotion vividly.

Our little Caedan Ray had swine flu. It began with symptoms of a regular flu but perhaps because it happened sometime in summer, an alert doctor tested for H1N1 and that’s what it was. Immediately Caedan was quarantined with her mommy. Even her dad, Edan, couldn’t be close to her. I wanted to go to L.A. to help, but the doctor wouldn’t allow that either.

One of the most frightening parts was that one day Caedan got quieter and more pale and lay down on the floor. Cathleen rushed her back to the doctor where she was found to be oxygen-depleted and put on respiratory therapy. This disease can affect lungs so quickly and with terrifying results. Better news – Cathleen had a “regular” flu, but no one else close to them got Swine Flu.

Caedan started Kindergarten in September, the youngest in her class. She has just now turned 5. So far so good. She loves school. Loves the work and according to her teacher, loves visiting (too much it seems) with her schoolmates.

I remain in Mill Valley, north of San Francisco, while my family is in southern California, so I spend a good deal of time commuting. It’s worth it for the blessed fog and redwoods near me – and then the warm reception I receive when I show up at the door to my girls’ place.

My biggest thrill so far this year (There are still a few days left and I wouldn’t mind another big thrill. Are you listening, Santa?) was winning the John Steinbeck Short Story Award for my story, “Hank Williams Was A Friend Of Mine” which is from my collection in progress.

I hope each of you has some pastel-colored memory to keep.

Anita

All Those TV Christmas Movies!

It’s pretty much a given – without the Lifetime and Hallmark networks – Christmas couldn’t exist. I’m not knocking those two – in fact I schedule my season in order to leave time to watch just about every Christmas movie. Most of them aren’t very good – by anybody’s movie standards – but they all end happily. Every single one of them. And this time of year that’s just fine with me. I like my holidays predictable.

Predictable is the word for the titles. Most of them are named “The Christmas………..”

To fill in the blank, choose one of the following: Miracle. Note. Wish. Family. Reunion. Angel. Magic. Wedding. Story. Cottage.

Many plots center on a scrooge-like character (young man, young woman, old man, old woman) who never learned the real meaning of Christmas – so we need one big event to teach them.

Another favorite plot involves someone who’s been away from their home town. This person has often had a high-falutin’ career in the big city and for some reason returns to said home town and proceeds to re-fall in love with 1) the town, or 2) a former sweetheart who stayed there all this time and is miraculously single. And of course through this return visit, the true meaning of Christmas is revealed.

A plot that repeats every year – the successful business person is sent home to shut down a plant/store/company that is the main source of income for all residents. During the course of this 1-1/2 hour movie, the person sent to do the deed gets converted to small-town thinking and finds a more efficient way to run the plant/store/company so that all get to keep their jobs. Turns out the people who work in the little town are the kindest, most generous folks this executive has ever met. And once in a while the hatchet man/woman falls in love with the local plant supervisor/employee spokesperson

Of course many plots feature children. Sometimes it’s kids trying to keep mommy and daddy together. Sometimes it’s a kid whose parents have died. Or kids who haven’t learned the real meaning of Christmas yet but are still too young for that high-falutin’ career in the big city, so their lessons must be taught in a slightly different way, but rest assured, those lessons will be taught. Pets are often involved.

I’ll watch all of them. At least I’ll try. Just because I can guess what’s coming in the next scene, that’s no reason to give up my cup of coffee, feet on the coffee table, Christmas movie playback.

Holiday Newsletters Are Arriving – Fa la la la la!

Here they come again, cards and even better, envelopes bearing holiday newsletters and photos and tales of travels and details about what life brought and what it took away during this year that’s ending soon.

I love holiday newsletters. I especially like the ones I receive from people with whom I don’t exchange emails all year. Nor even phone calls. So this is often our one communication and it’s becoming increasingly important. I don’t want to lose touch with people even (especially) if we’re not really in touch (much.)

It’s the time of the year for looking at pictures of kids and pets and vacation spots that accompany the stories told within these one or two pages. Stories are what I love. I even like to read newsletters with stories about people I don’t know.

In the mail a couple of days ago, I got the newsletter written by the husband of my very first roommate. I had the honor of being part of their wedding ceremony, back when we were barely out of our teens. She’s always been a good communicator, so it’s a surprise that the stories of their lives during the year are told by him. It’s a side of him I hadn’t known before our paths took different directions. I don’t know who takes the pictures that accompany the text – but maybe that’s her part of this annual mailing.

One couple I’ve known for decades – I used to babysit their young children – are now grandparents who are in such close touch with every family member, it’s a joy just to read the updates about these grown grandchildren I’ve never met. These are grandparents who can tell you about college classes and hopes and dreams and plans and romances of each of their multiple grandchildren.

I have one grandchild – she whose photo will grace my own missives when I get them ready to mail next week – and I have to run to keep up with the goings and comings of this one little girl. So the couple with several grown grandchildren, this family that travels from all over the U.S. and Europe to get together each summer for several days – and then includes pictures with their mailings – they’re my new holiday newsletter heroes this year.

Last season it seemed there was less mail, and I worried about the people who always wrote, but then stopped. But this year, they started arriving earlier than usual, and there are more of them. I’m wondering if maybe this tradition matters even more during a time when so many people have had to cut back on so many other things.

Keep ’em coming. Your newsletters will all receive a glad welcome here.

The kitchen in the center of this old house

I’m still unpacking in this new-to-me-hundred-year-old house in the redwoods. Every now and then I climb onto a stool in the very large kitchen, stir some cream into my coffee, and count my blessings. I’ve had galley kitchens, pullman kitchens and whatever other glorified descriptions we use for “too small.” One of my favorite memories is of my first kitchen as a family lady. It was a big, square room in a very small house.

Over the years we moved on up and up and up to modern and big and fancy – but nothing ever took my fancy again like that old kitchen where my daughter’s first birthday party took place.

Nothing makes home home-ier for me than a kitchen that is the center of everything. Modern houses have plenty of designated spaces for appliances and a granite counter for homework and a breakfast nook attached, but in these old places you can’t get from one spot to another without going through the kitchen and I like that fine.

In this house the kitchen is by far the biggest room. It’s not fancy, but it’s welcoming. It has some funky built-ins. A pantry and some curiously made shelves. Rustic? Oh my yes. It takes special mojo to keep the pantry door closed and leveling the new fridge into its spot is a joke. Nothing is level here.

A side note: Speaking of old houses, writer, Edie Clark, shares information about her restoration of the vintage “Mary’s Farm” in New England – with all its attendant quirks. She’s featured in Yankee Magazine as well as her own books, and she blogs regularly at http://www.yankeemagazine.com/blogs/marysfarm/ Edie’s stories are like fairy tales for a Californian who loves history. Not the ice on the pond and the shoveling of snow followed by the mud season, but the Currier & Ives pictures that make the farm look like a Christmas card all winter.

Back to my old house. When this cottage was built, there weren’t ranch-style residences with a long hallway. That was suburban architecture and back then there weren’t suburbs. There were no family rooms. No special acvitity spaces. The kitchen was the only space large enough for the family to gather – except, I guess for the homes of the very rich and their grand palaces, with which I have only a tourist’s acquaintance.

I like to think this little house reflects the way many families lived in ye olden days – tight but accommodating. The kitchen stayed warm all day, what with the cooking and the big table and the coffee and tea brewed all day long.

I’m a decent cook. Mostly Southern food. I’m already stewing-up and frying up a mess-a-sumthin’, but my daughter’s a far more accomplished cook and I can’t wait to taste what she’ll make when she visits. This Old House makes a person think of things like that.

Ó Anita Garner 2009

Over the meadow and through the woods

In this story I am the grandmother and it’s my house that’s in the woods. But that wasn’t where I headed for Thanksgiving. I drove away from my northern California redwood forest, as I often do, to spend Thanksgiving in the city with my daughter and granddaughter.

Los Angeles was warm, leaning toward hot, the whole time I was there. It’s 400 miles from here to there on Interstate 5, which runs the length of California and then some. On my drive south, there wasn’t a cloud in the sky. The sun was shining and everyone I encountered along the way was feeling festive.

During my visit, my granddaughter asked why I can’t live closer to her. I said I wish that was possible, but I like cooler weather. In fact I love my Marin County fog belt.

Two days after Thanksgiving it was time to come home and since it had been around 80 degrees the day before, it didn’t occur to me to check the weather before leaving. I don’t like to drive in the dark, but once in a while in the pre-dawn, when traffic is light, it’s nice to get an early start.

About 5 A.M. I headed north, leaving the lights of Los Angeles behind as I slowly climbed the mountain toward Fort Tejon. (For non-Californians, that’s where Christo installed his giant yellow umbrellas.) Rain began to fall almost immediately. The side window felt icy-cold. I left the Valley floor wearing a tee shirt and I didn’t want to steam up the windows with the heater and besides, I thought, teeth chattering will help me stay clear-headed.

The Grapevine – the part of I-5 that goes over the summit and then drops you down close to Bakersfield – is generally picturesque. This time I couldn’t see a thing because the rain quickly turned to snow.

It came on so fast, it was a shock. Gusts of wind made driving a struggle. The lack of traffic was a liability because there were few taillights to follow. The town of Gorman at the top is about 4100 feet and I don’t remember a Thanksgiving storm before that powdered the junction white in minutes.

Snow piled up so the lane markers were no longer visible. Everything was fuzzy. I drove as slowly as possible, trying to get behind some big trucks in the right lane so they’d make a path I could follow.

Stopping wasn’t an option. Had I pulled over at the top, I’d have been snowed in and without chains, it could have taken hours to get out. I said a prayer, fought the wind for control of my car, and drove on.

I sang loud to keep from getting dizzy and counted the minutes ’til the road begins the descent into the next Valley and there, at the truck stop where I like to refill my coffee, just minutes from the blinding storm, was the bright sunshine again.

The rest of the trip was uneventful and I looked forward to doing some Christmas decorating at home – stringing tiny lights that glow like a fairy tale in the northern fog. Except when I got home there was no fog. Only sunshine. And no fog this morning either. And today is warmer than normal with a prediction of sun all week long.

I want my seasonal weather back. I need to get in touch with Al Gore and see if he can do something about this.

Ó Anita Garner 2009