Snow

Many years ago when I was in college and still driving that pumpkin orange AMC Gremlin, I set out for the Christmas holiday back home, normally a 90-minute drive. It was right around Calimesa on Interstate 10 that I came over a rise and was dumbfounded to find snow in front of me as far as the eye could see. The traffic slowed to a stop. This was Southern California; and no one knew how to drive in the snow. So we just sat in our cars, the engines and heaters running, because it was verry cold. The afternoon turned to evening and eventually the evening light slipped into darkness. A few hours later, my car stopped running. I’m not sure if it ran out of gas or if the battery just got too cold to restart. So I pushed the Gremlin to the side of the road with the help of some of my freeway neighbors, and discovered that in the car behind me was a woman that I knew from church. She had been visiting a friend in the hospital and was on her way home when she got stuck in the snowstorm. She was crying and her hands were trembling and she appeared to be very happy to see me. She grabbed my hand through the window of her car and asked if I could drive her car home. I didn’t play coy. I said you ‘betcha!’ So I took note of where we left my car, and climbed in behind her steering wheel. Finally the Highway Patrol took us as a caravan, single file through the snow to unobstructed freeway. It was nine hours after I began the trip that we pulled up to my parent’s house to let me out.

As I listened to the reports this week of heavy snowfall in the Northeast, I successfully defeated any romantic notions about sleigh bells in the snow. My one experience of December snow on a Southern California freeway was enough to last me a lifetime.

The Singing Gardner

Since my fingers no longer function due to the MS, I do all my writing with the use of voice recognition software. I speak into the headset and the words appear on the screen of my computer…like magic. My office needs to be quiet in order for the software to work. So washing machines, vacuum cleaners, lawnmowers; each is my nemesis. But the other day as I was sitting to write this piece, the sound of on edger out in the park outside my window caught my attention. Actually it was the operator of the edger that I noticed. As he worked, he sang. In a booming baritone voice he sang out loud. I'm not quite sure what the song was because the lyrics were in Spanish. But the song was so beautiful, and the singer so sincere that I'm sure it was a love song.

I fancied myself on the Via Veneto listening to a gondolier serenading his lovebird passengers. We went to Venice once, back in the days when I could still walk. We had dinner in a tiny restaurant that we found by wandering through the alleyways. We gorged ourselves on beautiful meats and pastas while an old dog slept on the floor in the corner. After dinner we made our way back to the hotel. We were surely lost but how lost can you get in Venice? Eventually everything leads back to St. Mark's Square. We were happy wandering hand in hand on tiny sidewalks, over picturesque bridges. And then we heard a little bit of heaven. In a tiny church, a choir and orchestra were performing Vivaldi, so we sat on a bench outside. The stars twinkled over our heads, water lapped the sides of the canal in front of us and the music flew over the windowsills and embraced us with eternal affection.

Thank God for the singer who sings without regard for who might be listening.

Watch

I thought I lost my watch yesterday.

Twenty years ago Tom gave me a wristwatch for my birthday. It was a beautiful gold Hamilton watch with a classic face. In those days I was in the habit of losing wristwatches; I must’ve misplaced three watches since I’d been living with Tom. The Timex I had been wearing that winter disappeared- I know not where. So when Tom gave me my new Hamilton, he said, “Watch where you put it. This is no Timex”. I’ll be careful, I promised.

I remember that winter distinctly, we moved to San Diego and the three of us, Tom, Skip (our dog) and I moved into a one-bedroom apartment. It was an exciting time full of new possibilities. Both Tom and I were starting new jobs and exploring our new city. Since our furniture was stored in a Mayflower warehouse somewhere, we slept on the floor in a sleeping bag while we scoured the new city for our house to be. On the first night in our sleeping bag, Tom gave me my birthday present. The new watch.

After my grandmother died I ended up with one of my grandfather’s old pocket watches, it was a classic old Elgin that didn’t run any more. I took it to several jewelers who agreed they couldn’t make it run again. I don’t know if that was literally true, or if jewelers today don’t know what to do with 75-year-old pocket watches. My new Hamilton has a face nearly as attractive as that old Elgin.

I’ve kept my lovely Hamilton lo these many years, changing the bands from time to time and the battery annually. In the last couple of years I’ve worn it on my wrist with a flexible band that stretches over my hand, since I no longer have the dexterity in my fingers to buckle a more traditional leather band.

Yesterday as I prepared for bed I noticed my watch wasn’t on my wrist. I checked the bathroom counter near the sink and I checked my nightstand. I checked the dining table-no watch. My heart began racing. I must have panicked for about 30 minutes. Finally I found it. It was just below my elbow all the time, hidden by the sleeve of my sweater. Since it was one of those unusually cold evenings in Southern California, I was wearing a sweater, an unusual garment for me. I was flooded with relief.

I don’t have many appointments any more; I don’t need to get any place at any particular time. But the thought of losing my watch left me shaken. After all- I had promised to be careful.