Barefoot In The Park

In 1969 I played the role of Paul in our high school production of ‘Barefoot in the Park’. This was one of Neil Simon’s most popular plays on Broadway with over 1000 performances in the 1960s. Mine was the role played by Robert Redford in New York and in the film. I didn’t look like Robert Redford, but never mind- no pressure. It is a very funny script and we had a lot of fun keeping them rolling in the aisles.

Playing opposite me in the role once played by Jane Fonda, was a lovely high school senior girl named Kevin Crooks. She was terrific. And the script called for us to kiss each other at several points in the play…on the lips. I was a high school sophomore. Tall for my age but in most ways not experienced at all. You get my drift? The only women I ever kissed were my mom and grandmothers, and that was not the kind of kissing the script called for. When it came time for our characters to kiss, Kevin was very patient. She tutored me to kiss like a real heterosexual. (I suppose it helped that her name was Kevin, I could just close my eyes and imagine kissing anyone I’d like; Kevin Costner, Kevin Bacon-you get the idea.)

The play was set in New York City in the 60s so of course there were jokes in the script about gay people. I knew what gay people were, kind of. But they were mostly the butt of jokes even to Neil Simon.

The real balm that the play provided was the laughter. It was the first comedy in which I had acted. And I was surprised by how luxurious it felt to be the recipient of all that laughter. It billowed up from the audience and rolled over me. As long as they kept laughing I could do no wrong. You can be sure that Neil Simon is a genius when he puts words in the mouth of a high school sophomore and makes people laugh for hours.

Tomato Farming

When I was in college I came home to the desert to take summer jobs. One summer my brother and I worked for a hydroponic farmer putting in tomato plants. Hydroponics is a style of farming that avoids the use of soil. The plants are situated in gravel or some such inert composite. Nutrient rich water would be washed through the roots of the plants several times a day. It was a way of farming that helped to avoid plant damage by disease and pests. If you've ever seen a tomato worm, you know how important it is to avoid them.

We started at the site just before sunrise every day, shoveling gravel, pushing wheelbarrows full of seedlings, tying up tiny tomato plants and other tedious and laborious jobs in the hundred-degree heat. Our supervisor on the job was an old farmer who wore overalls and a straw hat and was in the habit of sitting in the shade and pointing and shouting at his younger slaves. I'm not sure how we got the job. I must have unknowingly hurt the feelings of one of my friends who, for revenge, recommended me to farmer John.

I had worked at other summer jobs; lifeguard at a pool and lake, usher at a movie theater, supervisor for a recreation playground. But never anything as hot and difficult as hydroponic farming. That summer job became a touchstone for me. When later in life I fell into some work that I didn’t like, I could always say to myself: ‘at least it’s not hydroponic farming in hundred degree temperatures.’

Italy

In 1998 Tom and I took a trip to Italy. I had been diagnosed with MS the year before and we decided we had better travel sooner rather than later. We chose a bus tour of Italy with a company called Perillo and they put us on a bus with a driver named Stefano and a tour guide named Anna. On our flight to Rome we met a couple that, it turned out, were active in the PFLAG chapter in Portland, Maine, and they spotted us because we wore matching rings. So we had made friends on the tour even before the tour began: An auspicious beginning.

Our tour guide, Anna, talked about life in Italy as we drove along in the bus. She was married with a couple of little children and she had the Italian point of view on everything from frozen pizza to the Pope. She noted the Italian national car was the FIAT, which stood for: “Fix It Again Tony”. Two particularly memorable sights on our trip included Capri and the Amalfi Coast.

From Sorrento we took a boat to the island of Capri. We thought it would be a good idea to take the little funicula to the top of the island and then walk back down the hill, but we got a bit lost and missed the funicula station -so we ended up walking to the top. It was a lovely walk past walled private gardens with luscious lemon trees. When we got to the top we were hungry for lunch. So Tom went into a little neighborhood market and stood with a gaggle of Italian homemakers in front of the refrigerated case. It was an interesting sight, Tom was about 2 feet taller than all of these women who were dressed in black and speaking excitedly in Italian; but they kept careful track of who was to be served next. They all pushed him to the front of the group when it was his turn to order. It was like having a dozen Italian mamas taking care of him. For lunch we had some cheese and salami and fresh bread, it tasted like it had been imported from the Italian deli in heaven. We also sank our teeth into a couple of peaches that might have been picked from the gardens we walked by on our way up. We were amazed! The peaches were so succulent; the juice ran down our chins as we delighted in the flavor. The Ralph's grocery back home never carried peaches quite like these.

After Capri, Stefano drove our bus along the Amalfi coast. I don't know how that road is today, but then it would barely accommodate two passing vehicles. If the bus came upon a car wanting to go the opposite direction we both had to stop and pull the rearview mirrors in. Then creep by each other while all the passengers held their breath, looking down the cliff to the Aegean. The Cathedral of St. Andrew in Amalfi was beautiful resting in its stone niche above the sea but I think the real lesson of the trip was: be sure you’ve got a good bus driver.

Gratefully Yours

As 2011 begins, I find myself counting my blessings. It requires a lot of helping hands to keep me rolling along. My husband Tom prepares food for me, lifts me into and out of bed everyday, pays my bills, and does the thousand little things my hands can’t perform anymore. Our friend Duane gets me through the shower three times a week and shaves and dresses me. A fresh shave is something I took for granted for many years, but now I particularly appreciate how it helps me put my best face forward.

I go to a local hotel to get my haircut and a doorman at the front of the hotel always opens the door for me. I used to be a little embarrassed by that much attention, but now it's just about the only way I can get in.

I had some trouble with my computer last week so we called our friend Mike. It wasn't just that his hands were better with cables and keyboards, his expertise got me back and running in a couple of hours.

Last week while Tom was out of town, our friends Jim and Pat brought over a meal they had lovingly prepared themselves. Carl stayed with me all week to take over the responsibilities that Tom usually fulfills. Last month I was home alone during the day and I really wanted something to drink. I had a small bottle of cranberry juice but I couldn’t open it; my hands just weren’t strong enough. So I put the bottle in my lap and rolled to the elevator thinking I might find a friendly neighbor eventually. Before too long an electrician, repairing some lights in the hallway, came along and provided a helping hand. The list goes on… but you get the idea. Happy 2011, may you know even half the generosity that I do this year.

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.