IS THERE AN APP FOR THAT?

     The eTrain was about a hundred miles down the track by the time Larry and I attempted to board.  Hence:

     I'm sitting in my latte/read-the-paper chair -- of course, there's no real "paper" any more, as the Oregonian has been swept away by the great digital river of our times.  Start over.
     I'm sitting in the living room having my coffee, my hair matted from the overnight pillow, an ancient fleece pulled over mis-matched p.j.'s.  You get the picture.  Well, in fact, I hope you don't.
     Larry walks by on his way out the door.  A strange electronic tone sounds from his pocket.  Puzzled, he extracts his phone and we hear our daughter say, "Hi, Dad."
     "Did you change your ring tone?" I ask.
     "I don't think so."  (We never actually know, when this sort of thing happens, what may have occurred.)
     "Nice shirt," Jenny says.  "Where're you going?"
     Huh?  How does she know what shirt he's wearing?  And, by the way, why can I hear her?  
     "Did you just call me?" Larry asks.
     "No, Dad.  You FaceTimed me."
     "No I didn't."
     "Well, apparently you did.  See us?  Will, say hi to Grandpa."
     "Um, no, I can't," Larry says.  "Am I supposed to?"
     "Yes!  Hey, Will, what does Grandpa have to do so he can see us?"
     At this point, Larry hands the phone to me.  "Here.  You deal with this."
     "Oh no you don't," I say, and hot-potato the thing back to him.  Like I want anybody seeing me.  Seriously, whose bright idea was this, anyway?
     We can hear Jenny laughing.  "Guess you butt-dialed me, Dad," she says.  "But I have to get Will to school.  I'll call you later."

     By now you probably realize that if we wouldn't know how to FaceTime someone, we also wouldn't know how to disconnect at the end of whatever you call this activity.  But the phone goes back in Larry's pocket.
     "Oh, wait a second," I say as he gathers his jacket and keys.  "I need you to open that coconut I bought the other day."
     Back when, I used to love fresh coconut meat, and when I saw some coconuts at the new market down the street, I bought one.  But I didn't remember how you were supposed to crack the things.  Something about an ice pick, but who has an ice pick any more?  I thought a cleaver would be about right, and had it and a cutting board on the counter.
     Ever obliging, Larry gives the thing a whack or two and nothing happens.
     "I think you have to really smack it," I say helpfully.
     He does.  The coconut explodes and the juice (water?) inside flies all over the counter, everything on the counter, the floor, the refrigerator, his nice shirt.  He swears some Minnesota-type profanity and reaches for the dish cloth.
     "No!  I'll clean it up," I say.  "You just go change your shirt and leave.  My fault.  Go!"  I try not to laugh.
     He goes, but is not mollified.  As he pulls the door closed behind him, moments later, he tells me, "don't you ever buy another coconut."
     Now, alone, I lose it.  A mad woman, mopping up coconut juice, snorting laughter.
     What we didn't know is that Jenny and Will were enjoying this little domestic scene as well.  We still don't know how a person could butt-dial a passcode-protected cell phone, don't know how it eventually turned off, but when we were in Sedona last week with Jenny and Will, they asked me, greatly amused and pleased with themselves, if I'd purchased any more coconuts lately.
     "Wait a minute.  What the . . . how did you . . .?  The whole time?"

     Wretched children.  Here they are.  I just checked to make sure I don't have FaceTime on my phone, and am glad to report that I do not.  If you want to talk to me, let's do it the old fashioned way.   Deal?

   

WHAT CAN I SAY, by Mary Oliver

Apropos of my last post, in which I outed myself as an old person, this is a poem I copied out from Mary Oliver's book Swan.  I copied out it for the woman I see in the mirror, who may or may not be the woman you see when you look this way.

What can I say that I have not said before?
So I'll say it again.
The leaf has a song in it.
Stone is the face of patience.
Inside the river there is an unfinishable story
   and you are somewhere it it
and it will never end until all ends.

Take your busy heart to the art museum and the
   chamber of commerce
but take it also to the forest.
The song you heard singing in the leaf when you
   were a child
is singing still.
I am of years lived, so far, seventy-four,
and the leaf is singing still.

PROFILED

     The first time it happened, I thought it was probably a value-added service, perhaps courtesy of our amazing travel agent, Christina.  We were "pre-cleared" for security on our flight to Peru.  Sweet!  We sailed to the head of the serpentine of folks pulling out their belts, taking off their shoes.  Of course, I know that I will cause the alarm to sound when I pass through the detecter, and always will, because of the two titanium knees on which I walk around.  So, the usual procedure in which I'm diverted to the body-scanning machine occurred, my picture was taken and I was free to go.  Same for Larry with his titanium joints as well.  Thank you Portland for having this option.
     Last week, on our way to Hawaii, no pre-clearance.  So my theory about the travel agent held up, as   daughter-in-law Caroline had booked the flight, and so far as I know, she has no standing with TSA.  Fine. Through the body scanner and welcome on board.
     Oh, but coming home from Hawaii?  Here's what happened:  First, as you all surely know, you have to pass your suitcases through a fruit-detecting scanner on leaving the islands.  You will have already secured your boarding passes in advance of this step, and then you proceed to the security line.  To my amazement, the guard there took my boarding pass, my driver's license, and marked a large red check across the pass.  "You're pre-cleared," she said.  "You don't have to take off your shoes or jackets.  You don't need your ID any longer, just hold up this pass.  Like this," she said, illustrating the maneuver, a bit unnecessarily I thought, as I did understand the directive.
     But okay.  There is no line at all, so Larry and I step up to the metal detector, holding up the passes to show the bright red check mark, a sort of get-home-free card, apparently.  Of course I know that I  will set off the machine, and the usual routine transpires.
     "Female assist!" shouts the guard.  I am ushered into a little cage to await whatever female can be freed from her other duties to pat me down.  A very nice-seeming, but quite business-like woman retrieves me and asks me to sit down over there on the left.
     I sit.  Now the fun begins.  "Are you able to take off your own shoes?" she politely asks.
     "Yes," I reply, and bend to the task.  Take off my own shoes?  The light is dawning.  That red check?  
     "Are you able to stand unassisted for several minutes?"
     Seriously??  "Yes,"  I say.  I know my face is flushing.  What?  Didn't she just see me standing unassisted in the cage?  But now I have to channel my inner sister, Mary, who is able to face every challenge life throws at her with calm dignity.  Put up with this, I counsel myself.  The woman is only doing her job.  Keeping us all safe.  "And no, thank you, I don't need to remove to a private space for this operation," I tell her.  Calmly.
     I put up with it.  Being infantilized.  I have become accustomed to being addressed as "hon" and "dear" by various waiters, clerks, baristas.  I'm okay with that, although I always roll my eyes at Larry, who does not suffer this treatment.  But now that I understand the source of the "pre-clearance," of the red check on my boarding pass, I'll have to find another way to feel celebratory about this scarlet letter.  OLD PERSON HERE!  MAKE WAY!
     The day will come, I understand this, when I won't be able to take off my own shoes or stand unassisted.  There.  I can celebrate the fact that the day has not yet arrived.
   

ADULT JAZZ CAMP

     Um, would that be like . . . "adult" book store?
     No, remember?  I told you we took the train to San Diego and . . .
     And you were going to "adult" jazz camp?
     Yes, but that's not . . . apparently, the concept is difficult for some people.  It was . . .
     Okay, I see it now.  A bunch of senior citizens, camping out in little cabins around a lodge.  They all have camp tee shirts.  Blue, I think, and the men -- those who still have hair -- have it pulled back in gray pony tails and
     Oh, stop.  You're not funny.
     Yes I am.  And there are campfires at night, and it's on the beach so everyone is sitting on logs, but they have stadium cushions, and little sweaters against the chill?
     Okay, you're right.  It was exactly like that.  We played Kingston Trio, and
     Kumbaya.  I knew it.

     What adult jazz camp was, was awesome.  They take 10 people for each instrument of a trad jazz band, so there were 70 of us campers.  By the way, "trad" jazz means "traditional" and refers to New Orleans-style jazz.  Think Louis Armstrong, Kid Orey, "Fats" Waller.  Dixieland.  Got it?
     The 7 instruments in a trad band are piano, bass or tuba, drums, banjo, and the front line, trumpet, clarinet, and trombone.  And that's all I knew when I arrived at "camp."  Which was held in the historic Lafayette Hotel, in the North Park neighborhood of San Diego.
     Larry and I got there a day early, checked in, and were a little surprised to find that our room on the 4th floor was so historic that there was no closet, no dresser in the room, or any way of accommodating our clothes if we wanted to take them out of the suitcases.  And where would we put the suitcases, by the way?  In the middle of the floor, apparently.  Apparently people in the old days didn't change their clothes when they attended adult jazz camp.  But we did have a great view of the parking lot.  No beach in sight.
     Larry went to see if, having arrived early, we might be granted better digs, and came back with keys to one of the cabana rooms out by the pool.  Much better, especially as the elevator was out of service here in the main, older section of the hotel.
     We moved into a nice room with a balcony, and set off for downtown to see the city, have lunch, walk along the water.  The next day, camp began, and it was intense!  Three hours of instruction in the morning, and then in the afternoon, we were divided, randomly, into little transitory bands which lasted for an hour.  During that time, the newly organized musicians played music we'd been given in advance, were critiqued by one of the pros, tried to work together, and then split apart to go join another 6 strangers in another room.  This went on from noon to 9:30 in the evening, with a break for meals, of course, and then into the night with jamming.  Whew!
     Our room overlooked the pool all right, and that meant we overlooked a group of young men, who were staying at the hotel for reasons never clear to us.  Because, all right, many--most of the campers were, in fact, um, a bit older.  These poolside boys were there to get tan, it seemed, to drink beer, and do whatever else they had in mind after dark fell.  Who knows, but they weren't there for the music.
     What did Larry do while I was off improving my ensemble skills?  Guess you'd have to ask him, but he had his guitar, so I know he practiced.  Worked on his computer.  Sat on the balcony and read.  Had a beer or two.   We did make the acquaintance of a camper there from Minnesota, so Larry had the opportunity to speak with someone in his native language.  This man was also a Golden Gopher!
Yes! !  Had he also been left-handed, the reunion would have been complete. ( My husband is a saint!)
     And on the subject of food, right across the street was a rib joint owned by the darling (my word, not Larry's) Brandon Jesse, the son of Ron Jesse who played for the Rams, had a super-bowl ring, and lots of game balls on display.  I had never heard of Ron Jesse, but the ribs were glorious, and Larry even got a tour of Brandon's rig out back where he cooked the meat over a real wood coals.  Diners, Drive-ins and Dives! in the flesh.
     I loved camp!  I did learn why some people find the banjo an annoying instrument . . . but the whole experience was so great that I'm already signed up for next year.  Remember, they only take 10 banjo players.  I'm there!
   
   

   

   
   

HOW FAR IS THREE MILES?

     No, really, we're going to walk five miles a day, every day.  New Year's resolution.  Oh, stop it!  We can see your eyes rolling.  Three miles in the morning, two after dinner.

     And there's where resolution meets obsession.  Because how are we to know when we've walked these miles?  Turns out Larry has an app on his phone in which lives a nice lady (seemingly related to, but less annoying than, the woman who lives in our car nav system) who will announce mileage as it rolls under our feet.

     But we're not sure we can believe her.  "That sure didn't feel like a mile," we might say.  "Let's check her accuracy against that step-counter thing I saw in the junk drawer."

     So we do.  We calibrate it to the length of my stride, and set out the following day on the same route.  And find that our two devices vary wildly.  So which one's telling the truth?     

     Well, the phone also has a step-counting device, which we turn on after tucking Nice Lady away for the time being.

     I should stop here and point out that we do realize we walk however far we walk, and kinda, sorta are perfectly adequate measuring tools for our purpose.

     Except they aren't.

     Out we go again.  Up to 26th, around the school, down Thurman, right on 25.  "It's about here," Larry says, "that I start counting the minutes instead of steps to Starbucks." Our final destination.

     I've been somewhere in my head trying to sort out the relationship of the circle of fifths to the chord progression in Melancholy Baby, so haven't noticed that we're only so far as Pettigrove.  We start to talk and somehow sail right on by Lovejoy, where we're supposed to turn toward the river.

     Oh, no!  Now our careful calibrations will be off.  Insert bad word of your choice here.  Nothing for it but to soldier on. 

     We pass a very tall man with a mustache leading a huge white bulldog.  And there's a post in front of an old early-Portland bungalow.  In a box on the post are sheets of paper, copies of a poem.  "Take one," says a sign, in a rather Alice-in-Wonderland-ish way.

     I take one.  Here is the poem:

          "NO POEM AFTER ALL

     These are the words that found their way

     Into the poem that I wrote

     This is the doubt that pulls out the rug

     from under the words

     that once found their way

     into the poem that I wrote

     This is the third revision I've written

     that likely won't strengthen

     what's left of the vision  

     that prompted the impulse,

     to make the words better

     that once found their way

     into the poem that I wrote.

     This is the Lord only knows when it's done

     that makes it hard to end once I've begun.

     Some poems bear continuing;

     this isn't one.

          Richard Lewis

     I suppose the moral to this story might be that one should freely wander.  Smell the roses.  Look for poetry.

     Yes, I know.  But tomorrow, damn it, we're going out again and we WILL find out how far three miles is. 

PLANES, TRAINS, and AUTOMOBILES

    "You're taking the TRAIN to Los Angeles?  That is so cool!"

     If course Larry and I are nothing, if not cool, but here, judge for yourself:

     We arrived at the PDX station the requisite hour ahead of time, to learn that there had been a freight train derailment near Tacoma, and thus our departure was delayed for 3 hours.  Great.  Perfect.  News of a derailment just the way to begin a train journey.  We debated turning in our tickets and taking the family car instead, but Larry got the deciding vote in this instance, so we checked our suitcases and settled in to wait.  We sleeping-car passengers have our own "lounge" (not exactly equivalent to the first class lounge at your local airport, but with, at least, upholstered chairs and a coffee machine.)  We take what we're offered.  This was an adventure, after all.
     Finally underway.  Here's what a "sleeping-car" compartment looks like.  There is a 7-foot-long bench-like "sofa" and a single chair facing, with a cute collapsable table between.  And, most important, the cabin's own "bathroom."  (Sorry about the quotation marks, but seriously . . .)  Do not underestimate the value of that little room!  There is a shower that could be operated, one of those on-the-wall hand-held things which of course get the whole room wet, but in the event, Larry and I opted to wait to shower at our destination.  Which was to be Peter and Allison's home the following night.
     An hour down the road, nearing Woodburn, we came to an unscheduled stop that lasted an hour.  Seems there was a automobile on the tracks, on fire.  Huh?  How does such a thing happen?
     Anyway, we were 4 hours late and only 20 miles outside Portland, and it was time for dinner.
Now, they do their best, let's agree on that.  But dinner on the train means you will be seated with another two people, whom you do not know.  Neither Larry nor I are very sociable, and this idea sounded awful.  We had already heard a great deal about the monarch butterfly from one scientist back in the lounge, which was interesting, yes, but we were relieved to see upon arrival in the dining car that he and his long-suffering spouse (we suppose) were already seated with another couple and the lecture was in full stride.  Money discretely changed hands, and for the rest of the journey we were taken care of by way of a table to ourselves.  Sorry, but that's how the world works, I guess.
     Bedtime, and an attendant comes to convert the sofa in the cabin to a bed, and to lower the upper bunk, reachable by a ladder.  Why it is that Larry gets the top bunk need not be discussed here, but that's our arrangement.
     The very best part of going by train is the opportunity to see life's back yard.  The scenery is wonderful, though you can, of course, see the same scenery from your automobile.  What you can't see is this sort of thing:  It's 4:22 in the morning and we are stopped in some small town to await the passing of a freight train going north.  The moon is full and there is a brick building with EDDIE curved above the doorway, next to another building, a cafe, closed at this hour.  A white pick-up is parked on the street before the buildings, luminous in the moonlight.  The telephone wires sagging between poles catch the light as well, and a single dark figure walks along the road.  Magic!
      It takes 30 hours to travel by train from Portland to Los Angeles.  By car, the journey is shorter in miles (it's almost exactly 1000 door to door), but longer in hours as it has to include a night in a motel.  We have driven this in one long, long day, and it takes about 17 hours, but I do not recommend this plan, even switching drivers as we do.  By airplane, it's 2 hours, not including the time spent in the airport.
     But guess what.  The train, if you choose a sleeping car, is the most expensive option of the three.  And 30 hours in a tiny room, even with a book that's hard to read with the swaying of the car, a game on your iPad, a nice companion, lots of snacks and your on-board gin supply, gets really boring!  You are interrupted constantly by updates from the cafe that William is now closing to take his dinner break, from the dining car that it's time for the 6:05 reservation to take their (communal) seats, that we are approaching Chico, and if that is your final destination you should look about your seats for your belongings, and that this is a family train so we must please use G-rated language.  And so on.  You can stroll about the train, lurching from one car to the next, but that's it for exercise.
     And by plane, you are, of course, on an airplane, so there's that.
     Next time, we go by car.  Is that cool?  Mmm, probably not.  Sorry!
   
   

BOOK TEA

     This year I'm starting early!
     "I've heard that one before.  Just saying."
     Sigh.  I have this other person who lives in my head who's life mission it is to correct me, point out my foolishness, remind me.  She calls me "Janie-girl," in her superior little way, and not to put too fine a point on it, she's a real bitch.  She doesn't have a name, but for our purposes here, I'll call her Other Person, O.P. for short.
     We were talking about the Book Tea, which it has been my privilege to attend for the last few years, courtesy of my friend Julie.  This group of really smart women had a book club, but as they all have busy, important lives, had insufficient time in their daily schedules to meet regularly.  Inspired, they decided to have a once-a-year event in which they'd meet to have a book exchange.  They invite outsiders, all also really smart, busy women, and the premise is that each of us bring the book which we've most enjoyed in the past year, and at the end of the evening, each chooses one of these books to take home.
     "Excuse me, but are you suggesting that we are one of these 'smart, busy women?'  O.P. says.  "Pretty proud of ourselves, are we?"
     No!  It's just that Julie is my friend and she invites me.  All the other women are smart and busy, that's all I meant.
     Anyway, this event is always in December, at Renee's beautiful home.  I think I read as much as anyone, so I should really anticipate each year's Tea, hope to be invited.  And I do, for the first few months of any year.  Then reality bites, and I start to fret.  See, the thing is with this party that you have to stand up and say a few words about the book you've brought, that you found the best of your reading year.  So it's not just an anonymous pile of books and you pick one that looks interesting.  No, no, you have to sell your book, sort of, and you don't want everyone thinking you've been reading Lee Child or whomever.
     "You have this incredibly stupid way of turning everything into a competition," O.P. points out.  "Why can't you just relax?.  And I love that 'whomever.'  Whom are we trying to impress?
     Well, it's not that fun when you find that the book you brought is the last lonely book on the pile and your hostess finds herself stuck with it.
     "That only happened once.  Please get over yourself."
     Once was enough.  I become hyper-critical of my reading list.  What will people think of this one?  (In other words, what does this choice say about me?  Pitiful, actually)  The months go by, and I think, aha, this time, I got it!
     And then it is December and suddenly all my candidates look unappealing.  But this year, Alli has come to my rescue.  She has introduced me to John Green, who writes Young Adult books and I'm impressed with him, with Alli, for that matter, and decide to present Looking For Alaska as my entry in the competition -- uh, I mean Tea.
      Renee's home is beautiful and festive, everyone arrives and puts her book into a basket.  We nibble on appetizers, drink wine, and catch up with one another.  Then we all find chairs and sit down.  For the past few years, I've found two chairs rather outside main circle and Vik joins me back there in relative obscurity.  Renee begins by pulling one of the books from the basket, and she whose book it is stands and describes the story, why she chose it, then places the book on the stairs, to become the take-home pile.
     The books all seem interesting, with the exception of The Goldfinch, by Donna Tartt, a writer I do not like at all.  Vik whispers "try to get that one."  No!  But others leap into the conversation to admire Ms. Tartt, and so here we are.  Out of step.  Is anyone going to like John Green?
     "Sounds like we're a little jealous of this Donna Tartt person," O.P. suggests.  "Famous, successful? And let's remember the point of this evening.  We're here to exchange ideas, interests, to . . . "
     I know!  I get it!  Hello out there?  If you like Donna Tartt, by all means go for it.  The Goldfinch.  Everyone loves it.  But please look at John Green, too, especially if you have a young person in your family who likes to read.
     That evening, I came home with Glaciers, by Alexis Smith, a Portland writer.  The book is quite lovely, a small treasure.  And Looking for Alaska was snatched up by Sally, who is so voracious a reader that a rule has been named after her to mandate that each woman may bring only one book to the Book Tea.  Hooray!  And now it is January 1, 2014, and in the event that I am invited to the Tea again, it's not too early to start the hunt.  First book of the year is San Miguel by T.C. Boyle, Christmas gift from Larry, and one of my very favorite writers.  But not everyone likes T.C Boyle, oddly enough, so this book won't be my choice for the Tea.  Next up:  The Round House, by Louise Erdrich.  Anyone else have a suggestion?
     "Okay, the morning is fleeting.  It's a beautiful day, and I hope we're going to get busy now.  Practice. Go for a walk.  Do not pick up that iPad and play your silly Hay Day."
     Thank you, O.P., what would I do without you?