Wake up, wake up you sleepyhead…

Posted on June 12, 2011 by sheilawill

“Live, love, laugh and be happy. I’m just a kid again doin’ what I did again, singing that song. When the red, red robin comes bobobobing along…” That was my father’s favorite song. So it struck me as deep, meaningful or probably just a coincidence when my brother, Joel, called early Saturday morning (Tucson time) to serenade me with his annual singing birthday telegram. Then he added the “Wake up…” line.

Well, yeah, it was 9 a.m., and I believe bro gets up at 5:10 a.m. every day. We’re in the thick of Tucson summer now, meaning it’s really too hot to do much outdoors after 8 a.m. Still, I enjoy sleeping in, and it was my birthday. Turning 65, I figured it was time to do whatever I wanted.

Someone I barely know sent a Facebook link to the Beatles “Happy Birthday” song yesterday. I Loved it. I felt jolly.

But I was still curious about any underlying explanation for Joel singing that song. He and my father didn’t interact much, although our dad, Sidney Edward Wilensky, was a sweet man. Depressed and unmotivated too, kind of like my ex. Fathers and sons. Mothers and daughters. A never-ending mystery.

I’ve learned over the years — exponentially during the last 10 — that the best way to interact with anyone, whether in those most fraught intimate family relationships or not, is to speak in calm tones.

Fortunately, Dan is an expert at being direct without raising his voice. He can say anything to me without me getting all defensive. What a gift I so cherish at my advancing age. I try to emanate that calm tone to my grown children.

We’re going to be together in Southwest Harbor for a week in July. “It’ll be like summer camp,” Brook said yesterday. For me, it’ll be a return to a previous life, when Brook and Ethan were in high school and we shared one bathroom in the morning. But we’ve all evolved since then. I enjoy every moment looking at their beautiful faces; any difficult past moments recede.

“When I find myself in times of trouble mother mary [faith in myself learning to let go of control] comes to me, speaking words of wisdom: ‘Let It Be.'”

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Heavenly Feet

Posted on June 11, 2011 by sheilawill

Living in Tucson is like being on constant vacation, a prelude to an imagined lovely retirement. I took today off from work to celebrate with my friend Julie, with whom I share a June 11 birthday. Now I’m so relaxed I don’t want to jump in the pool, clean the house or make the yummy carrot-sweet potato soup I had in mind. All because of Heavenly Feet.

I kept hearing about this new business in Tucson. Once I peered in the storefront window, noticing rows of clean and waiting cushy recliners. The place was so clean. I was impressed. It was only $35 for a 20-minute back massage and 40-minute foot massage. Julie agreed to embark on this adventure for our pre-birthday outing.

Two young Chinese men greeted us for our appointment, leading us into the “back room” for our back massages, which was a fully clothed affair. The Chinese are ingenious, that’s what I always think, and I wasn’t disappointed. My guy — I don’t know what his name was — threw a soft bath towel over my back and started crunching. He had strong, very strong hands.

I’ve had wonderful massages over the years, and luckily when I heard cracking sounds emanating from my vertebrae, I wasn’t scared. Barry, the superb bodyworker who visits Tucson from Kripalu in Western Massachusetts, lets me know the cracking sound is a form of release, a positive occurrence.  The Heavenly Feet guys didn’t say a word, except to each other, since one didn’t speak English (he later told Julie his name was Frank).

“This must be the sweatshop of Chinese massage,” Julie chuckled as we got in her car. It was probably the lack of communication that made her feel that way. I didn’t mind because “my guy” got rid of layers of tension in my back and neck. I’m always surprised after bodywork to realize how tense I had been.

When it was time to move from the back room to the foot massage room there was no lull. “Foot massage” was spoken and we quickly followed the two young men.

A soft cloth was placed over my  face. Trickling water from an unseen fountain provided a lovely background tone. My feet were lowered into a wooden bucket lined with plastic  and filled with hot water — laced with “Chinese herbal solutions.” Forty minutes of foot massage with pinching, squeezing and slapping nearly put me to sleep.

I wondered if the two young men and the one woman who worked there were family. “No,” the English-speaking one told me. “Was he the owner?” He wasn’t. Who brought this new business to Tucson, who’s in charge? I’m just curious. I hope the three energetic employees aren’t making sweatshop wages. I’ll go back. My two little feet  have never felt so good.

 

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Wait there’s more…

Posted on June 8, 2011 by sheilawill

How did I forget the merging of my two stories at the 2004 Democratic Convention in “Advising Obama — In a Dream,” yesterday’s post? When I heard that George McGovern was at the convention in Boston I scurried over to his delegation and found him. Somebody was standing at the end of the row where he was seated, probably to protect his privacy.

“I worked for Sen. McGovern in the ’72 presidential election,” I told the guy. “Yeah, you and everybody else in here,” he replied. I started talking about my campaign tasks in Montana and McGovern must have overheard me. I wasn’t going to take no for an answer; I wanted to commend  for sticking up for his beliefs, not sugarcoating events or pushing fear, for being the most straightforward politician.

“Let her come over to see me,” McGovern told his protector. I sat down beside him. We chatted a bit about how he was doing before I said, “Back in 1972 when you came to Great Falls I advised you to ‘just keep telling the truth.'”

“We didn’t win, but my conscience is clear,” McGovern replied. Another sound bit of advice for President Obama — perhaps even more so because he did win.

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Advising President Obama — in my dream

Posted on June 8, 2011 by sheilawill

President Obama confided in me this morning. I was asleep. “I don’t believe in Jesus,” he told me, “but I get a lot of flak for it.” Boy was I surprised, even if it was a dream. Why was he telling me this?

I recall reading that the prez missed taking walks spontaneously; back in the olden days when he was a mere U.S. senator from Illinois he could stroll the streets of Chicago without fanfare. In my dream, Obama wore a disguise — jeans, a green and white horizontally striped t-shirt and a straw cowboy hat. Nobody recognized him as he chatted up Tucsonans in unfamiliar shops. The president craved conversation with ordinary people.

But then I recognized him. He started talking to me in my dream but I couldn’t understand what he was saying. Was he reciting a poem or what? I considered reciting one back to him to show that we were compadres, but instead I told him two stories, both of which had actually happened in real life.

“Remember the 2004 Democratic Convention in Boston?” He nodded but didn’t say anything. “Well I was there,” I said, reminding him of his electrifying speech when he proclaimed, “we’re not a red America or a blue America, we’re one America.”

Who was this guy I had never heard of before? He has a future, I remember thinking. Walking from the Fleet Center to the Government Center MBTA stop I saw him, the State Senator Barack Obama from Illinois. He was smoking a cigarette, with a few people strolling along beside him.

What an opportunity, a journalist’s dream! I caught up with him. “That was a magnificent speech,” I may have said. I definitely asked if he was going to run for president. He chuckled, nearly choking on his cigarette, and said something like “I’m not even a senator yet.” It occurred to me, maybe he hadn’t yet planned a future run for president. But now I’m not sure. Anyway, he was definitely a nice guy, and I liked him in that brief exchange. I still do.

Since Obama has been president I’ve wondered if he has the stomach for some of the sicko politics he has to contend with, which reminds me of my other major political encounter. In 1972, I worked in the campaign of another presidential candidate I loved voting for. We were in Montana getting out the vote. Sen. George McGovern, the Democratic candidate brought down by Tricky Dicky and Watergate, was coming to  Great Falls for a major appearance at the airport. All day I pondered what I would say in my split-second opportunity.

“Just keep telling the truth,” I told McGovern. That’s still the best advice for any politician — in reality or in my dreams.

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Wine tasting, check

Posted on June 7, 2011 by sheilawill

I’m not sure why wine tasting has appeared on my imaginary life list for a long, long time. I’m not much of a drinker. Is it the art, the pretty labels gracing sleek bottles? The vision of smiling, earthy young Europeans stomping on grapes in a giant wooden barrel? Or does it have something to do with feeling grown up? “Oh yes, I’d like a glass of pinot noir with my lobster thermidore.” (I don’t even know what that is.)

But I’m not the sophisticated type. Staring at the unusually elegant Artevino/2008 Estate Symphony bottle of wine that I bought last week at the Maple Creek Winery in Yorkville, California, all I can say is the stuff tastes good, and I chose it after tasting around eight different selections.

Brook has advised me not to buy crappy wine so I took her advice. I’m doling out a small glass of the most expensive wine I’ve ever purchased, a little each night of my last week of being 64. (“Birthday greetings, bottle of wine…will you still need me when I’m 64?”)

Money has been an issue my entire life. I’m not saying I need a lot of it, but this year I’ve started to present myself with some quality stuff, starting with a non-thriftstore windbreaker. I indulged in my first colorful works of art to hang over the fireplace in our living room.

If not now, when? Taking this question further, I’m typing this frivolous little blog post on my new MacBook Air. That’s right dear readers. Me, Sheila the tightwad, spent $400 more on what I’m told is a less useful computer than its MacBook predecessor: it can’t burn or play cds for one thing. I don’t care.

It’s light, it’s elegant and it’s silver. It’s a work of art.  I like the shiny shocking pink bag specially purchased in Patagonia months ago for my dream computer.

After buying the MacBook Air in Eugene so I could save $100 sales tax, I told Dan that for the first time in my life I felt paranoid about owning something so valuable. I would have that pink bag with me at all times. He rightfully deemed it “The Precious.”

Maybe my writing will flow more readily on “The Precious,” like wine at a California vineyard. But this week, all I know is that I’m worth it.

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Pizza around the world

Posted on June 5, 2011 by sheilawill

We started our road trip around 6 a.m. on Saturday May 21. The image of coffee loomed large so when Dan stopped at the Safeway I rushed inside — well as fast as I could go at that hour — to Starbucks. Marisa with the beautiful young skin tried to sell me a piece of lemon cake. “It’s only 400 calories per slice and it’s pretty good,” she told me.

I was more interested in her cheerfulness, and journalist that I am, I questioned her. “I get up at 4 a.m. so I’m out of my no-talking stage now,” she said. How we all adjust intrigues me.

Ethan emailed me from Bishkek, Kyrgyzstan today. He was sitting by a friend’s pool waiting for pizza delivery. Could be Tucson, Houston or Moscow, I thought. How regular, didn’t sound like much adjustment there. But that also comes with familiarity, since Ethan’s traveled a lot, is more of a global citizen than anyone I know.

Food variety, even in the United States, often surprises me. I wouldn’t expect the thrill of  eating the most velvety, tangy lobster bisque in Mt. Shasta, California, but there it was. The menu at the town’s Wayside Grill noted that chef Terry’s recipe had been handed down from his Louisiana Cajun grandmother. It was my favorite dish of the trip. The only seafood bisque that comes close is the crab bisque at Mainely Delights in Bass Harbor, Maine. (Comparison coming up in a little over three weeks. Who wants to go with me?)

When Ethan, Brook and Gianmarco arrive in Southwest Harbor we’ll hit Mainely Delights, our favorite neighborhood seafood joint a few times, I’m sure. It goes with the territory, unlike the Desert Lobster Cafe Dan and I passed a few weeks ago in Mina, Nevada. I wanted to interview the proprietor, discover his inspiration. That was left to my imagination.

On another road trip, a few years ago, Ethan and I stopped at a place in Gulfport, Mississippi. That eatery fit my expectations; extremely bulgy, unattractive people wolfed down horrifically overcooked fried food and dark green canned vegetables. All very depressing, but I wasn’t very happy at the time.

I don’t recall any good coffee or yummy breakfasts on that trip either. Thank goodness that Eugene — with all its darkness and rain — has Studio One, a fabulous breakfast place we’ve returned to repeatedly. Studio One has the best french toast ever! Thick slices of challah sloshed with local berry compote, topped by a luscious almond cream sauce.

Trying to diversify, at one breakfast there I ordered eggs benedict with locally smoked salmon and a dill hollandaise sauce.  Yummy too, but should have stuck with the known French toast.

Why veer from a winner? Discuss.

Then there are the California and Oregon (apparently) foodie trends worth knowing about. Intense ginger cappuccino at the Green Salmon Cafe in Yachats, which also had the best egg, spicy jack cheese and mushroom bagel sandwich. And ginger again, this time in garlic home fries served at our Big Blue Cafe breakfast in Arcata, California.

I don’t cook much but occasionally I’m tempted. I’ll try making more dishes with ginger…

And I always want to be at the forefront of change, at least acknowledge it, so I bought some ginger at Trader Joe’s this morning. We make choices daily — in food and everything else. Sometimes it just seems like too much: At the Getti-Up coffee drive-thru in Garberville, California, young hipster woman asked if I wanted light, medium or dark brew. I guess that decision could be useful but I wanted to live more simply at that moment.

The next moment I was happier, biting into their everything chocolate chip cookie, laden with coconut, fresh pecans and moist chocolate chips. I felt like one of the three bears, content because it was just right.

One thing about getting old is becoming more comfortable balancing change, repeating what feels comfortable, and trying something new. On our tiring 12-hour final push home we stopped at the Wildflower Bread Company that adjoins the Changing Hands Bookstore in Tempe. I had a scrumptious salad with lavender in it and a bowl of coconut chicken curry soup. Both seemed worth taking the leap.

 

 

 

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Is that Texas over there?

Posted on June 5, 2011 by sheilawill

Driving across California’s desolate Mojave Desert, making our way home a few days early, it struck me. My life reflects geography. As a little girl I was intrigued with Texas, am not so much anymore, but that’s about to change.

On family outings around Connecticut I would ask my father if  Texas was over the next mountain — or hill — that seemed so far away to my young self. Maybe I wanted to be a cowgirl, or I was just a curious kid.

Texas will be be back in my life with Ethan attending graduate school at Rice University in Houston come fall. Although I keep hearing mixed reviews about the city I’ll like it because Ethan will be there.

At this very moment, I’m awaiting word from my adventurer son that he’s safely arrived in Bishkek, Kyrgyzstan, a frequent jumping-off point for his research and writing on Central Asia.

Back here in the Western United States, Dan and I arrived home last night after a 3,500 mile two-week road trip. Our trek doesn’t look like much on the map but there’s a saga to tell. Where to start? Eugene, Oregon, our primary destination where we visited Dan’s 20 year-old son? The lush green overhanging trees, cool temperatures and always anticipated rainy weather? Nah.

Arriving home to a 100-degree Saturday, which I prefer to the Pacific Northwest’s rain, I’ll admit that I like the dramatic. At least when it comes to geography. I can’t say the same about a political quagmire like Kyrgyzstan.

En route to Eugene, seeing the 14,000-foot-plus Mt. Shasta arise out of nowhere was a kick! I couldn’t stop staring. We drove up to 7,000 feet where tons of snow greeted us, and a van full of young Minnesota mountain men readied themselves to head off to the top. Not my game either.

Our trip grand finale was a quick visit to Yosemite National Park. Intrepid rock climbers scale the daunting El Capitan, which rises to 3,600 feet. I was glad that Ethan wasn’t facing that challenge. The poor mamas of those guys, I thought, and yes, I’ll bet those adventurers are primarily guys. Sheer beauty is enough for me.

A long trip always brings some new perspective upon returning full circle to home. Does vacation have anything to do with vacating stuck ideas? Meanwhile, my realm of beauty narrowed — I went for a pedicure.

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From sea to shining sea

Posted on May 29, 2011 by sheilawill

The Pacific is majestic, stretching across the horizon islandless for thousands of miles. Perched above the Pacific in our little “Shag’s Nest” cabin in Yachats, Oregon, I watch the changing tides, the black volcanic rock — oh could that be a whale? — that intrigues me. Hunkering down under colorful wool blankets to read. Vacation brings relaxation, right? On the Oregon coast it brings lots of rain, or as we say in Maine, “You want the weather to change, just wait a minute.”

Similar to the Maine coast, Oregon’s coastal paths are slick and muddy, bordered by verdant jungle so unlike the Tucson desert I’ve come to love. On the coast, a fierce, cold wind may sock me in the face without warning. But that’s okay.

The Pacific coast isn’t as cozy as the Atlantic. No islands no harbors no boats in sight. On Mount Desert Island, Maine, the sea isn’t separate — it uniquely entwines with every tiny community and its inhabitants.

This Sunday morning I’m sitting in a Starbucks in downtown Eugene with my precious new MacBook Air. Dan’s found a cycling group to ride with for a good part of the day before we reconnect with his college guy son, Connor. I’d like to get some exercise, and may head for the river path soon, but rain is always expected here, which in my mind is the worst weather.

Other people do this a lot, go to a coffee shop and sit drink more coffee and sit. Definitely seems vacation-like to me. And there isn’t much to do in Eugene. Even if it’s raining, in Portland, Oregon, there’s alway the enormous Powell’s Bookstore. When Brook and I visited Ethan at Reed we’d head to Powell’s in the evening, each picking a stack of books to peruse in their cafe.

I’ve got the Sunday New York Times. If it starts to rain I’ll need more coffee. Our three days on the Oregon coast was relaxing. Loud surf to fall asleep to, cozy blankets to read under, collecting rocks on the beach.

But it’s a smooth black perfectly round Islesford, Maine, rock — a comfort when I flew to Alaska to see Ethan in 1999 —  that I take on every trip.  One month from tomorrow it’ll be in my pocket, traveling with me from the Pacific, back to Tucson, and back to the Atlantic.

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My father’s daughter

Posted on May 27, 2011 by sheilawill

I don’t know if my father really liked plants and nature, or if he just fell into the floral business by birth. My father, Sidney Edward Wilensky, was the son of Jacob Wilensky, who peddled fruits and vegetables on the streets of Waterbury, Connecticut, at the turn of the 20th century. He came from Vilnius, Lithuania, but I don’t know much about him.

Sometimes I helped at Cherry Hill Gardens, my parent’s flower shop (not shoppe). I watered or unwrapped newspaper from holiday plants in the garage out back. Did I even notice the flowers, their colors, shapes and dreamy fragrance? I’m not sure.

On our road trip to Eugene, Oregon we stopped in Mt. Shasta, California. Lilacs were everywhere! I so miss the purple and white lilac bushes in my Southwest Harbor backyard. But there they were! And when we arrived on the cosatal part of our trip in Yachats, Oregon, roadside clumps of lupine greeted us, along with purple iris poking through the lush green oceanside paths.

I don’t think about my father much. He died in 1969 after a long illness. But I call myself “nature girl,” and am happiest ambling along the beach, a desert trail or in the woods. I usually start humming without realizing it.

During the past few days, every time I venture outdoors on the windy Oregon coast, which is very similar to the coast of Maine, I pick something leafy or flowery and add it to our little bouquet sitting on the windowsill in our cabin overlooking the Pacific. Dan’s walking along the beach. Before he went outside he counted many seals on the rocks. I have to go see.

Shall I thank my father, even if he didn’t know how much he loved nature, because he showed me the way?

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Vacation, Revolution and the Rapture

Posted on May 21, 2011 by sheilawill

I’m in vacation mode. We’ll be heading to Oregon early tomorrow morning; sure hope we beat the end of the world! Will we be safe in Eugene with all the other progressive sinners? Will we be safe snuggling up in our little cottage for three nights on the Oregon coast (built by Ken Kesey, I kid you not), heading to Northern California and the Redwoods, then to Bezerkeley to visit dear friends?

All this hoopla about tomorrow being “IT” reminds me of “The Hunger Games,” the gripping teen political science fiction trilogy I’ve been devouring. I finished the second book this morning over coffee that I barely tasted.

“District 12” is gone! Everything is topsy-turvy; the revolution is about to begin! I had to get the third book “The Mockingjay” to take on our trip, but I didn’t want to spend $18. I finally located a copy at the main library downtown. When the librarian reminded me that “this is a three-week express book and can’t be renewed,” I replied, “I’ll probably read it in a day or two.” Ah vacation…especially if it rains.

There will be more time for reading, for hiking, for just hanging out. I see this trip as an adventure before I turn 65 in June. And there will be more adventures. As Dan does most of the driving through Nevada, I’m going to jot down/fantasize about everything I still want to do in my life.

I’m too old to start a revolution. Leave that to younger folks and good political science fiction. Taking more time for my own writing is at the top of my list. I’ve pretty much decided that my 65th birthday present to myself will be a MacBook Air. It’s so elegant, so light, it may inspire me.

But I’m not sure if I’m going to blog while we’re gone. I may do a different kind of writing. I may not. I just don’t know.

I don’t believe that tomorrow is the end of the world. It’s the beginning of something we don’t know about, and that scares a lot of people. The world is always changing.

Have a happy, healthy, fun, inspiring two weeks. I shall return!

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