Christmas Day

The tree before the "schwag" got opened.
























Opening presents in our PJ's. That's my orchid in the lower right corner. Big, huh.







Keith in the NY shirt Jeff gave him.




Christmas Breakfast. Keith's programming the music.



Baloo. The world's most perfect dog.




The tree post-presents.



I'm stealing these stars. Jeff got them at Sam Flax.




Kiss the cook. Keith and Tina.


John tries to solve a puzzle.























December 26 - View from the Bus

To Jane

Today, on what would have been Jonathan’s 38th birthday, I learned of the death of my dear friend Jane Parker Heath Donohue. She was 64, and she died June 9, a year and a half ago, and I didn’t know.

We arrived in San Francisco a couple of days ago, and planned to call Joe and Jane, and spend at least a day with them, reliving old times and old memories. But the phone number didn’t work, and I finally found her on Google. But it wasn’t the news I was prepared for.

Jane and I were writers at Young & Rubicam in the 60’s. We were the same age, and we married about the same time, and we were very much alike … and very different.

Jane was 6’2”. The tallest girl I ever knew. She was funny and smart and real and assertive and kind and clever and … tall. She was very, very tall. And she introduced me to California. She showed me San Francisco, the Russian River, Stinson Beach, Sausalito and Wine Country. Before that, living in New York, she showed me how to lob an egg out a window, but that’s a story about a much sillier time.

On one of our visits to San Francisco, she took care of Jonathan when he was just 6 months old. We hadn’t had a break in all that time, and she said go, leave him with me and have some fun. So we went out for dinner, and when we got back we learned that he had fussed intermittently for all the time we were out, because we had brought pajamas that were too small and they were uncomfortable.

But Jane handled it all, and he did get to sleep, the feet of his too-short onesie now cut off and in the garbage, and we had our night out, and she was a gem for dealing with our unhappy baby.

She introduced us to her San Francisco friends, took us to the beach, and showed us around her new town. We were enchanted.

Jane was the kind of friend you could call and start a sentence with “And so I ….” And she would laugh and get it and continue the sentence. She always knew my voice. She always got my silly sense of humor.

She kept a bucket in her shower to save water for San Francisco’s water shortage. She recycled before it was fashionable. She had dogs and cats and animals she loved unconditionally. She taught Down Syndrome kids how to swim. She was a committed volunteer for good causes. She would have campaigned for Obama.

She always worked, never took life for granted, and always had a point of view. A Vassar girl, she was generally smarter than anybody who tried to challenge her opinions. And I remember, too, that because she was tall and athletic and no pushover, she was an object of lust around the office. Interesting in a time when the dumb blonde was supposed to be the sex symbol and brains and brawn weren’t thought to be attractive. All the short guys thought she was hot.

Jane, I will miss you. You taught me to play King’s Corners, cook with Le Creuset, say f*&k when it was called for, challenge fools, drink Black Russians and try new things. Like lobbing an egg out a window and onto Fifth Avenue, just to see it explode.

And when I see you again inside the Pearly Gates, I’m sure you’ll greet me with, “And as I was saying …”

Christmas in the Bus

Just in case anybody thinks we aren't capable of being appropriately tacky.

A Jigger of Youth

Traveling in a mobile home, you tend to come into contact with other people of your particular status in life: retired, family grown, one dog, in other words, not 30. So it was a wonderful change to get to my son’s home in San Francisco and spend the day getting an infusion of youthful energy.

We arrived at 11:30, dropped off Zeus to play with Jeff’s dog Baloo, and immediately walked three blocks in the rain to Jeff’s favorite breakfast place. It was cozy, Christmassy, bustling, full of music, and young. In San Francisco, even the old people aren’t old. Women in their 70’s hang with friends in their 20’s. They go grey without second thoughts and wear jeans and sweatshirts and ponchos and hiking boots. The only person wearing makeup besides me was the waiter, and he looked prettier.

A great SF breakfast having been digested – “great” means with avocado – we took another walk in the rain, digressing a block or two to point out a couple of favorite stores, and headed back to the apartment for the tree-trimming party.

Jeff put out dip and cheeses and cookies. My son is a grownup! He hauled out the decorations, we clinked our beers, and the party was on. Jeff and his roommates Keith and Jill were there, along with a friend of Jill’s, Keith’s girlfriend Tina, their college buddy Kevin, and Stella the dog and her people pack of Pam and her husband Craig, who has worked with Jeff in three previous jobs. They are pregnant, and she told me about her plans to have a doula help her birth her baby. It’s a new world.

On the table, we put fresh candles out and lit them, setting up the Christmas cards, which I couldn’t help noticing were now about his friend’s children, a sure sign that time marches on. The tree, by the way, turned out great. And for the first time, decorating didn’t seem like work.

After the breakfast, and the cheese and the wine, and the party and the music, I was ready for my nap, but there were more activities planned. Keith, Jeff, John and I went to a new Sushi restaurant for dinner, and from there to a jazz club to see a favorite of Jeff’s. We drank port, soaked up some great riffs, yelled for the encore and went home totally satisfied. It was a long day, a happy day, a Jeff day, a Christmas day, a rainy day, a cozy day, a three-dog day, a young day.

Thanks. I needed that.
Betty

The Shack at San Simeon

I may be the last person on earth to have visited San Simeon, the home of the famous Hearst Castle, but in case you haven’t beaten me there, let me urge you to go. You have never seen anything like it before, I guarantee it.

I walked on a gold floor, saw more antiquities gathered in one place than in any museum I ever visited, and stood beside the biggest and the most luxurious pools I have ever seen. I walked through one of three guesthouses bigger than my own 4500 sq. ft. ex-house. I saw land half the size of Rhode Island, all owned by one family. And vistas so unbelievably beautiful in every direction, I don’t think I have absorbed them yet, some 24 hours later.

The Castle is built on a mountain overlooking the Pacific. We boarded a bus and drove for ten minutes, serpentining five miles up the hillside to get there. Our 45 minute tour took us through one guesthouse and the public rooms of the main house, including the indoor pool, billiards room, and theater, itself as big as most modern movie venues.

You can’t see it all in one trip. There are actually five different tours, including an evening tour which has to be wonderful, with everything lit up. As it was, we lucked out on our timing, because the place was decorated for Christmas and it was awesome. You couldn’t use your camera flash, but my pictures all came out anyway.

I wondered how Hearst had come by his fortune, and learned that his grandfather George was a prospector who discovered a vein of what he was pretty sure wasn’t lead, so he trekked 30 tons of the stuff over the mountains to the assayer, and was rewarded with the news that it was silver. His stake made him a rich man and he began buying land in California, which of course made him even richer.

William Randolph Hearst was born into this wealth, but he didn’t sit around on his money bags. He built an incredible media empire of newspapers, magazines and movies, which made him one of the richest men in the world. The castle was his dream, but he actually owned seven of them, and something like 30 houses in every part of the world. He deeded San Simeon to the State of California, and today it is a public trust.

I haven’t even mentioned the zoo, which housed lions, bears, giraffes, African sheep, buffalo, and all kinds of exotics, or the pergola that extended around the mountain and covered the horse trail. Or the guests: Chaplin, Gable, Carole Lombard, Marion Davies – his West Coast “wife” – Woodrow Wilson, politicians, public figures, celebrities. Every day was a party. He was a great host, who like to teach his guests to yodel and often got up from the dinner table to do a little hoofing for their enjoyment.

If I owned a house like this, I’d pirouette around the table too.

Betty

Brilliant Thinking

On the Way to Casa Robles

I'm on Hwy 101 above Santa Barbara California, and we've just stopped at a rest area to fix one of the bikes that appears to be a little loose on the rack.

There's a sign here that says, "Rock Slide Area. Use Caution."

So I wonder. Couldn't they have picked a better place?

Betty

An Ordinary Day

Ventura CA

If you’ve wondered what constitutes an ordinary day on the road, let me tell you about today, December 16, 2008.

We’re headed for San Francisco from Palm Springs to spend Christmas with our son Jeff. We rise at 8:30 and have coffee and check our e-mails. Then we take showers and go about the business of readying the coach for travel. First I check all the cabinet doors to make sure nothing will end up on the floor as we travel. Then I put the slides in and make sure everything is secure. Meanwhile, John takes the pooch for a walk, and unhooks the camper from all its tethers – the water, the dump and the electric. Finally, I jump in the Jeep to get ready to hook up. We find a flat place, and while I prepare the car to be towed, John hooks it up.

After we make sure everything’s rolling as it should (if the wheels don't roll free you end up with a fire, as I learned back in September), we get on the road. Zeus jumps in my lap and we take off. After a time, the humans get hungry, so I go back to the kitchen and pull out the ingredients for sandwiches. The bus lurches, but I balance myself pretty much the same way I used to balance myself on the subway in Manhattan, with feet apart and torso compensating as we roll along.

We eat as we go. Occasionally we stop at an I-Hop on the way, but this sandwich thing is easier, cheaper, and usually, better.

If our journey is four hours long, then somewhere in the second or third hour, John gets tired and I take the wheel. We make it to our destination, check in, find our slot, and proceed to hook up all our connections – water, electric and refuse. Then we put out the slides, vacuum the interior, wash any remaining silverware, and shoo the dog off my pillow. (Where are you, Caesar Millan?) Then if we’re not too tired, we hop in the Jeep and do a little investigating of the area. Today we took a ride to the timeshare I bought online for $1. It wasn’t too bad, actually, and we may even use it. Otherwise, Merry Christmas Jeff. You now have someplace new to vacation.

Our desire to investigate our area having been sated, we then take a couple of hours to relax. John sleeps, I go on line, and Zeus hangs out.

If we’re lucky as we were today, someone recommends a great restaurant for dinner. (Otherwise I do the domestic thing.) We went out at about 6:30 to a steak and fish spot, and had a really wonderful meal. Now we’re back. It’s 9:00, and we’re done for the day. I’m writing, John’s watching TV, and Zeus is finally eating his dinner, his dreams of a wonderful doggie bag having been disappointed.

Tomorrow we’ll see a local sight – the Channel Islands – and then I’ll walk the pretty little town of Ventura while John naps.

I delude myself that I’m only going shopping for Christmas lights, my set having died in last night’s storm in Indio California, but if there happens to be a wonderful sweater or wrap or pretty blouse, then who am I to pass up such a find? It’s Christmas, after all, and we may never be in Ventura California again. Carpe diem.

Betty

The Way the Rich Play

Indio CA
Near Palm Springs



We are now sitting in the midst of some of the wealthiest people on earth. I wouldn’t be surprised to see a sheik walk past my window. Although I would, because we’re sitting on a lake.

Nevertheless.

This is Indio Resort and Golf, one of the Signature Resorts opened by the Monaco Coach Corporation, a company obviously so tuned in to the rich that it builds not just the coaches that take them on vacation, but the places to park once they get there.

The site next to us has a pool, hot tub, bar, casita, enormous outdoor barbeque, table and chairs, couches, chaises and some pretty spectacular plantings to give them a sense of privacy and containment. I, of course, can look right in to their site and have no compunctions about watching every move they make.

Their coach is a Monaco high-end coach and with upgrades could cost as much as a million dollars, which is about what they spent on their site.

These are Angelenos, folks. Los Angeles wealthy who use this place as their vacation home. Some of them have custom-made golf carts to play the lush greens that meander in and about the resort. Others have small patio boats to traverse the 100 feet of water they front on. God, I could wade that distance. How incredibly redundant. But this is how the wealthy play. They get in their little boats, motor 50 feet to a friend’s casita, tie up and proceed to tie one on. If they get too blitzed, they can always walk home.

And the coaches! More Monacos than I’ve ever seen in one place. And Prevosts. And Newells. These are the crème de la crème. Just Google these names and see what comes up and what they look like inside. Gold plated faucets are not out of consideration here. Newells run about $1,400,000. Before upgrades.

The sales office told us they only had about 60 of 400 sites available to the poor people like us who rent a day or two, because most folks leave their campers here and travel back and forth – in their Hummers, no doubt – from LA. They can’t be bothered renting out their spaces when they are not here. Besides, then they’d have to drive their rigs. How plebian.

It’s fun to play among the rich. I have to confess that I am enjoying seeing people with all their teeth again after our sojourn through rural America.

Although now that I think of it, I would have to guess that most of the teeth I’m seeing aren’t originals, but rather the store-boughten kind of of pearlies. Which makes these privileged folks more like their country cousins than they think.

Now that’s something to ponder.

Betty

Last Stand in the West

We just arrived in Yuma, Arizona's westenmost city, which is about as close to Mexico you can get without being in Mexico. And in spite of the fact that it is desert from one end to the other, it is a major citrus growing area. The green trees are a welcome relief after so much sandy dirt. And with the mountains in the background, it is quite an impressive view from our front window.

They tell you not to stop along the road and sample the oranges, but I have never picked an orange from a tree, so I am considering stopping and asking someone in charge if I can pay him or her for two oranges that I pick myself.

Later: Okay, John stole an orange. He is my hero my Galahad my thief. The orange sat on our counter over night and as soon as I got up I peeled and ate the forbidden fruit. It tasted like sawdust. Dry and mealy, no flavor at all. That’s how God punishes temptresses. I’ll bet that apple that Adam picked tasted just about as good.

Yuma, like so many other western towns, has no real town center. We visited Old Yuma the other night expecting little shops, quaint sights and great restaurants, but found instead a deserted two-block stretch of souvenir stores and a couple of theaters that seemed to be active, but we were too late for a show.

The rest of the city is strip malls, and after several attempts to find a real town center with a great steak or otherwise Western meal, we settled for Olive Garden and had a wonderful martini and meal. Quel surprise. We’re having the leftovers tonight.

Live and learn.

Betty

A Cactus Tale

Saguaro National Park
Tucson, AZ

I have now visited the second most glorious place on earth. Saguaro National Park offers an experience all its own, and in its strange beauty is incredibly compelling.

It helped that the day was incredibly balmy and sunny. We shucked our sweaters, rolled down the windows and drove the loop trail through the park. Imagine this: Every ten feet, in every direction for miles and miles, a majestic cactus reaching for the sky, some of them two and three stories tall. Saguaros can weigh as much as 4000 pounds. They can live two hundred years. Even the little ones that just reached my knee are at least three years old.

I kept taking pictures, hoping to capture the grand panorama of, perhaps, millions of cacti dotting the mountains and desert below. I got a lot of pictures, but I guess you just have to be there.

The park abounds in desert life. We did see some quail, a woodpecker making yet another hole in the cactus, some tiny scurrying things, but missed the diamond-back rattlesnakes and javelina, a really mean-looking wild pig-ish thug of an animal. The last two are why we drove instead of hiked. Not in my little gold flats, which I must have been brain-dead to wear. Except that they looked cute with my jeans.

To be truthful, I could have had ear-high boots and I still wouldn’t have walked among the snakes. Some experiences I'll save for my next life, when I come back as a lady park ranger with long grey braids, well-developed legs, a hearty laugh, gentle eyes and a slight mustache.

Betty

More Errata

Tucson Trap & Skeet Club
Just Outside of Tucson

Why is it that

I put the same five scoops of coffee and the same 8 cups of water into the coffee maker every morning, but it delivers a different shade of … well … coffee every time.

I rewashed my jeans without soap yesterday, and there were more bubbles in the water than with the first wash.

The noise of my opening a book causes my husband to turn on the television.

There’s a single potato nestled in among my dishtowels. Maybe it’s not a potato. Maybe it’s a dinosaur egg or something equally profound. I’m leaving it until it either hatches or sprouts.

I’ll never need that baking pan cover until the day after I throw it away.

I have such a hard time throwing things away, anyway. I am my mother’s daughter. I still have her little black frying pan from the 40’s. The 1840’s, I think. It’s probably worth a ton of money, but I won’t sell it. Mainly because I couldn’t carry it to an antique dealer. That thing is mucho heavy.

Familiarity breeds contempt. I don’t know why I put that on this list, except for the fact that my wonderful brothers and sisters are showing me so much love now that I’m on the road. Who knew I was pissing them off just by being around. Miss you too, guys.

A sunny day in the desert is glorious, but a cloudy day makes the desert look deserted.

My dog prefers his peanut butter-filled cong to me. Thank you Jesus. And speaking of the Zeus-meister, why, when I find him once again nesting his little butt on my pillow, the one I lay my head on, and I order him OFF! does he simply move over to John's pillow? Does he really think only my pillow is off-limits? Or does he believe that I do not have jurisdiction over John's domain. Does he consider me only second in command in his pack, a mere co-dog instead of a human?

My husband won’t wear a cowboy hat when he shoots trap. Instead he wears this floppy cotton thing – for ventilation, he says. He looks semi-ridiculous, but at least I can spot him among all the shooters with cowboy hats on.

Life’s a mystery.

Betty