Wally's Folder

 

As a Cal Berkeley freshman in 1965, my greatest fear was being caught up in a spontaneous political uprising inside Sproul Hall, while waiting in the endless pre-computer registration line at No. 120, and maybe being tear-gassed and locked in for the night with an angry bunch of protesters . . . maybe even being swayed by Mario Savio's eloquence. As a Berkeley senior in 1998, I worry about losing the protests and eloquent speeches, losing the old ways of communicating. I worry about becoming subservient to and dependent upon technology. Just in case, I accidentally drop a few apple- cinnamon muffin crumbs into my keyboard.
On the family-room couch at midnight, I hover over my eldest son's Toshiba 4800 CT laptop, which glows on the oak trunk, the trunk I used to have time to dust and polish. I need desperately for this thing to boot up. My youngest son's Macintosh, in the dining room, has mercilessly crashed and taken the first scene of my screenplay with it.
Luckily, I'm a realist about the techno-age and have roughed it out longhand, but I'm left with a novice- unfriendly PC. I'm presenting my work in a screenwriting class tomorrow and need 12 copies.
I've read somewhere that hackers cajole their computers. "Come on, don't you like me? I'll treat ya good. I won't drink coffee near you or drop muffin crumbs between your tiny fingers. I'll put you in your little docker every night and cover you. Nothing . . . suddenly, PC VIRUS, gibberish, SAFE MODE, STICKY A DRIVE. No language I can grasp.
It's so late; please boot. My eyes well up. Falling back into my formerly comforting corduroy couch, I put one foot up on the edge of the trunk. Dangerously close to the monitor, it takes all the willpower I've ever had not to boot the frigging thing smack across the room.
When my boys set up a computer folder for me, they named it Wally's Folder. They were referring to Wally Cleaver, the Beav's brother, the clueless one.
I remember "Leave It to Beaver" before the reruns; I remember when a megabite was something you took from your roommate's late-night Giant Burger. A printer was someone who refused to do it in cursive. A curser was my Dad when Cal was losing the Big Game.
I personally remember when boot up was something you did with your Red Mountain wine all over your cheap date, who wove his VW up the nauseating horseshoe turns of Panoramic Drive. I remember Cal when English majors used typewriters and engineering students were content with slide rules.
The morning after the night I almost sent the Toshiba to the moon, the telephone rings. It's 7:15 a.m. After four rings, I find the phone under the bed. "MMMMM lo? This better be good," my standard remark to anyone who calls before 8 a.m.
"Well, it is my birthday," my eldest son asserts from job training in New York.
"Happy birthday, sweetie. Thanks for letting me be the first one to say it. How's your day going?"
"Considering I have a 104-degree fever and didn't get the birthday package you sent, I'd say I've had better: It's my tonsils again. They're so huge, they block the passage to my nose. I have to walk around with my mouth hanging open to breathe.There are also globs of putrid pus stuck in them."
This is a bit more wake-up information than I need. "Oh, I'm so sorry, Matthew." I can't make his birthdays wonderful anymore.
"How was your first week back at the Big U, after a 30-year sabbatical?"
"Oh my gosh, I've got to get up." Remembering my unfinished document, I bolt out of bed. "I hate your computer."
"What have you done to my computer now, Mom? Mom?"
"Happy birthday, baby. Stay in bed. I'll call you tonight."
This morning is too late to tackle the campus Computer Lab for the first time, So I opt for Copy Central. At least there, I'll have an understanding employee, one I'll be paying by the minute to help me.

Instead of breakfast, I jump in my car, but can't find the anti-theft key that'll let the motor start, so I run upstairs for a flashlight, try to search under the car seat. Of course the flashlight doesn't work. New plan. Run back upstairs to get my bike lock, change from a skirt to pants, catch my pants' button as it flies off, and decide to sew on the button in my first class in 12 minutes, a good seven miles away. I pedal my bike to campus like a maniac at Mach-10.
The bike locks on campus are like nothing I've ever seen; apparatus you couldn't figure out if your life depended on it. I'm sure a bright engineering student won a prize for economy of design and creativity, but I am confounded. Which bike wheel is it that thieves steal anyway?
I lock my bike to a nearby Stop sign, certain of a parking ticket when I return, the campus kind you have to stand in line to pay off, or the kind you don't find out about until your registration is blocked. Winded and late to my overcrowded class, I disrupt the esteemed guest lecturer, sit on the floor, and have a hot flash.

---

The debacle the night before compelled me to retrieve my original disk from the headstrong Mac by poking that hard-driving little Apple in the eye. It is a simple and hopefully painful procedure: Just open up a paper clip and poke clean into that tiny hole near the floppy drive.
Between classes, disk in hand, I run over to Copy Central to print my screenplay scene on their Mac. How can I command respect from these insolent machines when I can't domesticate my own? I flail under the contentious Copy Central mistress' cold stare. She prints my 12 copies with a deft hand and a curled lip. I hand over $6.49 with a deft hand, as my lip curls discreetly back at her.
By the time I get to Screenwriting, my professor is explaining why the first scene presentations will be delayed until next week. "And because you're late, Bonnie, you may be first to present the second scene, on October 1." This doesn't surprise me. October 1 is the day after our 30th wedding anniversary, when 20 people are coming to our house to celebrate.
It's time to bite the bullet, to descend the basement steps to hell, the steps of Evans Hall and the world of the Cal Computer Lab. Can't find the stairs that go down, so I wait for a locked elevator that never comes. I reluctantly ask an observant-looking student, "Where are the steps that go down?"
"Right next to the ones that go up."
Oh.
At the window with the sign, "E- mail next door," a man with dull eyes and a slack jaw listens to my spiel. "I've never been to the Computer Lab before, so I'll need some help. You see, I'm a re-entry student . . ."
"Lab's next door, ma'am," he says, without moving his lips.
I'm obviously the only student who read the Daily Cal article saying 10-story Evans Hall is one of the most seismically unsafe buildings on campus, because the waiting room is packed with unsuspecting potential earthquake victims.
The sign-up sheet says Mac or PC. Since our Mac has crashed, my only hope is to try the PC. "Do you have a printer account?" the young computer expert behind the counter asks. The way my luck is going, I'd better sign up for everything.
"Go ahead and sign up," she coaxes, angling the desk monitor and sliding the mouse toward me. But the little rodent has a mind of its own. The on-screen arrow moves in the opposite direction, like looking into a mirror. I try to direct it backwards. "You're holding it upside down. Up-side-down?"
Oooh.

My turn comes; the girl takes my Student ID and gives me card 6G in return. Passing a hundred computer cubicles, I see three student helpers on staff. This is good. Cubicle 6G looks private enough, in case this machine too, needs a poke in the eye. My PC commands PASSWORD. Don't have one. The helper in the hall directs me to the front desk to sign up for a password. I get my SID card back and someone else gets 6G while I register for a password. I do not hold the mouse upside down. I choose the first six numbers of my new SID card and write them on my hand, wisely remembering they hold your SID card hostage at the desk. My new Cubicle 4A is right next to the helper's desk for Wallys. It occurs to me that unless I want to look up my first six SID numbers every time, I should return to the front desk and change my password to a real word. By now the front desk girl calls me by name, and they let me keep 4A. Back in my cubicle, I type in my official personal password. Next it commands Userid, which the helper discreetly explains is my SID number, which is on my SID card, which is with the front desk clerk. The clerk is vey sweet. She writes down my number, suggesting, "Students who haven't memorized their numbers usually keep a copy in their wallet." I swear she adds "Dummy," under her breath. Now I'm ready to type in the password, user ID number, and choose a program. ERROR OF THE FIRST TYPE HAS OCCURRED. Frozen screen. The hapless-helper is busy with another Wally for nearly 10 minutes. Returning, he shrugs at my monitor and simply reboots. We wait another five minutes. Ready. I type in my password, my SID, get that tootling connecting sound and smugly lean back, arms crossed, and ask the boy in 4B for the time. He looks confused, "Isn't it right there on your screen?"
Yikes. I have four minutes to make it across campus to my 3 p.m. library Meta-Search Engine workshop.
I hear Moffitt Library has user- friendly Gladys and Melville, but no longer to my surprise, I find they're not a couple of sweet old librarians, but a computer index database. Pity the lady who inadvertently sits down at one of the talking computers while others are waiting and pacing.
There is a secret card I know of to use on the copy machines at Doe Library. Once someone closed a row of shelves on me in the bowels of Doe, while searching the stacks. Now, I cough politely when I hear incoming footsteps.
I want to learn how to renew my library books online and get my grades from the glassed-in computer in Wheeler basement. I want e-mail, a Berkeley Internet kit, my own UCLink. I want to understand the hostile lesbian rhetorical fury scribbled on the bathroom stalls. I want to know the difference between Tele-BEARS, Info-BEARS and Bear Facts. I intend to scan my transparencies on a slide scanner with Photoshop, and turn an image of my dog into a three-headed Cerberus. I'll have Lexis-Nexus and HTML at my beck and call.
And I'll not be intimidated by the hallowed Bancroft, the library of rare documents, where before entering, you must lock up all your earthly belongings, sign your life away in two places, get metal-detected, no pens, no browsing, take a seat number, a place mat, request your title and "Sit, you will be summoned." I'll no longer worry about such trivialities. I've outgrown that.
Except for almost falling down a flight of stairs, my bike ride home is beautifully uneventful. Around 11 p.m. of this longest day, I go downstairs to lock up. A luminous full moon shines on me through the open door. "Oh, no wonder," I say out loud to no one in particular.
From upstairs, my husband calls, "Does the full moon affect you?"
"Nooooooo," I howl sweetly.

Google it

 

Pretend you’re blind.  Close your eyes and don’t open them for two days.  Flat on your back.  And if you move your head in any way whatsoever the room lurches and whirls.  It reels so fast you feel your eyeballs spin in their sockets. Your ears ring in time to the rotation.  You have the warm drools.

Oldest son calls from New York.  “Lo?” you murmur.

“Are you sleeping this late?”

“Sick.”

“Oh, what is it?”

“Dizzy.”  Saying it makes you more so.

“From what?”

“Vertigo.  Google it.”

“OK.  It says, extreme dizziness, nausea, inner ear disorder, often accompanied by nystagmus, jerky eye movements and tinnitus, ringing in the ears.’  Oh great, I have that.”

“How long does it last?”

“Um—no known cure, remain immobile, treat with motion sickness medication.  Oh, that’s not good.”

“What?”

“You can’t have this.”

“How many days?”

“Can take eight or nine months to subside.”

You want to cry but it’ll only clog up your inner ear.  It looks like you’re going to miss your writing workshop today.  The one for which you cut up sixty orange sections.  And it looks like you’re going to miss the birthday party tonight.  The one where you’re the only guest invited. 

You have to go to the bathroom so you carefully roll sideways, eyes closed.  Don’t open your eyes because you will be sorry.  Seeing the room thrash and spin is much worse than just feeling it.  Your feet touch the ground, but the room tilts.  The force of the whirl rips you out of bed.  You lurch up off kilter and fall flat on the floor. You decide to crawl. The dog at eye-level trots shoulder-to-shoulder, ever faithful by your side. You arrive just before the vomit, thankful the porcelain is steady. You shake and sweat and coil up--cheek on the cool tile floor.  God, you feel ninety and scared as well.  You are in trouble.

“Can you help me?” you plead into the cell phone.  You sound like a bad commercial for Oldster Alert, ironic since commercials are what you do for a living.  Your friend does not pick up.  You call another friend, the one who is deathly afraid of sick people.

“Can you help me?”

Yes, blessed saint.  She arrives with Dramamine, drops one then two into your mouth without reading the dosage. She holds water to your lips then backs up nervously.  “You look awful.”  She is a blunt blessed saint.  You picture yourself: black T-shirt, pallid skin, hollow purple eye sockets, disheveled hair tangled on a crooked pillow, like any moment you will spring upright and project green vomit.

Your friend glances furtively toward the door.  “Well, if you’re OK then I’ll let you rest.” She rushes out--runs practically and leaves the back gate open, the gate that prevents your dog from wandering into the street.  But that does not happen because your dog is loyal and you could not lift your head from the pillow if the bed was ablaze.

You feel around for the cell phone, hold it at arm’s length and self-photo for later when you can open your eyes.  Then you’ll laugh about it, right?  The meds are not working.

Your body aches from lying in corpse pose, so you lock your head in position and rotate the remains.  You’re amazed you’ve slept for most of the morning in spite of Latino music blaring outside your second story window.  Painters hang from the neighbor’s house, ten feet as the crow flies.  Hopefully they’ll cut the cord on the co-worker, the Blabberator who never stops talking, shouting over the boom box’s screeching violin, frenzied accordion, throbbing trumpet beat.  He pontificates: ‘Habla blabla donde estero la cinestera, ha ha ha.’  Can you please go home now? You have to go to the bathroom again so you crawl past the window and brave a peek.  On wobbly knees you hold onto the window sill, lift the blinds, and open your eyes for a half-second.  Babble-boy hangs directly at eye level, gaping at you with large shocked eyes, just like your own.  You drop and crawl to the vomitorium—not quite in time.

When the room swirls, your eyeballs orbit in your head like Daffy Duck cold-cocked with a fry pan.  You’re sure if you looked in the mirror you’d see it, but you cannot because when you open your eyes even a slit, you are on that rocket ride at the County Fair diving toward the earth and back up again.  Over and over, faster and faster, whipping around until you climb up into your bed and immobilize for five full minutes.  Then it can stop—but only until you move again.  On the crawl back you drag the wastebasket along—portable vomitorium.

The neighbors on the other side are planning a pool party.  You know because people have been swarming all morning: mowing, blowing, skimming, dragging chairs, sampling gazpacho soup.  They slurp, ‘Oh this is yummy. Does it need a dollop of sour cream?  Chives?’  You salivate, in spite of or because of the nausea.  You wish someone would bring you gazpacho soup.

Youngest son arrives with girlfriend and grandchildren, tipped off by the oldest.  “You can’t get up?  What’s wrong?”

“Vertigo.  Google it.”  They pull out their smart phones.

The girlfriend flops on the bed and rubs your forehead.  “Poor thing.  You look terrible.  I brought pills that will fix anything. These will relieve the sickest cancer patient on chemo.” She shakes a few pills into her hand without checking the dosage.

“Oh no thanks, I already took something.  What does the label say?” 

“Open up.”  She holds big white pills up to your lips with water and commands “Swallow.” 

You open like a baby bird.

Your grandchildren sidle up with handmade get-well cards and hold your hand.  “We love you Grammy.  Get well soon.”  They sound scared or wary, you can’t tell without looking.

“Don’t worry, I will.”  They reach over with hugs.  “Oh, but don’t shake the bed.”

“What the hell is all that noise outside?”  Your son looks down into the backyard next door.  “I’ll go tell them you’re sick and to keep it down.”

“No no, I have to live here.”  Your family traipses down the stairs as you murmur, “Can someone please  feed the dog?  And close the gate.”  You hear it slam then swing back open.

The guests arrive poolside and the lady next-door mikes up with an amplified squeal.  ‘Welcome to the Lesbian Alliance Auction Committee.  We provide educational grants to foster children with LGBT parents.  We want you to gear up and encourage your friends to sponsor a table for our gala auction this year.  And everyone please belly-up to the bar for your Grape Jello shooters.’

It’s amazing what you hear when you can’t see or move.  You need a Grape Jello shot.  You hear the familiar click-click-click of their automatic sprinkler system then, ‘Ohhh shit.’  The guests run for it and you smile uncharitably, full of mirth.

By midday Sunday you open your eyes slowly, steadily without the whirl.  Don’t move your head.  Focus on the wall and make it stay.  You click on the TV and it doesn’t rotate.  Your eyes no longer spin in their sockets unless you watch Tiger Woods putt the green.  The little white ball zips by and circles the hole but you track it too quickly, then reach for the portable vomitorium.  But the meds may be working because you lie back and gain control.  Your friend who didn’t pick up yesterday, calls back—thirty hours later.  “Are you sick?”  But you no longer thrash and lurch, only stagger and wobble.

Late in the afternoon from your open window, sunlight breaks through the elm tree leaving patterns of heat on your upturned cheek.  Leaves rustle and a soft breeze brushes your eyes, somewhere a screen door slams, you smell barbecue, a plane passes overhead and slowly you open one eye, then the other. The sunset is dusty pink and your tree barely rotates, a languid kaleidoscope.  Elm leaves steady then stop.  It’s not perfect but you take a deep breath, reach for pen and paper and begin to write.

Pretend you’re blind.  Close your eyes and don’t open them for two days.  Flat on your back . . .

The Scattering

Duck blind six is the favored spot on the pond.  On a straw mound in sunken cement blinds, they sit bundled in waders and down jackets.  Eye level with smooth black water, they wait for dawn to hit the horizon.  It’s dead flat calm—bluebird weather—not a duck day.  He turns to his childhood friend of forty-nine years, “When I go, don’t let them put me anywhere else.  Make sure they leave me right here.”

Sunrise, pale orange, lights a narrow watery path toward them.  The widening swath of orange shivers a ripple as a breeze picks up.  North wind?  Somewhere a mud hen squawks, lifting in flight.  Two black labs sniff the gust, then quiver and whine softly.  One friend intuitively turns facing south, the other north.  Back-to-back, they hide their ruddy cheeks and bright eyes under camo caps while scanning the sky in tandem.  “Don’t worry buddy, I’ll make sure.”

When he did go, after a long courageous battle, he got what he wanted.  To be laid to rest at the place of family heritage he loved best, by the people he loved most: his wife of thirty-six years, our boys, his mother, and his lifelong buddy.  Their grandfathers hunted that club together in 1914.  He hadn’t missed an opening day of duck season since he went to Army flight school during the Vietnam War thirty-five years ago.

Ashes to ashes dust to dust.  I’ve never before held the weight of a person reduced to pebbles and sand.  No one in my family will look inside the green box, an old wooden fly-fishing box with a rainbow trout painted on top.  I like having it on my desk where I can open it and pat the plastic pouch.  I am loath to part with these remaining molecules.

I don’t know anyone who has scattered ashes—none of us do, but the agreed upon time has come so we make plans, acting as if we know what to do, making it up as we go.  I’m searching for guidance and inexplicably, I call my mortician, the skinny guy in the silver suit with lips as thin as garter snakes that twist and kink as he enunciates each carefully formed word.  “Say, yes to everything” was his advice when I’d met him exactly one time in my life at the mortuary.  I can’t help from watching his lips. “When someone wants to help you out after your loss, offer you a casserole or mow your lawn, say yes.  And call me anytime.”

So I do.  “Oh yes, I remember you.  You came in with the fishing tackle box to place your husband’s remains.”  “Actually it’s a fly box” I set him right then ask about scattering protocol.  “Well, mainly don’t scatter into the wind, for obvious reasons.  Scattering over water is nice, as the remains dissipate, which seems more appropriate.  First remove the metal ID tag in the plastic pouch, which can sometimes be disconcerting.  You might ask if others would like to say something, or recite bible passages and have a moment of silence.  Some people bring the departed’s favorite music and a boom-box, others release doves.”  Releasing doves doesn’t seem particularly appropriate since we’re at a bird hunting club and our hunting dog will be along.

“Yes, but how do we actually do the scattering,” I ask, “Physically, I mean.  Is it O.K. to touch the ashes?”  He explains how some boxes come with release holes in the bottom; other people just pour the contents into the water.  “Just remember what I said about the wind because it can get, well, messy.”  But he never actually addresses the touching of the ashes.

 I hang up the phone drifting backwards.  Thoughts come in slow motion, like recalling a dream early in the morning, at first unfocused, it clarifies then solidifies until your hair stands on end.  After the first horrific month someone said, “Well, at least July is past us.”  But I don’t want July to be past us.  I want it to still be June.

The day before the scattering, just before Opening Day of duck season, the boys are bickering bitterly.  I get a phone call from the youngest, “I’m through with him.  He never does his share of work at the duck club.  Never shows up.  I’ve had it”

“Well,” I defend him, “He did just have eye surgery.  Maybe he’s not supposed to lift heavy things, or get a fox tail in his eye.”

The oldest calls.  “He never told me about the work party.  No one tells me anything.  Why do we need new windows anyway, the decoys need replacing, the dock fixed.  I’m sick of the whole thing.”

Now I defend the other.  “He said he emailed you about the work party a month ago.  He’s under a lot of pressure overseeing the ponds, levees, clubhouse, everything Dad used to do--plus he has a new baby.”  How’s your eye?”

“I am now legally blind in that eye.  The doctor took the bandage off and I couldn’t even see the E at the top of the chart.  My doctor goes, ‘Oh that’s unusual.’  No shit, doc.  Then one of the stitches didn’t dissolve and scratched the hell out of my eye. And don’t give me that excuse about a new baby.  I have two under three.” 

We’ve agreed to invite the lifelong friend, who is honored to rearrange his work schedule.  A daughter-in-law calls saying Nana, my Mother-in law, is worried.  Is there a plan for the scattering?  Who will speak?  What will they say?  Nana’s not sure if she wants to keep some of the ashes.  Is this all too rushed?

More acrimonious calls come in from the boys.  My girlfriend, having four brothers, thinks my husband would be furious.  “Cancel it until everyone gets their act together. If the boys won’t meet this afternoon and talk it out, then cancel it.  You’re in charge now.”

I phone the boys at work.  “Mom, we’re fine.  We don’t need to meet today,” says one.  “You can’t do this.  Dad hasn’t missed an Opening Day since the Vietnam War and he’s not missing this one.  We’re doing it tomorrow,” says the other.

“You can meet in the City after work, you can meet here, or at the Roundup tonight, otherwise I’m calling Nana and Dad’s buddy and canceling.”  All toll, nine bitter phone calls circulate through to my house.  So I cancel, then stop answering the phone. 

By morning I’m getting sweet patronizing calls.  “We talked.”

“Did you meet?”

“No but we talked on the phone.” Since I stopped answering they have no one else.  “We’re fine.  Everything’s fine.”

“Well fine then,” I huff, “If you want to do it, you call Nana and everyone, you plan the damn thing.  You lead it.”

 “OK, Mom, I will”, my youngest child sounds relieved.  His wife calls saying they don’t want me to drive alone.  They’re leaving at 2 p.m., could I meet them and drive together?

“No thank you.  I’ll drive myself.”  Now I’m acting immature.

I arrive fifteen minutes late for our three o’clock boat crossing to Van Sickle Island in the Delta.  A hot sticky October breeze adds to my rush, confusion, rising panic and guilt for holding up two carloads of people at the dock.  I feel scattered.

My youngest has brought his wife, infant daughter, Nana and his hunting dog.  My oldest has brought his wife, his one and three-year-old daughters, his hunting dog and my husband’s best friend.  Thankfully the friend has left his hunting dog at home.  My Labrador wags the length of her black body and smiles showing teeth.  I can’t imagine how we’ll fit the ten of us, and three high-strung dogs into our 19-foot speedboat.  I expected seven people, one dog and zero children.  Hopefully my oldest has prepared his three-year-old child for this.  I wonder if they’ll leave the children in the clubhouse with the mothers.  We all hug, yet nobody says much as my oldest starts the engine.  The old family speedboat, Delta Bear, sputters and spits, resentful for being left idle so long in the harbor.

“Grammy, what’s that?”  The three-year-old blurts out with wide eyes, pointing to the green wooden box with the rainbow trout painted on top.  “What’s that box in your lap?”  I look to my son, as he backs us from the berth.  He shrugs.  So I stall until someone tells this child what we are doing here today.

“It’s a fish box.”

“What’s in it?”  I look at the parents again but no one wants to jump in here.  I am responsible for orchestrating this scattering of my husband, which I have no idea exactly how to do, nor do I want to.  Now I have to explain it to my granddaughter?  This means I can tell her anything I please, which in turn, is liberating.

“Ashes,” I say simply.

“What are they for?”  No one says a word as we idle out of the harbor toward the San Joaquin River.  All eyes are on me and I think fast.

“We’re going to scatter them out by Grandpa’s favorite duck blind.”

“Why Grammy?” she climbs nimbly into my lap, caressing my skin with her warm bare arms and legs. “Why are we going to scatter them?”

I began to feel more grounded than I have all day. There is always an opportunity for personal growth, which is usually painful. “To remember Grandpa—you remember Grandpa, don’t you?”

Her brown eyes narrow and look directly into mine.  She nods slowly, thoughtfully.  “Can I see the ashes?”  No one breathes as I unhook the clasp and reveal the plastic bag of sand and pebbles that is her grandfather.  She tenderly pats the bag and leans her head against my chest, so close to my heart, “Can I please help scatter the ashes, Grammy?” 

“Of course you can, sweetheart.”

Arriving at the island, after crossing the white chop of the San Joaquin River, we veer into smooth green Steamboat Slough.  The dogs pace, sniff the air, jockey for position.  My dog leaps onto our dock while still two feet away.  The boys’ dogs leap simultaneously, the plump black Lab heavy, the young blond Lab clumsy, both barely clearing the water as the boys shout in unison, “No Shane, stay.  Sage, sit down—no.”  Why do they waste their breath?  We walk the rutted dirt path to the duck club, holding 85-year-old Nana by both arms.  Between gusts of warm wind swirling the dirt, heat radiates visibly.  At the turn, the green prickly pear cactus sprouts hot pink babies from its elephantine leaves.  My husband taught me how to carve and eat the succulent fruit but still, I got stickers in my gums.  Wild asparagus hides beneath the earth, waiting for spring.  He showed me how to find the lanky stalks under familiar clumps of lacy fern.  I’d memorized each secret spot, knowing it would be important later.

We unlock the door to the clubhouse and the buddy steps in first, then turns on his heel.  “Hold up a minute while I take care of something.”  Evidently the mousetrap on the kitchen floor has done its job.  So much for leaving the moms and the babies behind in the clubhouse.  We will all be going to the scattering. 

Once inside my boys and the buddy pull on waders.  “Do I need waders?  There’s a small pair in here somewhere that fit me.”  I fumble through my husband’s locker.  His soft flannel shirt brushes my cheek.  I smell him.  I want to climb in and close the door behind me.

“Naw, we’ll drop you right at the blind,” the buddy assures me.  But I like wearing those waders.  I look down at my shorts, flip flops and my beloved periwinkle blue blouse, the one I wore to his memorial service.  I’d kind of planned on wearing waders.

The man made slough out to the blinds is four-feet-wide lined with four foot high walls of river tule.  Stepping down into the precarious rowboat with the outboard motor and pull-chord starter, I sit on a plank seat behind Nana and the buddy.  Two dogs ride the bow.  My oldest revs the engine, navigating from the stern, resembling my husband—Mario Andretti.  Like a Disneyland E ride. Ahead of us, in another outboard powered rowboat, are two wives, two little girls and a tiny newborn girlchild.  It’s only four feet deep but still, I don’t see any lifejackets on those babies.  My youngest drives the precious cargo as his lab puppy jumps from one seat to another.  Murky brown hull water douses all clean bright clothing and the one-year-old squeals with joy.

Both boys drive way too fast along the skinny slough.  “Suppose something large has fallen into this trough and is lurking under the waterline?”  The motor whines too loud for anyone to hear my own.  Instinctively I duck as we speed under the gnarled burnt-out railroad trestle, clearing it by inches.  The moms expertly duck their children’s heads.  Dogs stand proud, front paws splayed on the bow, ears flying, noses at work.  Just like always.

Here we turn, slowing abruptly into the now invisible path of water toward the pond, parting the tules as we go.  But the puppy in the lead boat can’t wait.  Into the water she leaps as my youngest yells commands.  Chain reaction—my dog is next, making a great splash.  Then I feel a thump, thump, thump under our boat.  “We’re running over her,” I scream.  “The outboard will chop her to pieces.”

“She’ll move” my oldest knows.  His stout dog, the water chicken, stays put, not particularly anxious to get wet before actual hunting season begins with real ducks.

Up pops a dog head between the tules.  We idle and the buddy grabs my 75 pound wet mudball by the scruff and manhandles her into the boat.  Dripping she shakes in slow motion, head first, shoulders, hips, down to the tip of her sleek tail.  Nana’s canary yellow pantsuit is now polka-dotted.  She’s a good sport, being a duck club Matriarch, although she always had miniature poodles. 

The puppy, safely back in the lead boat, is scolded.  Mothers and children are now fully splattered.  Lucky we love those sweet dogs.  Muddy water splashes over my flip-flops and I wish again that I had insisted on waders.  We forge ahead as I choke hold my dog by the neck.  Out goes the puppy again, paddling valiantly alongside the boat.  “Let her swim there” my youngest gives up.

A long minute later we pull up to blind six and I step onto the straw covered islet.  Levees, tules, cattails and ponds are all I can see in every direction. Wildlife chirps, quacks, flaps and croaks.  Decoys bob.  Must I do this?

 The duck club isn’t even my kind of place with those rattraps snapping at 3 a.m., twice rebuilding after the underground peat fire and the levee flood, your inebriated duck hunter friends snoring in our bunkroom or playing poker until 2 a.m.  Well, maybe I like that sometimes when I’m winning.  In spite of your 6 a.m. gift of sweetened thermos coffee, your stolen kiss stretched to reach my lips on the top bunk, when your heavy booted coffee fueled duck hunters charge out into the icy morning dark, I remove my earplugs and mercifully sink deeper into my sleeping bag.  Despite birdsong streaming through my open window as the silent burst of solitary sunrise warms my face; it’s mostly not my kinda place.

Everyone unloads except a mom and infant daughter who needs nursing.  Seems fitting, as a mother nourishes his granddaughter, his ashes nourish the land of his grandfather.  I walk out to the lead point of the blind, the boys behind, the buddy with his arms encircling Nana, one wife takes two little girls by the hand and silence falls over us.

“God grant me the serenity to accept the things I cannot change, the courage to change the things I can, and the wisdom to know the difference.”  I don’t recognize the sound of my own voice.  “We are here to honor the life of Gregory.  After a long and courageous journey you have finally come to rest in your favorite place.  It was your wish to be laid to rest in this place of family heritage.  It is our wish to one day be reunited with you. Until then, returning here will be our solace.  The afterlife, for the living, consists of memories that last forever in the lives of those encouraged by your kindness and in the hearts of those who loved you.”   I turn and ask if anyone else would like to speak.  “Then let us have a moment of silence . . . and now we leave Greg to his final resting place.  We the people he loved so much, commit him to the place he loved best.  Let us say good-bye to Greg.”

I walk out to the tip of the blind and wade into the pond.  Reaching into the plastic bag, I take a handful of ashes and fling. The ashes drift with the ripples, encircling us on the blind.  Holding us together, then letting go. 

There are a lot of ashes here to fling.  This could take a while.  I fling to the left, fling straight ahead, to the right.  Everyone watches in stone silence.  “Would anyone else like to scatter some?”  I turn toward the group huddled against one another on the blind.  Their faces shell-shocked--ashen.  They tighten their huddle as I look into each face, eyes avoiding mine, heads down, watching the rapidly disappearing pieces of Greg.

The three-year-old steps out boldly and unfurls her arm, “I do.  I want to throw some.”  There is a collective intake of breath.  I hold the bag out to our three-year-old keeper of the flame, hopelessly in love for life.  She reaches in with her perfect little hand and pulls out a huge messy fistful; ashes seep between her fingers onto the ground.  Then she fills the other hand and bounds to the end of the blind.  On her tiptoes she flings with a grand overhand toss, both arms in unison, lifting her off her feet.  Everyone cheers and rushes forward to get a handful.  A mother dips her infant daughter’s fingers into the bag—one last touch.  The dogs bark and jump around in a frenzy.  Everybody scatters ashes at once. 

For a moment it looks like exploding fireworks in the setting sun.  Colorless ashes take on the gold, orange and pink of the sky.  Whirling streaks fly through the air.  Ashes fall onto the dogs, our hair, our clothes, into my eyes.  He surrounds us. 

When the bag is nearly empty, I pause to ask if anyone would like to keep some.  Nana shakes her head.  The oldest steps forward, hand outstretched as his daughter had.  “I do,” he says gently.  I hand him the bag and everyone quiets.  The dogs sit, never once taking their eyes off him.  He holds the bag to his bib waders, slowly paces to the end of the blind, water lapping his boots.  Knee-deep he stares out.  He takes several minutes to decide.  Then reaching out, he gives the rest of his father’s ashes to the Delta waters, in all honor and respect.

A soft breeze lifts my hair, cools my damp forehead, dries my cheeks.  I wrap my arms around myself and watch some mallards soar.  A daughter-in-law steps up and hands my infant granddaughter to me, earnest in her pink bonnet.  Cradled in my arms I rock her gratefully.  With arms aflutter she chirps and peeps, still speaking to nature.  I laugh and lift her to the sky.  Amazing, her name is Grace.

Ode to Dog

John Galsworthy writes, "Not the least hard thing to bear, when they go from us, these quiet friends, is that they carry away with them so many years of our own life."

My beloved dog Babe, over 91 dog years old, my house mate, comforter, collaborator, protector, traveler, and accomplice died all on her own in my arms today. She'd nearly stopped eating but could still move around. Her wheeze was loud and hard.  There was no pain due to the expensive pills I gave her.  The vet said, to my shock, "We’re aiming for a soft landing."

A nature lover, Babe often scans the hills and the trees with sophisticated binocular eyes, hunting for squirrels and birds, then unabashedly flops on her back twisting this way and that on the grass, playing hokey-pokey with the sky.  When I laugh at that she fakes a yawn—embarrassed.  Now she lies so still on the patio, barely drinking the water I inch toward her.  “Aren’t you thirsty, honey?”  I place her favorite foods near her nose, a fan around her head of soft boiled egg, Gerber’s Baby liver, dog cookie, avocado, a bite of watermelon.  She resembles a chart of the five food groups on square red tile, nose pointing toward the cookie.

The night before, I hold her forehead to mine while blubbering selfish tears, “I can't do this.  I have to be responsible for myself, the oldsters, the kids.  I’m in charge of four checkbooks.  I have to be responsible for everyone and everything all by myself.  I can't do it anymore.  It's too hard.  You have to take responsibility for yourself.”  And so she did.

She didn’t come upstairs for bed rather sleeping on the living room rug.  I check on her at 3 AM, cuddling her on the floor spoon-style but she inches away.  This, from the one who barely lets me stretch on the floor before jogging.  She'll flop down hugging my side, legs in the air until I reach out and stretch her legs too.  When ready to go she'll stand, shake, then do Downward Facing Dog.  She taught me about that.  The first time I tried yoga I came home saying, “These people certainly are religious; they have this move called downward facing God” and I show her right on the kitchen floor while making a perfect upside down V with my body.  She walks under me and looks up--it's Downward Facing Dog, dummy.

Early in the morning I come downstairs and she hasn't moved.  “Oh no, no you didn't wait for me.  You’ve done it all alone.  I am so selfish to ask that of you.  That's not what I intended.”  But she knows better.  She lifts her head struggling to get up as I run to open the back door.  “Come on girl you can do it, maybe today's not the day after all.”  She slowly lumbers out to the lawn just as the sprinklers go on.  Still, she soldiers on around the corner to pee.  But on the way back she staggers and nearly falls.  She stops and stares at me, legs splayed for balance.  “Oh wait, quick let me get your bed before you lie down on that hard tile all day.  Stay”, I put my hand up.  I run to get the bed and through sheer loyalty she waits, wavering on wobbly legs.  When I run back out she crumbles down onto one haunch.  I dive for her as she collapses into my arms softly conking her head on the tile.

Then her loud wheezing stops.  Staring straight ahead she takes a full minute of pure smooth breaths.  I stroke her back, my wet cheeks buried in her furry neck, “Go in peace Babe.  Go with Greg.  I will be OK.  I’ll find you later."

I take off her collar, hold her close then let her go, reciting a favorite passage from Isaiah.  "You will go out in joy and be led forth in peace; the mountains and hills will burst into song before you, and all the trees of the field will clap their hands.”

And so they did.

Below the Rim

"It's good to have an end to journey towards; but it is the journey that matters in the end." This quote by Ursula K Leguin literally smacks me on the head at 5:30 am as I dash out my hotel room door on Grand Canyon hike day.  Hanging from my doorframe are streamers, balloons, lip balm, sunscreen and the above sign of encouragement.  The sign also reads "Take away memories.  Leave behind footprints.  Enjoy every moment of your 'Hike for Discovery' today.  Happy hiking."

            Feeling encouraged, loved and fully awake now, I run down to breakfast, relieved I haven't slept through my alarm clock and double wake-up calls.  On my back I carry: 100 ounces of water, 20 ounces of sport drink, trail mix, Power Bar, lunch, ID, rain jacket, room key, money (for post hike beers on the El Tovar Hotel porch), moccasins (for the same), Chapstick, sunscreen, trail map, hiking poles, a knee brace (in case), T.P. and doggie bags (for, eh-hem, taking out what you bring in).  That's not all.  On my body I carry: sweat wicking underwear, T-shirt, flannel shirt, zip-off leg pants, wicking socks, boots, sunglasses, cap, watch, and ID boot tags (required).  In my body are a few unauthorized tabs of Aleve.  My bare-feet are bound with so many Band-Aids, moleskin patches, gel pads, toe tubes and callous cushions that I can barely see skin. The night before, I diligently lay out these thirty-some items.  No one can say I am not prepared.

            My hike team of twelve boards our bus at 6:15.  We're whisked through the gates of Grand Canyon, shuttled toYaki Point where our hike down Kaibab Trail begins at 7 with temperatures in the 50s on the rim (70s on the canyon floor) with mercifully overcast skies. Our guide is made-to-order for me--a petite 52 year-old Mother Earth nicknamed, Mo.  She wears a frayed visor anchoring her tawny braid, hiking boots, prairie skirt, faded 'Life Is Good' T-shirt with little rips on the neck seam where her daypack rests.  She gathers us for introductions and a brief geology lesson.  The canyon is half as old as the earth itself.  When the land began to rise the river did not, instead sculpting the soft rock that settled and bonded, resulting in the vast chasm that we see today.  Looking at the history of the earth as a 24-hour day beginning at midnight, it would take until 9 am to fill the bottom third of canyon rock.  By noon the land would be covered with a giant ocean which ebbs and flows.  At seven minutes before midnight the waters finally recede--birds and mammals appear.  Three minutes before midnight the Colorado carves its vast river.  In the last 43 seconds humanity appears on earth but it's not until the last one-fifth of a second, in our 24-hour clock, that Native Americans come to the Grand Canyon.  I'm feeling insignificant in the big picture, when Mo asks if we're each wearing an ID tag on our boot.  Looking at my boots I answer dutifully, "Yes, and some of us are wearing two, one on each foot . . . in case they get separated."  Amidst the laughter, Mo disappears down the trail shaking her head.  "There's one in every group.  I'll have to keep my eye on you."           

            I step off the rim through some brush, and all at once the panorama is glorious, terrifying, awe-inspiring.  You immediately drop right into it--there's no transition.  Massive peninsulas of brilliant rust, crimson, ochre jut out for miles past the next canyon over and the next, and the next. Thousand foot drop-offs slide through my peripheral vision.  I pull the bill of my cap sidewise to hide the vast chasm--to keep from getting carsick.  My busy mind quiets because I can only focus on this.  But the vistas are shocking--my gasps are not all about being out of breath.  No wonder veteran hikers call this place spiritual and return year after year.  Our team falls silent absorbing the unfathomable view.

            Steep switchbacks and steps test my downhill skills.  Hiking poles help on the 15-inch deep steps, kinda like skiing--saves the knees.  I'm beginning to think the down could be as tough as the up, until I see the ashen faces and grim nods of those passing on the ascent. Switchbacks sear in my memory as groundwork for the return.  I pay attention to drinking lots of cool water and force down some sport drink.  Hydration, they say, will make or break your hike because in heat at 7,000 feet sweat evaporates quickly.  You might not notice you're loosing fluid until you're light-headed, and I do not intend to be dizzy on this trail. 

            After a thousand-foot descent and a mile-and-a-half of precarious trail, we come to Cedar Ridge, a bluff nearly half the size of a football field. Terra firma.  Uncinching my pack, I find comfy rocks, prop up my feet, munch pretzels (see photo) and marvel at the panorama that I've not been able to appreciate on these dangling trails. There's even an environmental porta-potty.  Too soon Mo powers up and we head on.  

Another thousand feet below we come to Skeleton Point where, finally, we see the Colorado River.  It's a tiny green ribbon, yet we are more than two-thirds of the way down the canyon. Scruffy wildflowers surround our 10 am lunch and turnaround point.  We drop into a switchback cove and nestle against the cliff wall, trying to negotiate shade.  No one feels hungry but we eat for stamina: Power Bar, trail mix, sandwich, warm water-- UGH.  A mule team passes us on the horseshoe turn, perilously close to my toes. Yikes.  Mules are afraid of me.

            The sun comes out in full before we begin our ascent.  Our team guidebook describes the Kaibab Trail as steep with no water and little shade, and the elevation gain is 2,000 feet, which will make the hike feel like 8-10 miles of intense uphill hiking.  At 11:30 we reach Cedar Ridge again.  I notice a thermometer--99 degrees in the shade.  We pass an older couple low on water; the woman appears pale and disoriented.  Mo gives them extra water and electrolyte snacks, saying the ranger is coming up behind us.  Even so, Mo kneels next to her and speaks reassuringly. She doesn't mention that the helicopter airlift costs $30,000.00.  One teammate falls apart in tears and wants to stay behind to help, but Mo gently refuses her.  "You'll see others needing help on this trail but it's not possible to help everyone--that's the rangers' job. They'll probably rescue 20 people in the canyon today.  My job is to get you back safely."  We do pass others in need, and Mo hands out her seemingly endless supply of water. All I can do is look down, put one boot in front of the other, like Sisyphus in Hades doomed never to reach the summit.

Again we're encouraged to speak up if our team is hiking too quickly.  My heart pounds loud and fast but I remain stubbornly silent, surprisingly grumpy, as I swig more hot water, chew more trail mix.  My lips will never touch trail mix again.  Since my electrolyte sport drink is hard to reach, I decide to mix it with my hydration system water--the one with the tube going directly into my mouth.  Big mistake. This blue sport drink is called Propel but they might as well name it Projectile because at 100 degrees, the stuff is pretty hard to keep down.  I remind myself that a real adventure is doing something in which you are not altogether comfortable.  How about not comfortable at all?

We come upon an overhanging ledge with shade and gratefully crawl in, scraping our packs on the crumbling rock ceiling.  Row upon row of massive cliffs throw out weird shadows that look like ruffled black petticoats peaking out under a swirling red skirt.  Whoa, I quickly cover my hallucinating eyes.  While we cool off, Mo asks if we'd like to name the people we want to honor on our hike. George, one of our lymphoma honorees, tells of his courageous friend currently in treatment.  Others weep openly naming their honorees. The emotional impact catches us unaware.  With a lump in my throat, I name my mother, my lymphoma survivor honoree Betty Bonner, and I read the list of my donors' honorees. Mo suggests there may be other people we want to honor on this hike, not necessarily LLS survivors.  My eyes fill, "I have another name," my voice wobbles and I change my mind, "but I can't say it."  I gulp back a sob: "I can't afford to lose the salt." 

As we head up the trail I say his name to myself.  I teeter light-headed, tingly, goose-bumpy, struggling to quell my emotional tidal wave.  Did you know that even if you're able to hold back tears in your eyes, they'll just come out your nose anyway?

On the final dozen switchbacks, I begin to sense the euphoria of the achievement.  Mo stops us one last time, and I press my flushed cheek against a cool rock face as she speaks.  "I always pause just before I leave the canyon, just below the rim, to look back and appreciate this majestic beauty.  In twenty minutes you'll be up there with the buses, the exhaust, the tourists and the noise.  Take a minute to thank the canyon or God or nature for what today's given you.  Take one good breath and thank yourself." 

Heat exhausted, dehydrated, overextended and fulfilled, we started with a laugh--ended with a tear, and a Grand time was had by all.  Thank you donors.  Happy trails.

Flight School Reunion

All the friends from Flight School tried to get Jimmy to go see the Wall.  He didn't want to go.  For years he declined.  He'd get close to it, get up there, he'd go by it, but he couldn't walk in there.  On Memorial Day 1978 during a private ten-year flight school reunion, Scott read a passage about the Wall from Mya Lin, the architect.  "Only when you can feel the pain, can you accept the death and begin to heal." 

Six pilots and their wives took the pilgrimage to the Vietnam Memorial and Jimmy gave in. Scott's home, tucked into the Blue Ridge Mountains of Virginia, provided a reunion respite, but the group took the trip to D.C. on the first day, Memorial Day, so there'd be nothing left to dread.  Each pilot had a list of the names he wanted to find.  Each found their own faces mirrored in their buddies' names, knowing it might have been the other way around.  They laid mementos at the base of the powerful slab: a flight school Green Hat with aviator wings, a worn class photograph and roster, a green T-shirt picturing a silhouette of helicopters in formation that read '1968 US Army Aviation Ten-Year Reunion.'  Everyone in the group wore the identical T-shirt and the pilots, no longer fresh-faced in their faded Green Hats, fingered the names of their friends on the black granite.  Jimmy wore a three-piece business suit in all respect and admiration.  He found all five men that died in his helicopter.  No one held back tears.

The last evening of their reunion, the group lazed on Scott's porch leafing through old photo albums, watching the sunset.  I brought out a copy of Life magazine dated June 27, 1969.  Life published not only the names of the American soldiers who died during the week that included Memorial Day, but the pictures of all two hundred and forty-two men who arrived home in bodybags.  Eleven pages of young American eyes, looking as earnest and hopeful as in a high-school yearbook.  The faces said it all, but I read the brief article aloud,  "...when the nation continues week after week to be numbered by a three-digit statistic which is translated to direct anguish in hundreds of homes all over the country, we must pause to look into the faces."

Scott gazed out over the rolling Blue Ridge Mountains and spoke softly from memory, "And since they were not the ones dead, the American people turned back to their affairs."