BLFS

I hate to admit having suffered the pain and embarrassment of this terrible insidious disease for many years without even being aware that I was heinously infected.  Though not debilitating in any outward way for the host, it does have serious ramifications for those in close proximity.  Symptoms include negativity, an overwhelming aura of smugness, and a desire to make others with the disease complicit in its complications, reinforcing the symptoms to an even greater degree, leading to depression and unfounded gossip.

Treatment is totally voluntary.  Interventions have not met with great success.  The cure is slow, a steady pace preferred for a complete recovery.  Once cured, relapses have not occurred in any of the known cases.  Recovery is permanent.  It is characterized by a more positive attitude and outlook on life.

Prevention is simple - keeping an open mind and open heart.

San Francisco Days 1975

  We'd leave Los Gatos early in the morning; drive into the coastal mountain range on State Route 9, switching to State Route 35 North.  The mountain turns would test our suspension and our nerves.  Sometimes we'd get a caravan going.  At State Route 92, a right turn led to Junipero Serra Freeway (the 280), a left turn led to Half Moon Bay and PCH 1 (Cabrillo Highway).  Which way you turned depended on how fast you wanted to get to San Francisco.  Leisurely, scenic, relaxed was always the way to go (this is California, after all, laid back and mellow).  The ocean breeze wafted in the fish and salt-water aroma, the waves bashing the shore endlessly, mostly sunny days, windows down, cassette deck pushin' out my favorite tunes.

Once in the city we wandered at will, exploring the hills, finding the neighborhood treasures, off the beaten path, away from the tourist tee shirt vendor havens.   This day we found Marina Green on the bay side of the Golden Gate Bridge.  It was a long, rectangular park populated by the locals.  Parking, we saw the joggers, free dogs, the bicyclists, the walkers, the picnickers and the sunbathers.  Our attention was drawn to this huge, colorful canopy half filled with ocean air, children's silhouettes along the bottom, happy, screaming, little voices.  A good day at the park.
 
The gusting wind suddenly picked up the canopy and we realized it was a kite.  A dozen little bodies were suddenly airborne, children clutching to the hem.  It rose to, perhaps, 10-feet, some children letting go, others hanging on for dear life.  Some that let go twisted and twirled in the tempest, crashing to the ground in a heap, bouncing.  The kite crashed like kites typically do.  In the aftermath peals of laughter from the children, screams from the mothers, "Do it again, do it again, PLEASE!" could be heard, all to no avail.  The free ride was finished.
 
Free now of its tender human ballast the kite rose majestically, tethered by a cable to the ground, which the kite master worked with skill and experience, providing a point of focus for all of us looking up.  We basked in all the activity, talked, and enjoyed our day off, then started thinking about heading home.  Driving down the Coast Highway once again, we watched the sun setting out the passenger side window.  Before it touched the horizon we pulled over so we could safely view the green flash. 
 
Pulling into Los Gatos we stopped at Mountain Charley's for a bite to eat and a cold drink.  We went to the bar afterwards to have a deep discussion with our old friend Jack and listen to the live music.  The bourbon burn matched our sunburn in heat and intensity, providing us with a glow of satisfaction inside and out.  The best part about the day was the realization that tomorrow was Sunday – we could sleep in!

Life's Pleasures

Near the end she couldn't eat.  The ember was still glowing brightly but would never be the conflagration that had enveloped her throughout her life.  The light she shed on her family and friends was dimming.  Her room at the hospice was filled with well wishers and those who wished to be enveloped in her grace one last time.  When awake, it was too much effort to talk, so she basked in the presence of those she loved, then nodded off again.  Her pleasures were minimal now, reduced to the favorites of a life long lived.

"Mom, would you like some ice cream?"  She nodded, the spark flaring brightly.

Lisa went to the hospice kitchen and returned with chocolate, another time vanilla, still another time strawberry.  Her favorites were peanut butter cup or black walnut, not available here, but no matter.  Lisa sat on the side of the bed and fed her spoonfuls of whatever flavor had been on hand.  The nurses, too, took to giving her medications mixed with ice cream, the spoonful of sugar approach.

One morning on the way to see her, Lisa and Laurie saw a candy store, Speach Family Candy Shoppe, a couple of blocks away.  Stopping, they purchased the house signature fudge, exotically rich chocolate.  They fed slivers and small chunks to her, placing them in her mouth, sometimes she would feed herself.  The fudge would melt as she lay there enjoying the smooth sensation envelope her taste buds, ecstasy in every bite.  That's all you really needed.  

She was sleeping longer and longer now, her breaths shallow and labored, she fought and fought, then stopped, the light fading to an afterglow.

After the funeral we gathered at Laurie's house, sisters, husbands, grandchildren.  A dozen strong, we were gathering in the dining room.  Lisa suggested we should have ice cream sundaes after dinner.  Off went the sisters to get the mixing's for sundaes; two flavors of ice cream, a sherbert, syrups, nuts, cherries.  Everyone built their own sundae.  We raised our spoons in a salute to Mom, "Here's to you Mom (Grandma)!"  We dug in, laughing, talking, remembering, throwing smiling glances at each other.  We could feel her there laughing with us.  It reminded the daughters of earlier family days when their joys were shared in similar fashion.  Now the family had expanded and extended, every soul there touched by her existence, influenced by her will.  It was an appropriate tribute to the woman.

The Bar

Two young veterans sat in the darkened bar, sipping beers, recounting their shared experiences overseas, united this week by the passing of their grandmother.  Having served in different phases of the war, pre-surge and post-surge, they relived their missions.  They talked in a shared language filled with acronyms and military terms that other patrons in the sparsely populated bar would hardly understand.  For them, getting to know each other after all these intervening years, they spoke in an old, but not forgotten language.  Relieved of the burden to explain terms and background, they understood each other’s actions, anxieties, frustrations, and triumphs.  Each spoke animatedly, finding a positive, non-judgmental sounding board, touching shared emotions long buried, coaxing them up from the depths to be briefly revealed once again in the dim shroud of night. 

 

The strum of a guitar, the scratch of a fiddle, accompanied by a bass and the twang of a banjo mutedly drifted from the jukebox.  Their conversation ceased, unnoticed by the other tenants of the bar.  Each were transported back to a time and memory juxtaposed by the glint off the liquor bottles and tiny bubbles rising languidly in their glasses.  Fixated on a place so alien from home and family, each silently recalled how they had dreamt of being right here, right now.  It seemed immediate, yet a lifetime ago.  An American song spanning the northeast and south, spoke of wandering for the truth, love, wind, rain, and being gently rocked by a southbound train.  Lost in their respective memories, faces and places surfaced randomly, were caressed and returned to their places of rest. 

As the final chords faded they looked at each other and toasted their friends that live now only in their cherished memory, picking up their conversation where they had left off.