Dinner and Beanies

Jackie had just put on her pajamas and covered herself with the old lumberjack smock that her mother had worn. No matter, she cannot hide her beauty and sexuality under frumpy clothing. But that’s a story for another day.

Settling down for a vegetable laden dinner, its preparation was interrupted by the phone. Sheila, who lives five walking minutes away, announced that her turkey meatloaf was about done, and would we like to come over to share it with her and Sid.

Sid was recovering from a confrontation with a chain link fence. No longer able to drive a car, he had adopted an electric scooter complete with a ten-foot high flag that announced his presence to those who shared the road with him. Ever the competitor, Sid roamed the streets of Ojai with little regard for his own safety. At ninety-one he was invincible and ready to take on those who might challenge him.

Unfortunately, Sid’s injuries were not caused by man. His attention had been diverted upon entering the Soule Park driveway. He had sideswiped the unyielding metal fence that lined the driveway and had been rewarded with cuts on both hands, requiring twenty-three stitches to staunch the bleeding.

Sheila is a habitual hostess. When Jackie responded to her turkey dinner invitation by suggesting they come to our house, I could visualize the somewhat bewildered expression on Sheila’s face. Taking a few moments to absorb this surprising change of plans, Sheila agreed to do the unexpected and promised to arrive around six, with the turkey and Sid.

Chilly evenings are the norm. We compensate by burning politically incorrect fossil fuel, and by donning multiple layers of the aforementioned frumpy garments. Sid has an insatiable appetite for heat and often wears those ubiquitous checkerboard nylon jackets that in some secret way contain body heat without any readily discernable goose down, wool or polyester. I have two, just in case.

Wearing tonight’s checkerboard jacket du jour, Sid’s arrival was punctuated by his announcement of “It’s cold in here, can we have some heat?” I dutifully added a degree or two by burning more than my daily allotment of fossil fuel. Sid found a comfy warm spot under a ceiling vent and looked as though he planned to remain there the rest of the evening. Fortunately, the heating system, having complied with the extra demands made of it, shut down leaving Sid with the job of discovering other places where heat might still be available.

Dinner went well. The turkey meat loaf exceeded expectations. Deigning the turkey, Jackie had her usual two cubic feet of salad. We all shared spaghetti squash, and Sheila and I polished off a very nice bottle of red wine whose gender and proper name is lost to me.

Sid was still cold when I noticed that his head was bare. Both of us are bald. Sid tends to cherish his remaining follicles while I mow them down without mercy. I learned at an early age that an uncovered bald head is the quickest way to chill the body. Maybe that’s why I have a gaggle of hats intended to limit the amount of heat that escapes me. Much of the hall closet is home to warm hats, especially those comfy wool knit beanies that can be found littering the Amazon website.

These are not your grandfather’s beanies. Ralph Lauren Polo, North Face and Lacoste have jumped into the market. Ranging in price from nine dollars to thirty-nine dollars, there’s a beanie for everyone’s head. My favorite brand is Carhartt because of its working man’s label and its generous helping of wool that allows me to pull my cap nearly down to my buttocks.

“Sid, why don’t you wear a hat.” I asked.

“I don’t like hats.” He responded.

I excused myself from the table and went to the hall closet. Kicking aside the beanie overflow that littered the floor, I selected one of my favorite Carhartts, a black beauty with Sid’s name written all over it.

Unwilling to take no for an answer, I stealthily approached Sid from the rear.  I quickly placed the beanie on Sid’s head, pulled it over the top quarter of his ears and adjusted its rakish angle to suit his face shape. He looked ten years younger and a lot cuter. The hat remained perched on Sid’s head for the rest of the evening and I quietly bumped the thermostat down two degrees.

I gifted the beanie to Sid, and he wore it home. Uncertain about its continued placement on my friend’s head, I wondered if this was just a one-off event.

Morning came and it was bright and chilly. I backed my car out of the garage and proceeded to the stop sign at the corner of Andrew and Daly. I looked left. I saw someone on a scooter heading up Daly Road. He had the right-of-way and I waited for him to pass. It was Sid with his ten-foot high flag.

And something else. A black Carhartt beanie perched rakishly on his head. It was going to be a warm day.

Photographic Doldrums

My first camera was a Kodak Brownie. Introduced in 1900 and still available as a curiosity on eBay and at swap meets, it’s one of the few things older than me.

Its original list price was a dollar. My dad got me one when I was about twelve at the budget busting price of about ten dollars. Fond of bringing me used toys on Hanukkah, I think the camera may have had a prior owner.

A basic cardboard or plastic box with a handle on top, it had a viewfinder that you held up to your eye and a single fixed focal length lens that didn’t zoom. You were stuck with an unalterable lens opening and a fixed focus. The camera lens blinked in a fiftieth of a second, making it almost impossible to photograph anything that moved, including my usually stationary Uncle Max.

Using a roll of 120 film, you could take sixteen photos before you had to rewind the film, remove it from the camera and insert a new roll. I remember being very selective before popping off a shot in order to conserve the precious film and avoid the developing charges at the local photo shop. It was a far cry from today’s digital disks that have a nearly unlimited capacity that invites haphazard shooting in the hope that one will be a keeper.

In the early sixties, the next phase of my hobby included a Canon F1 single lens reflex camera. A good deal more expensive than the old Brownie, it was still a film camera capable of thirty-six exposures using interchangeable lenses, variable shutter speeds and adjustable apertures. My friend Harry opted for a Nikon camera and we soon became embroiled in extensive comparisons of the virtues of Canon versus Nikon. In retrospect, the quality of our photos had little if anything to do with our equipment.

A darkroom entered my life with its red safelight, bulky Durst enlarger, pans of chemicals and my perpetually stained fingers. I became relatively adept at developing film and producing black and white prints. I bulk loaded my own film rolls that became a badge of excellence in conversations with friends. I doubt that I saved much money, but I never ran out of film. The darkroom also offered a quiet, unassailable fortress where I warned my kids of the dire consequences of entering it and exposing daddy’s stuff to the perils of white light.

I entered the digital age years ago and quickly discarded the darkroom. I became conversant with the advances in the new technology, megapixels and ISO ratings. I purchased the next generation camera when it became available. Owning several Canon digital SLRs, I traded time in the darkroom for a seat in front of my computer monitor, editing my masterpieces with the latest version of Photoshop. Time moved rapidly and my sweetheart, Ila, often had to drag me kicking and screaming into the real world.

My passion extended to taking hundreds of photos of my kids. I’d often pose Nancy, David and Steven and, instead of requiring the traditional “say cheese”, I’d substitute “say gonorrhea.” It always resulted in blank stares from passersby and a smile on the kids’ faces.

Throughout the years, I regularly took photos. I’d occasionally take short breaks but always returned to my avocation. My photos were well received, and I’d often be asked to shoot an event for some of the non-profits in our town. My images are currently available for viewing in several locations. I thrived on the recognition.

A change occurred when Ila became ill. My zeal waned as her condition worsened. In her last years, I backed away from photography. My cameras began to age along with me. I tried to overcome my lethargy by keeping a camera in the car. By taking it on walks as though it were a dog. Snapping only a few shots, they soon became resident in rarely visited file folders on my computer’s hard drive. I gave away my large format photo printer that had been a constant companion. I don’t keep my camera batteries charged nor do I clean my camera lenses. My visits to photo websites are infrequent. As I tried to regain my former self, I’d seek out photo workshops on the web but never complete the enrollment process.

I renewed my membership in the local photo club in order to gain incentive from exposure to others. But I found myself unable to submit images for critiquing. I took little pleasure in seeing others show their very credible work. I was envious but unable to participate. I’d be depressed at the close of the usual monthly meeting, yearning for what seemed unattainable.

Jackie’s encouragement is boundless. She urges me to re-enter my once adored milieu. She seeks out opportunities for me, but I leave them languishing. I promise myself to do better, but nothing happens. I try to think of subject matter, something with long term viability, but I draw a blank. I fall back on other things to fill my time.

Maybe it’s a phase. Something that will end. Before I do.

Wash Day

I’ve been in my new house for almost four months. It’s been a bit of an adjustment.

…Traded one hundred and ten oak studded acres for a tenth of an acre and a mulberry tree.

…Abandoned two hundred stately olive trees and adopted one miniature citrus.

…The Topa Topas, formerly blessed with a 360-degree view, are now a mere snippet of their former stature.

…Car and foot traffic have multiplied a thousand-fold.

…The chirping of birds and the howling of coyotes has morphed into the squeals of young children.

…Earthly possessions have dwindled to a precious few to accommodate the loss of three thousand square feet of living and storage space.

…Traded an eighteen-minute drive to town for an eighteen-minute walk.

…Carried Westridge groceries home like a bag lady, instead of tossing them in my trunk.

I’d like to say that I love my new home. But that would be stretching it. With few exceptions, love at first sight only occurs in novels and movies. Rather, true love tends to be a long-term developmental effort. And, once achieved, love often changes into something more practical. Like a warm pair of socks or a favorite sweatshirt.

Jackie is an exception. My infatuation turned into love early in our relationship and it continues unabated today, two months before our March wedding.

Jackie loves her own house. Like her, it is petite and beckoning. Situated amid the oaks, it is an Arbolada gem. Two bedrooms and one bath, it suits her like a soft, well-worn pair of slippers. Her mother’s possessions flit throughout the miserly twelve hundred square feet. A delightfully warm jacuzzi and a garage-dwelling-sauna provide comfort to her at the end of the day. On warm summer afternoons, the cushioned patio chair welcomes her and offers a glimpse of sun through the overhanging branches of a magnificent ancient oak larger than her house.

For what seems an eternity, I have worked tirelessly to wean her from her very special place and bring her to my home. I succeeded last week when her cherished possessions were moved unceremoniously from her beloved home to my yet to be loved house.

We are in an adjustment period. Opening multiple kitchen drawers to find the right utensil. Trying to sleep through the night in a room that has been meticulously decorated with her familiar artwork. Trashing many of my old possessions that have been deemed superfluous to our new lifestyle. Learning to operate the over-optioned washer and dryer. Flipping multiple light switches to find the right one. Quietly rising in the early morning hours so as to least offend a sleeper trying to squeeze out a few more minutes in a warm bed.

My house comes complete with mysterious sounds including strange clicks, periodic creaks and its own brand of noise produced by the unfamiliar, temperamental two-zone heating system. The house also has another eerie habit…the movement of objects by an unseen hand.

Angelica, the cleaning lady arrives on Monday and includes a bit of laundry in her repertoire. Wishing to stay out of her way, I generally vacate the house and find something to occupy myself while the premises are being made presentable. Evidence of Angelica’s prowess includes a clean smelling, sparkly interior, shiny wood floors and a spotless stove. She uses dozens of cloth towels that are cleaned in my washing machine at the end of her day.

I came home yesterday and was surprised to find that the washing machine had been moved forward from its usual position leaving an irregular foot-wide gap between the wall and it. My initial reaction was that Angelica had moved the machinet in order to clean behind it. I called her to verify my suspicion but was assured that she had not moved the beast. It took all my strength to slide it back into its proper position.

Still wondering about the mysterious Maytag movement, my thoughts turned to Ila, my first sweet princess, who has been gone more than two years. Her ghostly connections with me following her death often include the appearance of objects in unaccustomed places. I attribute those events to her displeasure with me, her concern with something I had done, or just a reminder that she is still part of me. Could this most recent occurrence have something to do with Jackie’s arrival? Perhaps, but Ila had never moved something as massive as a two-hundred-pound washing machine. Pausing and thinking more rationally, I dismissed my initial conclusion.

And then the toilet overflowed.