It’s my birthday

We celebrated my 83^rd birthday with a weekend at the Ojai Valley Inn. Only 5 minutes from our home, yet it seemed far, far away. It’s the second time that we stayed overnight at Ojai’s premiere hotel. Bring lots of money.

Insisting on treating me to the weekend, Jackie had researched high-end hotels. Her first selection was the El Encanto in Santa Barbara where a single night is a brain hemorrhaging $1,600. Sanity returned and we picked the Inn, where the $600 price tag seemed a bargain after flirting with the El Encanto. As a reward for our infrequent conservatism, we decided to stay an extra night; so much for being frugal.

Jackie had wrangled an early noon check-in after pleading with every supervisor at the Inn including the Crowns, owners of the establishment. That made the per-hour cost of our visit an even better bargain.

There are lots of playful opportunities at the Inn to consume one’s assets. Extras can rapidly fill several pages of small type on the checkout bill.  A massage was first in line, at a cost approximating the purchase price of my 1960 Chevy Bel Air.

There are five eating venues at the Inn, and we visited four of them. The hotel was full, but the eateries were cooperative. We assumed that many Inn guests were visiting local Ojai restaurants, but it seemed inappropriate for us to even consider them. We wanted to maintain the illusion that we were far from home.

The Oak Grill is primarily an outdoor seating restaurant. Given my worsening night vision, I am in terror of dimly lit dining. Daylight is my friend and lunch on an outdoor patio is Valhalla. Unfortunately, evening dinners do not include much, if any, daylight. Indoor dining has similar problems due to the overworked fondness for romantic lighting.

We contacted the Grill and were offered either 5:30 or 7:30 seating. The late afternoon option seemed like a early bird senior special. I’m not ready to take on that role, complete with its Velcro shoes, a dinner jacket that looks like it was last worn by a racetrack tout, and salt-free, easily chewable entrees.

We picked the 7:30 option and hoped that the earth might slow its rotation around the sun to maximize the light. If we ate quickly, I might get through our meal with my dignity intact.

Seated at 7:45 on the patio and offered menus by Rod, a very pleasant young waiter. Behind schedule by 15 minutes. Nervous time intensifying.

I scan the menu and, with the aid of the Jackie’s iPhone light, can read my options. I realize that, given the failing daylight, I better avoid a selection that requires a great deal of attention.

Multiple items on the same plate are a crapshoot. I stab at the food in the darkness and, like a spear fisherman, hope that I will come away with a prize. The fork may be empty or have an unexpected delight. At times like these, I think back to my father and brother, both of whom experienced the same challenges. Somehow these memories make the trip a little easier.

An appetizer of six fried shrimp arrives. I can see them but can’t tell head for tail. I reach out and grab one, rotate it to the proper position, and eat. Delicious. I could make a meal of these simple creatures without seeing them. Make a mental note.

Jackie asks Rod for more light. But they only have little wax candles floating inside a glass container. The light is negligible and held in check by the container. Rod delivers a second light, also useless. The wind blows and one goes out. The next blow extinguishes the remaining candle. He brings a third. Lights all three. They go out one by one. Rod relights them. I marvel at his patience. Even though they are useless, he seems to enjoy the effort.

Our entrees arrive. I’ve forgotten what I ordered. Shredded meat, maybe pot roast. I’m clueless.

Jackie tries to reveal the mystery meal with her iPhone. It’s superbright like a volcanic eruption. I’m sure everyone is watching the spectacle. I think again of my father, a proud man.

Jackie positions her iPhone light behind my water glass in front of me. She rotates it like a lighthouse lamp. The intensity of the light changes as she moves, slides, and elevates the phone. She adjusts. I play my part like I was helping her hang a photo on the wall. We find a sweet spot. I can see what’s on my plate. I eat without fumbling. Jackie is a genius. Rod is happy. The world is good.

What a wonderful birthday.

Something Rotten

Last Sunday Jackie and I saw Something Rotten, a high energy musical that would be well beyond my acting capabilities even if my role was that of a black plague victim.

Performed by two dozen Nordhoff High School students at Ojai’s Matilija Middle School auditorium, the play was presented in a single weekend of three performances. A testament to the tenacity of the students, it mattered little to them that they went through months of preparation for just a handful of performances.

The play is set in 1595 and chronicles the difficulties encountered by an out-of-ideas playwright searching for a hit. He enlists the aid of an oracle and runs up against the idea-stealing Will Shakespeare, a tight-fisted royal financier, and skeptical friends.

The choreography was worthy of an Emmy, and the costumes took no back seat to Edith Head or Bob Mackie. The sets were professional, and changes to them were carried off with little intrusion or fumbling.

The most impressive component of the show was the cast that included sophomores, juniors, and seniors. Children a lot more mature than their years danced and sang with skills that for many were the result of years of private lessons. Some youngsters had been in multiple plays, a fete that could only have been achieved by passion and dedication.

But I wish I could have heard what they said.

We had seats in row J on the aisle, more than halfway from the stage. Funny, when I booked the tickets, I could have sworn they were closer to the stage; not that it would have made any difference.

Walking in from the bright early afternoon sunshine I found myself in near darkness, an affliction that comes with age. I groped my way down the main aisle, holding Jackie’s hand and listening to her countdown the rows. W, V, U, T….J

Our seats were on the aisle, blessedly accessible to an emergency potty break that might call me before the intermission. We sat, got comfortable in the cushy seats, and relaxed. My vision gradually improved, and I found people seated throughout the auditorium that can hold about 300 playgoers.

The theater filled rapidly, and we began the “I hope that guy doesn’t sit in front of me” silent mantra. Very tall people with bushy hair seemed to be in the majority and we took deep breaths as they passed us by on their way to afflict others.

And then two people stood in the aisle next to us, emulating the Himalayas. I thought, good thing they are in our row and not in front of us. I held my breath as the man looked at his ticket, bent toward the row medallion fastened near the arm of my seat and said, “Nope, not ours. We’re in row I, not J.”

My heart sank as they prepared to take the two seats directly in front of us. Maybe, I thought in desperation, that they were seriously short-waisted with leg lengths approximating those of a giraffe. Maybe they would be gobbled up by the cushy seats and re-appear the size of Wizard of Oz munchkins.

The man took his seat. Much like Mount Everest, he seemed to tower above me with most of his height hidden in the clouds.

I thought to myself, I’ve been through this before. At the Music Festival, the Ojai Playhouse and the Art Center, I have suffered with people who should be permanently assigned back row seats as punishment for their abnormal height. But I can take it, I thought, I’ll just forget about seeing the play, I’ll just sit back and enjoy the dialogue and the lyrics. After all, I had only paid $20 for the ticket. What did I expect anyway, the Dorothy Chandler Pavilion?

I should have known better.

The first performer either had no vocal cords or selfishly refused to use them for fear that the strain might limit the length of her blossoming Broadway career.

The first song, Welcome to the Renaissance, was unintelligible. It could have been about a French automobile. I was certain that some of it was written in Hebrew, a language with which I have some familiarity.

And then I realized that the kids were not the problem. It was the acoustics that were robbing me of a chance to enjoy the sounds of the play.

It was hopeless. Even the audience conspired against us. From the racquet that went on, I was sure that Jackie and I were the only two guests who were unrelated to the performers. The rest of the audience were either parents, grandparents, or intimate friends of the kids. Anxious to show their undying love and admiration, these supporters reacted vigorously and without concern for the hearing of those seated around them. At times it seemed that a cheering contest between audience members was underway rivaling the action on the stage.

Mount Everest participated with abandon. Like the performers on the stage, he had surely practiced diligently for this once in a lifetime event. Elongated whoops amplified by a rolled-up program rang out whenever his Susie or Jimmy was on stage. Ear splitting whistles seemed choreographed to match the tempo of the songs. Anxious to see how he was doing, he occasionally glanced to either side to determine the level of damage inflicted on the rest of us.

Not to be outdone by him, the woman directly behind me took up the challenge. Her weapon was laughter. Now I like laughter as much as the other guy, but this Phyllis Diller wannabe took first place for the quantity and rapidity of her laughs. Much like nature that deplores a vacuum, she filled every soundless space with annoying laughter. It mattered not what was happening onstage. It only mattered that she match the zeal of the man in front of me.

I slunk down in my seat and began pouting and quietly humming trying to moderate the din in front of and behind me. Sensing my discomfort, the man next to me, undoubtedly a professional audiophile, turned and said that he couldn’t hear much of play either. He said we were in an acoustic dead zone, one that muted much of the performance. He also said he would confront the mountain man after the performance and remind him of audience etiquette.

The play ended. We acknowledged the actors, walked up the aisle, exited the building and entered a world of soft light and muted sounds.

I felt like cheering.

Fishing Trip

I went to the fish store yesterday. It’s not really a store in the pure sense of the word. More like a drive-up ATM, which it was until a few years ago. Now it’s Ideal Seafood, which in comparison to another Ojai landmark, Osteria Monte Grappa, leaves little doubt as to its focus or pronunciation.

Access to the market is a challenge, requiring a left turn from busy highway 150 onto a poorly paved driveway. The faded blue structure now houses one lonely attendant, suspicious hygiene, and an amazing array of fresh and smoked fish.

The market has its own idea of the definition of regular hours, and you should call before making the trip. I often ignore this advice and sometimes turn a quick shopping trip into a lazy driving excursion. But today is a good day. It’s open.

As I pull up to the kiosk, I am greeted by chalkboards on either side of the drive-up window that exposes the innards of the market. Dozens of items appear on both boards. Chilean Sea Bass had a prime spot on the list of available fish, but no longer. Delicious, and therefore overfished, it and its $50 a pound price tag are only a fond memory.

I’m seeking salmon today, prompted by a New York Times article extolling the virtues of certain foods, including that silvery fish, that will allow my brain to function properly until it’s no longer needed.  I shall continue to test the fish’s virtues by occasionally counting backward from 100 by sevens. Reciting the names of all nine Supreme Court justices, once another of my favorite memory tests, has stumped me for the last few years, perhaps prompted by my hope that some of them will find other employment.

The pickup truck in front of me finished its business, pulled away, and let me carefully coast to a stop in front of the kiosk without damaging my door or the fish house. Congratulating myself for this brilliant Mario Andretti maneuver, I greeted today’s attendant, Roberta, and asked, “Salmon today?”

I’m not sure why I always ask that question. Unlike the much lamented Chilean Seabass, they always have salmon. Great mounds of it, I presume, since they have never said anything to me like, “No, we don’t have salmon, but how about Seabass?”

I asked Roberta for a pound. Thirty seconds later she returned with a filled Ziplock bag and announced, “OK if it’s a tiny bit over, or do you want me to trim it?”

I quickly estimated the weight of a “tiny bit” and its additional cost. My inability to upset anyone, even where money is concerned, went into my decision process, and I said with a smile, “No problem. Love to have the additional fish. Good for my brain.”

The rest of the process is like buying a Starbuck’s Grande at the drive-up window just down the street from the fish place. Hand my credit card to Roberta, she runs it, and then hands me a bag of salmon. Pretty even exchange since the Grande also weighs a pound. Except for the cost which is about one-sixth that of the salmon.

I mentally wrestled with the option of asking for some ice to keep the fish cold during the 15-minute ride home. But it was cool outside so I waived my rampant paranoia and decided that the fish could take care of itself for a quarter hour. I wished Roberta well and drove off.

About half-way home I remembered that we needed something to go with the fish, like a salad. I weighed the probability of Jackie stopping for it after work and decided that, why take the chance, the fish will stay cool, and I can earn some husbandly brownie points.

Westridge market was coming up and I prepared myself for a right turn on Blanche and an immediate left into the parking lot. Piece of cake.

The corner is ripe for a fender bender or a dispute with pedestrians crossing mid-block from Westridge to the Bank of America on the opposite side of the street. I carefully watch for it.

Sure enough, a young boy, maybe 13 sprinted across the street without seeing me. But I had anticipated it, stopped, and watched him. He seemed weightless. His feet seemed to hover over the asphalt. His arms moved in perfect synchronization. He had boundless energy. He was fearless. He slowed, glided onto the sidewalk, and moved along as if choreographed.

I thought, how long has it been since I could do that? I couldn’t remember. But I could wish.

It was a great fishing trip.