Roberta R. Carr, Author
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An Engaging Story

12/8/2022

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I'm posting this short story with permission from my granddaughter, Collette, who wrote it for an English class assignment at Terre Linda High School. It's too good not to share with others. Enjoy!
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​                                                              Rule 4
                                                                by Collette Treewater



“Make yourself comfortable Deliliah, and don’t talk to me until 6:00,” my mom says as she drops the keys in my hand. She obviously doesn’t want to deal with the store or me. I beg to differ. My Grandfather died last month and the music store is left in my name. He and my mom never had the best relationship, so he always told me he would leave it to me to make sure it didn’t turn into an accountant firm or something useless like that. 
    “Okay whatever,” I reply with a snark in my voice. She will come back later to finish the paperwork with me, but goes on some errands first. She leaves me at the shop to look around and start the clean up job of the century. 
All my life I have never been enough. The fact that all I wanted to do since I was eight was take over the store was unthinkable to my mother. She wants me to become a lawyer or doctor, you know nothing remotely interesting. I don’t wish her a good day as she stomps off down the sidewalk. She has to finish looking through everything he left behind, but all I care about is the store. 
     The key is rusty. I’m lucky if it even works, but with a little elbow grease I open the door. Dust coats the furniture and the string instruments like a blanket. Even though it's been closed for a while, I have so many loving memories here. I would walk down after school and a warm welcome would always await. My grandpa loved me more than life itself. I felt pressure from others to become someone meaningful, but he knew I already was. Warm cookies would, without fail, be waiting for me on the counter as I walked up to the second story for my daily flute lesson. 
     I stand at the base of the stairs, gloves in hand. Where do I even start? I’ve had big dreams for this place for a long time but there seems to be a never ending list of things to fix that just keeps growing faster than I can catch up with it. I look at the green velvet stairs that bring back memories of my daily flute lessons. As I walk up the stairs, the dust cloud behind me flumes out like a rocket. The creaking is something out of a movie. At the top of the stairs is a hallway going into the lesson rooms. When I was six my Grandpa let me name them after my stuffed animals- Poppy, Randal, Bubba, and doggo. I thought I was so cool when I came up with those names. Oh, what a long time ago that was. 
     When you took lessons at the music shop there were a few rules. Number one: don’t take the instruments of their hooks until your teacher gets there. Number two: no crying; there shall be no crying in the world of music. Number three: enjoy yourself and play only if you actually want to… we lost a lot of customers with that rule. And number four: don’t play the flute in the storage room.  
    Rule number four always perplexed me. I went into the storage room one time to get some new sheet music and all the flutes looked spotless. They were the most beautiful instruments I had ever seen. Why do I have to play my old, used, cheap flute when there are some that are just hanging there on the highest natch just begging to be played? Grandpa would never tell me. 
    I walk back down the stairs to the main floor part of the store. I brought some gloves with me and went to work. My first task of the day was to take all the instruments off the walls. I had scheduled a general contractor to come in three days and he said he needed to see the room with a “clean view” whatever that means. I start with the guitars. The Reverends have always been  my favorite—more unique than the Fenders—and a great sound. 
     I strum the guitars as I take them off the wall. Every single one is out of tune and I start to tear up. My Grandpa would never let an instrument get out of tune on his watch. It reminds me of the good ole’ days, and how much has changed. I try to remember what he used to be. I never met grandma. She died before I was born. No one really talks about her, but I am sure she was a lucky woman. She is up in heaven with father. He died when I was two. That’s the same year grandpa opened up the shop- in my dad’s honor. I always thought it was the nicest thing.  It has always been grandpa, mom, and me. Tuning all the guitars myself would take hours. I don’t have perfect pitch like he did. I’ll get to it eventually. Maybe someday I will be as incredible as he was.
      I set the instruments in boxes that I stack along the wall. I brought twelve large and ten small boxes with me, but that didn't end up being enough. That really pisses me off. I swear my simple calculations are correct. Three guitars per large box, and two per small box. I only have five left to pack, which is so annoying. I could go to the store but that is a mile walk, and I wouldn’t consider myself the active type. Then the most brilliant idea popped into my head. I bet there are boxes in the storage room! Please, let there be boxes.  
     I walk back up the stairs to the end of the hall and open the door. It’s very heavy, I remember my constant struggle to open it as a kid, but I’m grown up now so it’s not too bad. I’m a big girl if you know what I mean. As I walk into the storage room the overwhelming stench of old wood, and dust hits me like a breaking wave. I walk in and a sparkle catches my eye. It’s the flute. The forbidden one, from rule four. I was never able to touch it before, but there is no one here to tell me no. I’m an adult…definitely a responsible adult. I remember my original goal of finding boxes so I postpone playing the flute and walk around. There is a lot of junk sitting in the storage room. Everything from sheet music, to strings, keys, broken mouth pieces, drum sticks, and more. It’s not what I’m looking for. A strike out on the boxes, but there is the flute. 
     
It’s begging me to play. I pull it off the hook and grab a mouth piece that is sitting beside it. Not the most sanitary environment; who cares. I attach the piece to the flute and start to play. I haven't picked up a high quality flute in a minute so it takes me a little while to gain my fingering. The sound is so whole and the notes are the smoothest I’ve ever experienced. Even though Grandpa is gone, I still feel rebellious about playing it. I am breaking rule number 4 after all. No one can tell me no. I’ve waited my entire life to not be told no. 
     It would be unethical not to play my Grandpa’s favorite song. It is his flute after all. He always loved the song “Grandma’s Hands” by Bill Withers. He loved the message of loving your family and living life to the fullest. I play the first verse and my fingers seem to have a mind of their own. The chorus is thrilling to play and makes me feel oddly connected to Grandpa, and my dad. The instrument plays incredibly smooth. The notes flow out like a waterfall of sound. It is all incredible until I get to the second verse. My fingers start to hurt a bit; I haven’t played in a while. I remember how much my fingers always hurt when I played everyday. When I was young I would have indents of small circles on my fingers because of pressing hard on the crisp metal air holes of the flute. 
     I try to continue and play the song but I am forced to stop. I breathe into the mouthpiece but no air comes out. I stop my fingers and release the mouthpiece. I begin to breathe heavily and gasp for air. I never remember being so out of breath when I used to play. I guess that was a few years ago. 
    I’m puzzled. My body feels heavy, and my fingers are cramped. I guess this is a sign that I should stop fooling around and get back to cleaning. As I put the flute back on the untouched silver stand I catch a glimpse of myself in the floor length mirror at the end of the hall. I scream. 
     I’m… I’m old! I must have aged a whole twenty years. My fingers are wrinkled, my hair has streaks of gray, my muscles ache. Oh my goodness what the hell! How, how, how, how did this happen? It's impossible. I walked in this building two hours ago as a young adult and now I look like I can be my own grandmother! This is a prank, right? Someone has pulled a practical joke. It’s impossible! I pick up the flute from the floor and reconnect the mouth piece that fell off when I dropped it. I play a scale and I feel my fingers start to tighten. The wrinkles already engraved in my fingers deepen as I play and my joints become more sore. I stop playing and the sensation stops. It must be the flute.
      In what world does a flute make you age? It makes no sense and total sense at the exact same time. Grandpa would never let people play it because he knew. He… he knew. But how? The only way he could have known what it does is if he witnessed it himself. If people found out about the flute they would destroy it. No one can know. What do I do now? If I tell anyone they would report me. I don't have friends; I only had Grandpa. I have no choice but to call mom. She’ll understand…I think. 
     My hands tremble as I pick up the phone. The wrinkles in my hands seem to cut into my skin. My fingers ache and my eyes blur. I look like I’m sixty... or older. I text her that she needs to come and that I need help. She texts back that she’ll stop by on my way to the grocery store in 5 minutes. I stand in front of the mirror in horror until she arrives. I can’t stand looking at myself, and start to sob. My life is ruined. My dreams- gone. I will only live another twenty years. I was twenty-four - just starting my life, not ending it. 
     My mom knocks on the door and I pull myself together. I take a deep breath and walk down the green velvet steps. I open the door and rush to her without showing my face. 
     “What is going on,” she asks. Her voice is stern and impatient. “I have places to be, Delilah. I don’t have a minute to look after you or this dump. I thought we were clear, you deal with it; I signed it off to you.” 
     “I know. I’m, I’m sorry,” I reply. My voice trembles as I bury my hands in my jacket so she can not see them. 
     “Why are you not looking at me? What is going on?” She asks. I can tell she wants nothing to do with this. 
     “Okay, just don’t freak out,” I say. I know she is going to freak out. What am I even doing? Why did I call her? Oh my god I’m so stupid!
     “What! You have five seconds to have an adult conversation with me or I’m leaving. That starts with looking me in the eye, Deliliah.” She rolls her eyes and starts to walk out then I turn around. She looks at my face and body- frozen. She screams.         “You played the flute. Oh my God. Just like your father. ”. 
    I look at her wide eyes. I don’t respond. What does she mean? My father? I don’t understand. Dad’s dead. She looks back at me and utters, “or should I say your Grandpa.”

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Lofty Dreams

8/21/2022

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My grandson, Camden Farina, is a hard-working, handsome, and spirited fifteen-year-old with a big heart and a lofty dream. He wants to pitch for Major League Baseball (MLB). When friends and family learn about his career goal, some cast doubt by asking questions such as Does he realize how few players make it to MLB? or What’s his backup plan? His devoted mom, Kim, crafted a perfect response. “Someone has to play in the big leagues. Why not my son?” 
    When my grandkids graduate from 8th grade, I take them on an adventure. I do this for several reasons. First, I treasure our one-on-one time. There’s nothing like spending 24/7 with a person to really get to know them. Second, I value travel. Leaving home pushes people out of their comfort zone and broadens their perspective. Third, I want to do my part to nurture our family’s next generation. 
     Cam asked to attend a Red Sox game at Fenway Park for his getaway. Covid and his travel ball schedule derailed the trip for over a year, but we made the journey on August 10, 2022. He and his mom flew from Los Angeles; me from San Francisco, our planes landing at Logan International Airport twenty minutes apart.
     We ubered to the Commonwealth Hotel, our temporary home. Watching Cam’s smile when the staff handed him a baseball backpack filled with Red Sox swag—hardball, plastic case, sweat rag, water bottle, decorative pin, and cap—made my day. When he spotted Fenway’s giant lights from our window, his expression told me I had hit a home run.
     The three of us stashed our suitcases and headed outside to meet Boston. The first evening in any new town always heightens one’s senses. We felt the 3-hour time change, the balmy air, the breeze from the Charles River. We admired the brick row houses and their manicured gardens on the way to dinner at the iconic Cheers bar. Cam had never heard of Sam Malone and the gang so I had fun introducing him to one of my favorite sitcoms.
     The next day, we hiked the Freedom Trail and took an evening Duck Tour. Cam’s real adventure began on day three when he slid on his pitching glove and walked ten minutes from our hotel to Fenway Park for a “field experience.” He stood near home plate behind temporary fencing and barely moved for three hours as his heroes warmed up for the 7:15 p.m. game. He caught three balls, keeping one for himself and giving two away.
     When 6 foot 7 inch Yankee Aaron Judge sauntered over to sign autographs, the fans went wild. They screamed, “Judge! Judge! Over here!" while shoving balls in his face. The 2017 Rookie of the Year walked the line, randomly signing autographs. When he got close to us, Cam held up a ball and said, “Aaron?” Judge had his choice of people to make happy that day, and he chose Cam. My grandson pushed his luck. “Photo?” Judge hesitated. Kim blurted, “He’ll be playing with you in a few years.” Judge looked at Cam's glove. “Pitcher?” Cam nodded. Judge posed for the photograph then said, “Best of luck” before moving on. That evening we cheered for the Yankees.
     On day four, we returned to Fenway at 11:00 a.m. for a behind-the-scenes tour. We climbed inside the famous Green Monster, spotting Babe Ruth’s signature on a wall. We walked through the press box and ate lunch in the clubhouse where Red Sox outfielder Jarren Duran joined us for a meet-and-greet. Duran answered questions about his career and personal life. (He believes hard work trumps talent, he got his first tattoo to honor his grandmother, he isn’t married but has a girlfriend, he keeps his future aspirations private, and he plays video games to chill). Cam soaked in every word as if Duran was revealing MLB secrets. That evening we cheered for the Red Soxs.
     I asked my grandson to improve my woeful ignorance of the game. He didn’t hold back. I learned the fields where he plays ball are the same size as Fenway. He shared what coaches say to players when they huddle during time-outs, and he explained why the infielders shifted positions at times. He corrected my vocabulary, chuckling. “It’s on deck, Mimi, not next at bat.”
    As Cam watched the game, I watched him. He has a quiet confidence that draws people to him. At 6 feet 2 inches tall and 180 pounds, he’s more of a man than a boy. Working out and hurling eighty-seven-mile-per-hour balls has given him veiny, muscled arms. He knows baseball is a numbers-driven sport, which is why he does football strength training even though he doesn’t play football, and he takes lessons from a former MLB pitcher. He is constantly working to improve his stats.
    Playing baseball for seven years has taught him about teamwork, patience, perseverance, dedication, and hard work. Coaches have pulled him from games after two innings because he was having an off day. He has pitched entire games, walking off the mound with his fist clenched in victory. I’ve seen him replace other pitchers in the sixth inning with the scores tied, one out, and runners on first and third. I asked how he manages the pressure. “By throwing one strike at a time,” came his swift reply. My grandson is turning into an elite athlete right before my eyes.

     Cam is doing his part to turn his dream into a reality. This summer, he played tournaments in Arizona, Georgia, Oakland, Ventura, Los Angeles, Irvine, Westminster, and La Mirada. After spending five days with him in Boston, I have zero doubt he will find success as a professional pitcher. Just like peanuts and crackerjacks, he belongs inside the MLB world. Aaron Judge and Jarren Duran worked hard and found success in the big leagues. Why not my grandson?

* If you'd like to see our 5-day trip in pictures, click here.  

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The Opposite of an Interloper

5/2/2022

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My friend, Margie Hilton, is an amazing woman. At 81, she bikes all over Marin, kayaks, reads, plays tennis, travels, and hosts wonderful parties. As her four grandkids graduated from the 8th grade, she took them on a once-in-a-lifetime trip to a U.S. city of their choice. Just the two of them, making lasting memories. How could I not start that wonderful tradition?
     My oldest grandchild, Collette, was graduating from middle school in May 2020. She liked the idea of her and I traveling together, choosing New York City as the destination. With her parents approval and six months to plan the perfect trip, I got busy. I bought airline tickets. Coco and I worked hard to find the right hotel. I purchased vouchers for various attractions she wanted to visit and booked us to see Dear Evan Hansen and Hadestown on Broadway. I contacted her aunt Sara who lives in the Big Apple for her ideas to round out our schedule. Coco and I were ready to roll. 
     Then, we heard about a mysterious virus that was killing people in China. When COVID-19 reached American shores, we hoped it would run its course quickly. Even after the pandemic forced a lockdown, I didn’t cancel the trip. By April, both Coco and I knew we weren’t boarding a jet anytime soon. I canceled all reservations and promised to rebook after things settled down. Words cannot describe her disappointment.
     Fast forward to 2022. NYC was slowly reopening. Broadway had turned on its bright lights. With Coco and I vaccinated and boosted, I asked her parents for permission to move forward with the trip. Adam and Kristy greenlighted our plans, suggesting we go during her spring break. By now, Coco was a sophomore at Terra Linda High School. I brought her to my house one day after school to chat. Was our 2020 plan still a go? Did she have any new ideas? At first, she was pensive. After some nudging, she said she wanted to do exactly what we had planned but felt uneasy about us traveling alone. She worried about me getting sick and her not knowing what to do.
     Her comment caught me completely off guard. Sure I have a few medical problems. Who doesn’t at my age? She knows I’m a seasoned traveler. I’ve backpacked through Europe and snorkled on the Great Barrier Reef. Heck, Coco and I flew to Costa Rica in 2018 by ourselves to attend a Spanish immersion program and nothing went wrong. What changed in the past two years to make her feel this way? After some soul searching, I realized Collette had the courage to say aloud what I prefer not to discuss. In December 2019, I was diagnosed with Parkinson’s disease, a progressive neurological disorder that wreaks havoc on the body. While I strive to manage my symptoms with exercise, diet, and medication, the truth is I often feel unsteady. I move slowly and tire easily. I have a slight tremor in my right hand. My phone alarm chimes three times a day, reminding me to take pills that keep me feeling normal. Few people notice my symptoms; I hide them well. Collette, on the other hand, has had a front-row seat to my evolving health care story. She gets what’s happening to me, and she still wanted us to travel together…with a safety net.
     To solve this dilemma, we asked her mom to join us. Kristy kindly agreed to swap a relaxing vacation at home for a fast-paced NYC adventure she hadn’t planned. I’m embarrassed to admit that we treated her as an interloper instead of a travel partner. We gave her no say in the itinerary. Coco and I had already made "our" plans and we were sticking to them. On April 2, 2022, the three of us flew non-stop from SFO to JFK. We settled into the Row NYC hotel, one block from Times Square. Collette and I claimed our beds and suitcase space, leaving Kristy with the leftovers. That evening, we met Coco’s aunt for dinner. Sara introduced us to the subway, helped us buy a multi-day pass, and showed us around town.
     The next morning, we took the subway to ground zero where we joined a tour group next to St. Paul’s Chapel. The guide had lived through the devastation on September 1, 2001, and relayed his heart-wrenching story to us. We visited the memorial and strolled through the 9/11 museum. We rode the One World Trade Center’s unique elevator, mesmerized by the view from the 101st floor. After eating lunch on top of the world, we walked several blocks to the cemetery at Trinity Church where we paid homage to Alexander Hamilton (Collette can rap the entire album). From there, we moseyed to Wall Street for a photo op with the raging bull statue. In the late afternoon, we took the subway home with plans to relax before dinner. 
     As we emerged from the underground, Collette declared she wanted to go to Times Square instead of returning to the hotel. My legs felt like two cement pillars; I needed to lie down. Kristy proposed that she and Coco go exploring while I napped. I thought her idea was brilliant, and we parted ways at 44th and 8th, our hotel's crossroads. An hour later, Kristy called to say they had found a place that sold half-price theater tickets. Did I want to go to a show that evening? My nap rejuvenated me enough to say yes. After a tasty Mexican dinner, we walked to the theater, put on our N95s, flashed our vax cards, and watched The Book of Mormon. The musical comedy was hilarious; all three of us loved it. We stopped for pizza, and by the time we returned to the hotel at midnight, Collette and I had forgotten this was "our" trip. She, Kristy, and I had become a pack, three generations of strong women who loved one another, set adrift in a city that never slept.
     The following day, I appreciated how Kristy figured out the subway path to Battery Park where we caught a ferry to the Statue of Liberty. The fact that she and Coco used the stairs to reach the pedestal while I needed an elevator didn’t matter. What mattered is the three of us enjoyed the fabulous view together. Kristy taught Coco how to navigate the subway, nabbed tickets to Seth Meyers’ Late Night show, and got half-price tickets to a fourth Broadway show: The Little Prince (we didn’t quite know what to make of the story). She made sure we didn’t eat at chain restaurants or get lost in the swarming crowds. She got us to Central Park for a carriage ride. She nudged us to visit Grand Central Terminal to search for the black brick that Jackie O left behind as well as a secret whispering gallery (we found both). She rose at 5:45 a.m. with me to see Robin Roberts on the set of Good Morning America as Coco slept. When I rested in the afternoons, she and Coco shopped, searched for B&W cookies, and watched street entertainers. The trip was so much more vibrant because Kristy was with us. She became the glue that held us together, the energy we needed to make each day amazing, the opposite of an interloper. 
     Margie found a special way to bond with her grandchildren. Collette, Kristy, and I used her blueprint to create a similar experience for us, refusing to let the pandemic or my poor health and bad manners derail our ability to create lasting memories. Next up is a trip with my 15-year-old grandson, which I’m approaching with eyes wide open. Camden’s mother will not only be joining us, she’ll be a welcomed member of the planning team.

​If you'd like to see our trip in pictures, click here.


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Creating Magical Moments

11/21/2021

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PictureFred, Me, Cecilia, Linda, Sherman, Sharyn, & Nancy.
On October 16, 2021, I attended my 50-year high school reunion at the Mayne Events Center in Bellflower, California. What a fabulous night! The evening had it all: an impressive venue, lively music, memorabilia, slideshow, dancing, raffles, group photos, laughter, and lots of reminiscing. If you’ve ever wondered what goes on behind the scenes to create such a magical moment, you’re in luck. As a member of the planning team, I’m pulling back the curtain to give you my perspective on what transpired.
    It all started eighteen months ago at IHOP in Petaluma. Nancy Brandhorst Gornowicz and I casually knew each other in school but after learning we lived only twenty-six miles apart in Northern California, we became fast friends. During a 2-hour breakfast, the conversation drifted to our milestone reunion. Was anyone planning a party? If not, we wanted in.
     I contacted Fred Taylor, our class's Facebook administrator who works tirelessly to keep us all connected. Fred told me Sherman Seelye had inquired about a reunion and that both of them were willing to serve on a committee. Nancy and I agreed to drive to SoCal so the four of us could get the ball rolling. Unfortunately, the pandemic locked us down, canceling our plans. We quickly figured out how to use Zoom, and moved the meeting to cyberspace. Soon, a fifth classmate, Cecilia Ramm Boal, joined the group.
     In July 2020, Sharyn Brown Link from the class of ‘70 called to ask if we would consider combining parties since COVID-19 restrictions had shut down hers. She had signed contracts with a venue, DJ, and photo booth company and didn’t want to lose the deposits. We welcomed her and Linda Scott Paton into our group, adopting the slogan, Better Together. The seven of us rolled up our sleeves and got to work, figuring out how to create a memorable evening for both classes.
     I scheduled and facilitated monthly Zoom meetings, and recorded our agreements. Sharyn and Nancy managed registration lists and opened up back accounts to stash the money. Cecilia and Linda focused on decorations and the memorial. Fred and Sharyn posted messages on Facebook to build interest (Fred never let a meeting end without taking a group photo to share with classmates). Sherman reached out to many people, nudging them to register. He also brought humor to the virtual room, making sure we laughed. 
     Did everything run smoothly? Of course not. We had conflicts over the budget, the agenda, and accounting software. Decisions were not always unanimous. People missed meetings because of vacation, moving, and family obligations. But we pushed forward, not letting anything stop our momentum. We used Google forms to give everyone instant access to reports, built a slideshow from yearbook pictures, secured raffle gifts, color-coded name tags, invented ways to display memorabilia, agreed on registration packets, chose a dinner menu, endlessly marketed the event, reached out to unregistered classmates, identified ways to honor people who were no longer with us, and fine-tuned the agenda. Four weeks before the event, we met weekly, focusing on the tiniest detail. Messenger pinged frequently with group chats.
     On the big day, the seven of us arrived at the Mayne Events Center promptly at 3:00 pm. We were excited to see one another in person yet anxious to organize our stations before guests arrived. When I entered the massive banquet hall, my jaw dropped. Computer images of the floor plan had not prepared me for its sheer size.
     I busied myself, arranging the dessert table and organizing raffle items. Sharyn met with the venue’s manager, DJ, and photobooth crew to ensure everything was going according to plan. Linda and Nancy finalized packets at the registration tables. Cecilia set up an impressive three-dimensional display of a letterman jacket, cheerleading outfits, yearbooks, scrapbooks, class pins, and other memorabilia. She and her husband put the final touches on a whimsical lighted tree that had floating butterflies with pictures of deceased classmates swaying in the breeze.
     The waiters covered twenty round tables with crisp, white tablecloths, then arranged eight plates, crystal glasses, silverware, and red napkins in symmetrical order. Cecilia and Linda laid out gold table runners to make our school colors pop, then added Cecilia’s homemade centerpieces: macrame-covered potted plants to given away at the end of the party.  After sprinkling glitter, the tables were ready. Sharyn and Sherman got the slideshow up and running on two overhead screens, and Sherman helped the DJ with his equipment while Fred assisted where needed and got his camera ready. At 5:55, we took a collective deep breath. After eighteen months of planning, it was showtime.
     Classmates arrived looking their best, some traveling hundreds of miles to attend. Smiles and chatter soon filled the banquet hall along with songs by Van Morrison, Simon & Garfunkel, The Beatles, Rolling Stones, Three Dog Night, and other favorite bands from our wonder years. I recognized some people immediately while others required a glance at the senior picture dangling from a lanyard around their neck.
     Memories came flooding back as I shifted from party-planner to guest. I still remember climbing into Vicki Jansen’s big black car with friends to cruise Bellflower Boulevard on Saturday nights. We’d eat donuts and check out the action before toilet papering a house or two. Vicki made me laugh like no one else. Sandi Kurikka Felix, Ruth Humphries Cole, Karen Druyor Crowley, Jackie Rohrer, and Debbie Buchanan Gunderson arrived in a limo. They, along with Nancy, have met regularly since graduation to celebrate their friendship. Debbi Collins Kightlinger, my bestie and sister flag twirler, arrived looking stunning in a blue jumpsuit. She and I have shared every imaginable life experience, and have backpacked in Europe, visited a health spa in Tuscany, and hiked the Matterhorn in Switzerland together.
     I enjoyed slow dances with Larry Mirch, Richard Rahm, and my sister-in-law, Gaye Thomson, as well as fast dances with too many folks to name. My friendship with Claudette Fabian blossomed during our careers at Kaiser Permanente. Richard Gonzales’ parents, Lupe and Albert, were my delightful next-door neighbors at the first home I purchased. Janice Rose Cole drove Joella Cotney Hansen, me, and others to Vegas to see Elvis perform at the Hilton, my first concert. Debbie Barlow Cossey reminded me of the “A” we received on a Vietnam War media project. Cathy Sistrunk Winger mentioned the time she and I visited Ellen Brenney Amestoy’s bomb shelter and lived to tell about it. 
     Myra Kumagae’s face almost made it on the butterfly tree since we thought she had died. Thanks to Fred’s sleuthing, we found her phone number and left a message. Imagine my joy when she returned the call! Myra and I caught up on fifty years of life, reminiscing about our stint as 7th-grade cheerleaders as well as the three years of ice skating lessons (along with Theresa Wells Bickford) at Ruth Noland’s rink. I'm so glad she decided to come to the reunion at the last minute.
     As I mingled, danced, and gave away raffle gifts with Nancy and Sherman, Fred and Sandi Kurikka Felix were busy pointing their camera lenses. Not only did they take class and elementary school photos, but they also captured many candid images that allowed us to create a wonderful memory album on Shutterfly. Fred’s array of the ‘then and now’ photos is pure genius. 
     After singing our Alma Mater, the merriment continued, even as busboys began cleaning the room. At 11:15 p.m., I said my goodbyes, packed up my car, and drove to my hotel, reflecting on the evening. I wish the mic had worked better and I’m mad at myself for not writing down raffle-winner names. I’m disappointed the bartender ran out of red wine at dinner time, and I felt awful about losing Fred’s pen. Other than that, I wouldn’t change a thing. Nancy, Fred, Sherman, Cecilia, Sharyn, Linda, and I performed a miracle: delivering a fabulous 50-year high school reunion for two classes in the middle of a pandemic. To paraphrase Mother Teresa, no person did one great thing, rather we all did many small things that made the party great. 
     So, now you know what happened behind the scenes to create this magical moment. I will miss my fellow party planners, and I’m grateful to the classmates who attended the gathering. The years at BHS helped shape us into the people we became, and our memories will bind us forever. Go Bucs!

To check out the Shutterfly album, click here.

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A COVID-19 Story

8/20/2021

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On August 4, 2021, my 86-year-old hubby (guy on the right) flew to Sitka, Alaska for a week of fishing, something he’s done annually for thirty years. Alaska is Andy’s happy place, where nature, fishing, and friendship mesh to form a cherished getaway. Last year, he couldn’t go because of the pandemic lockdown, making this trip even more meaningful. 
     It’s confession time. I pressed Andy hard not to travel to Alaska because of the delta variant gaining traction. I pleaded for him to skip this year to keep him safe. But the draw to Alaska proved too strong. He assured me that all of the people on his boat were fully vaccinated. He packed his bags, including quality masks, and I drove him to the airport.
     Andy was excited to see his good friend from Colorado, Terry Hull. Terry brought a friend named Lance. The three of them shared a condo, bonding during in-room meals (before COVID they dined with other lodge guests). Andy and Terry introduced Lance to Sitka during their daily walks. A fourth man, Ted, who was traveling solo from Southern California, joined them on their private fishing boat every morning.
     After a fabulous week, Andy returned home with a hundred pounds of fish including salmon, cod, and halibut. He was extra tired from the travel, his ears plugged up during the flight and wouldn’t clear, and he had a stuffy nose. We both thought he’d be fine after a good night’s sleep.
     The next morning, my greatest fear came true. Andy felt worse. His blood pressure was low and he had an irregular heartbeat. After losing his sense of smell and taste, our daughter brought over two rapid COVID test kits. Andy tested positive; I was negative. We called our physician who ordered a formal COVID test, saying the rapid ones are sometimes unreliable. We got the same results.
     Andy isolated himself in the master suite, which has its own bathroom and outside door. I quarantined in the rest of the house, sanitizing it from top to bottom. I slept in the guest room. Instacart and I became reacquainted. Thank goodness for Blue Apron. I served meals to him on the patio; I ate inside. We chatted outside wearing masks, keeping six feet apart. We said our goodnights through closed doors. Every day he improved a little more.
     On August 22, Andy gets his regular life back if he remains asymptomatic. The County Health Department has advised me to stay quarantined for ten more days since there’s a chance Andy can still infect me. COVID is nothing to mess with. It’s a cruel, hungry monster who prowls for victims, including vaccinated Alaskan fishermen. We know that Terry and Ted tested negative but Lance tested positive. The contamination source remains unknown.
    There are days when I wonder if the pandemic will ever end, given the fact that only 49% of the total U.S. population has been fully vaccinated. That number must grow exponentially or we’ll never conquer this monster. New variants will continue to emerge.
    I will admit to having some dark hours during this COVID scare. Besides caring for my husband, I had to cancel back-to-school lunch dates with my granddaughters and a three-day girlfriend getaway to Half Moon Bay. Just as my pity party reached a new level, a dear friend sent an email that offered a much-needed perspective. 
     “At this point in our lives,” Uday wrote, “there are only a few, very few, things that we are passionate about. And it is important to do them, otherwise, it would be a dull life. When I learned that Andy had made reservations for next year's trip, I silently applauded him. All of us are concerned about Covid 19 but we cannot stop living. Vaccinations have allowed us to take reasonable risks.” 
    Uday worried his words might upset me, given how fervently I tried to block Andy’s trip. The truth is I’ve made peace with the fact that Andy took a calculated risk to do something he loves. He did everything within his power to stay safe. Thanks to the vaccine (a medical miracle), his symptoms were mild and temporary. You can bet the two of us will be first in line to take that booster shot so he can return to his happy place in 2022.

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My Room

12/10/2020

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Sierra, my ten-year-old granddaughter, wrote this story about her bedroom for an English assignment. The space doubles as her Zoom classroom because of the pandemic. She spends lots of time there, which is why she captured such vivid details. With her permission, I'm sharing her creativity with you. Enjoy!

My Room by Sierra Treewater
My Room is one of the most comforting and most comfortable places in my house. 
To start off I have my bed with a soft squishy comforter and with multiple pillows and multi-colored Blankets on the top. Triangular purple striped sheets and a memory foam mattress that makes me have good dreams every night. And my floor, scattered with clothes and a gray carpet that is small, but warms my feet better than any carpet in this house. Then comes my desk. White with blue knobs and a grey water bottle half empty, colored pencils, and books scattering the top. Drawers filled with books, markers, colored sticky notes, Tipped over glue stickers, and more paper than you can ever imagine with a MacBook covering the top of it. My white bookcase, filled with hard-covered books and spilled with clothes and earrings, a brown half-broken clock, and a color-changing volleyball light. My closet, filled with all clothes separated in rainbow order, and half my shoes. My dresser,  filled with all non-hang up clothes and on top masks and hooked on a reading light. And a corner filled with my awards, medals,  pictures, drawings, and all of my posters I've collected taped up on the wall. My room is the most soothing and comforting place in the whole wide world. 

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The Fight of Our Lives by Collette Treewater

11/8/2020

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Collette is my 14-year-old granddaughter. She wrote this award-winning poem for a school assignment. With her permission, I'm posting it in my blog to preserve it for posterity.


The Fight of Our Lives

Humans, a seeming to be biotic figure that has done nothing but bad
They say don’t be greedy but that seems to be a hypocritical statement
Humans have ruined what we are given and give nothing back
The waterfalls drying up not releasing the water of hope that is recycled through like magic
The ground don't change but it does when underneath their is everything in the world that could hurt us
We sweep it under the carpet likes it's a dust bunny on a busy day
But we are talking about our earth here
I say listen to the creature's yelping, crying, dying for help
Needing what we can no longer give because we are too far gone
I stand for what I stand on and will fight for what I die on
We can't give our world a ventilator or life support but currently this is what we need to do
Our world is on its deathbed we must treat it like we do to all these other living things including ourselves
Respecting your mother wishing we could have done more, but we can do more
Somehow a matter of environmental emergency has become a political debate for some rich people to bicker about like two babies fighting over the last cookie in the cookie jar but that cookie represents our entire political system of power
We as people need to stop fighting with each other because we are wasting energy
Becoming a united whole that will go into battle with our heads held high
Coming out with our feet drowning in the sea water we have melted, neglected, infected, and no longer respected
It will engulf us sooner or later but we will sink into it jaws first still bickering about whose shoes look more stylish, whose tie is more tight, and who got the most likes on the picture they posted that morning but we will be oblivious as we always have been and always will be
This is no laughing matter so stop laughing and start doing stop talking and start fighting
And stop crying because our earth is dying

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A Unique Love Story

10/14/2020

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On September 29, 2020, my daughter, Kim, married William Kueny. Their love story defies tradition, involving five people, not just two. Allow me to explain. 
     Both Bill and Kim ended their first marriages under trying circumstances. Bill gained full custody of his girls, Abigail and Samantha, and Kim was raising Camden on her own. The single parents worked hard, always putting their kids first. One day, Abby told Bill she wanted a mom and encouraged him to date. He went out with a few women but didn’t find anyone worth bringing home. Kim also dated but never found that special someone. Then, in June 2017, the universe intervened. 
     The dating website eharmony, which touts itself as ‘the premier destination for high-quality singles looking for real relationships,’ offered a free weekend for people to try their services. A hard-working chef from LaVerne and an independent lady lawyer from Anaheim Hills both registered on a whim. Wonders of wonders, eharmony’s algorithms matched them. Kim and Bill communicated via phone and text for several weeks, then met in person. Their personalities clicked, thus beginning a courtship. 
     Normal dating wasn’t an option because of their work-home-kid responsibilities. Even though they carved out a handful of hours for dating, they wanted more time together. Bill and his girls attended Camden’s weekend baseball games. Kim showed up at Abby and Sammy’s karate, soccer, and softball events. The quintet toggled between houses for game night, swimming, dinners, and other activities. 
     A year and a half later, all five grew tired of commuting. Bill and Kim moved in together to combine resources without tying the knot, being gun-shy of marriage. Before long, the kids intervened, pressuring them for a commitment. Abby asked Kim whether or not she had a husband, wanting to make sure she was free to marry her dad. Camden whispered in Bill’s ear about buying a ring for his mom. Sammy called Kim ‘momma’ from the start. 
     In July 2020, Bill got down on one knee and proposed; Kim said yes. Instead of a diamond engagement ring, the couple chose a garnet, a spiritual stone of fire, passion, and love. It’s also known as an ancient symbol of friendship. A typical wedding wasn’t in the cards because of COVID-19, but the resilient couple had learned to navigate around such obstacles. 
    On September 29, 2020, a hundred and fifty people throughout the US—Arizona, California, Idaho, Illinois, Nevada, Washington, West Virginia—and one from New Zealand gathered for a retro/rockabilly Zoom wedding. Guests showed up on video wearing fun hats, make-up, fancy dresses, tuxedo tee-shirts, converse shoes, and bow ties. Kim’s best friend, Neetu Smith, officiated the ceremony from miles away with the precision of a seasoned orchestra leader. 
     Bill and Kim exchanged vows and rings at their LaVerne home, making promises to each other and to their kids. Cam, Abby, and Sammy each gave a toast, and the new family assembled a wooden heart-shaped puzzle that linked all of their names. After the jubilant ceremony, six long-term couples shared marriage tips. Other family members read responses to questions Neetu had posed to the couple earlier. There were toasts and tears, readings from the Apache Wedding Blessing, singing, and laughter. A guest, Robbie Seals, said it best: “Love won like I knew it would. The universe does not ever get it wrong.”  
     Kim and Bill defied tradition by getting married during a pandemic, solidifying their love and giving their children the security they craved. My friend, Debbi Kightlinger who has known Kim since birth, summarized the unique ceremony better than I ever could, so I’ll end with her words for the happy couple. “Your Zoom wedding was incredibly loving, tender, intimate, sweet, and joyous. You’ve created a beautiful family.”
    Congratulations Kim and Bill! We wish you a lifetime of love and happiness. Keep doing it your way❣️🥂

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A Graduation for the Ages

6/13/2020

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This week my sweet granddaughter, Collette Rose, graduated from Miller School Middle School. Normally, I’d never blog about such an event. No one except family cares about graduations, especially 8th grade. But her 2019-20 school year was so unique, so extraordinary that I wanted to capture it for posterity.
    Starting school in August was business as usual. The drama started in late October when the Kincade Fire burned over seventy-seven thousand acres in Sonoma County. Not only did hundreds of people lose their home, but PG&E shut off power across Northern California for five days as a preemptive measure to control the burn. Schools closed. Ash turned the blue sky into an eye-burning gray. Food spoiled in our refrigerators. We survived nights with flashlights and candles and extra blankets. We purchased solar batteries to recharge cell phones. We made friends with people who owned generators. 
    After the fire disaster settled down, we got busy with our normal activities. The Christmas and New Year holidays came and went. Then on January 11, 2020, the United States learned that a new coronavirus had killed a 61-year-old man in Wuhan, China. The World Health Organization recognized the virus as a public health emergency on January 30. Two weeks later, they named it COVID-19 (an acronym for COronaVIrus Disease 2019). This killer virus raced across the globe, prompting WHO to upgrade it to pandemic status on March 11. Five days later, Governor Gavin Newsom ordered forty million Californians to shelter-in-place until we had a treatment or vaccination available. Our way of life changed overnight in an effort to prevent the virus from spreading.
    The economy came to a grinding halt as businesses closed their doors. The stock market crashed. Everyone stayed home except for essential trips. Freeways were no longer congested; streets grew eerily quiet. Skys were free of pollution. Home delivery services exploded. We learned how to wash our hands properly, and were encouraged to disinfectant all surfaces. We cut our own hair. We wore face masks in public and practiced social distancing, maintaining six feet between us and the people not in our inner circle.
     Schools closed for the rest of the term. For Collette, that meant canceling many enjoyable activities such as hanging out with friends, stage-managing the musical, competing in the Margie Burke speech contest, club volleyball tournaments, and end-of-the-year dance and beach party. Instead of attending regular classes, she experienced ‘remote learning’, sitting at home with her laptop using Zoom technology. She added two guinea pigs (Sky and Star) and a new puppy (Roxy) to her pet family, which helped fill the long hours.
    With 114,000 U.S. deaths from COVID-19, we knew there’d be no graduation ceremony in the Panther Gymnasium. School leaders rose to the challenge, finding creative ways to honor their students’ hard work. Volunteers planted signs in every graduate’s yard to recognize the milestone. Collette’s core teacher, Ms. Meschery, named her Student of the Year for her commitment to equity and justice, as well as for writing a poignant term paper. She captured sentiments in a video and emailed it to her.
     On June 10, my hubby and I joined the Treewaters in their living room for the big day. Streamers decorated the house; Collette wore a navy-blue robe that her parents got on Amazon. She adored the fresh-flower lei that Grandma Devi sent. We gathered around the widescreen TV to watch a pre-recorded ceremony on YouTube. When images of the two hundred and twenty-one graduates appeared on screen, we hummed Pomp and Circumstance like nobody’s business. We were so excited when Collette and eleven others were recognized for achieving a perfect 4.0 GPA. We clapped, hooted, and hollered when she got a special Leadership Award, acknowledging her as a positive role model, a strong decision-maker, and a person who accepts extra responsibilities. 
     She and I were supposed to be in New York City today to celebrate this happy occasion, staying smack-dab in Times Square. We had tickets to Dear Evan Hanson, the Statue of Liberty, the 911 Memorial, Rockefeller Center, and other fun activities. Sadly, we had to cancel our trip because of the pandemic. We’ll reschedule at the right time. 
     Truthfully, I don’t believe Collette will ever need this blog to remember what transpired during the year she graduated from middle school. I still remember crying in November 1963 when my fifth-grade teacher told us President Kennedy had been shot. I recall OPEC imposing an oil embargo on the United States in 1973, which caused a gas shortage, making me wait for hours to fill up my car in a line that snaked around the block. Chills permeate my body when I think about sitting with my HPI colleagues around a table in Oakland on September 11, 2001, grappling with the fact that Islamic extremists had hijacked four airplanes and carried out suicide attacks on U.S. soil. 
     Just as these experiences left an indelible mark on me, 2020 will leave one on Collette. The events surrounding her eighth-grade year were so unique, so extraordinary that forty years from now she’ll tell her grandchildren about the awful fires, the black-outs, and the great pandemic that changed her way of life. But as Principal Tate pointed out in her commencement speech, when circumstances make you feel uncomfortable, there’s an opportunity to stretch and grow. She called it the “sweet spot” and encouraged students to embrace the discomfort to prepare for what comes next.
     Get ready, Terra Linda High School. Collette is coming for you. Go Trojans!

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The Secret of Inspiration

12/28/2019

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People ask where I get ideas for my novels. The answer is simple, yet not simple at all–a true conundrum. What I’ve learned is that inspiration surrounds me around every corner. I only have to open my eyes and ears, stay alert, and get curious to find it. Taking an early morning walk, observing people, eavesdropping on conversations, listening to songs, talking with family, friends and strangers, reading newspapers, magazines, books, and blogs, and traveling to out-of-the-way places have all stirred ideas. Some of them have piqued my interest then faded. Others have kept me up at night, burrowing inside my brain and refusing to be ignored. When that happens, I’ve learned to pay close attention. Here’s an example of what I mean. 
     In 2015, my husband and I sailed through the Panama Canal. After seeing this man-made wonder up close and learning about its history, I intuitively knew the giant waterway would eventually find its way into one of my novels. Hoping for inspiration, I soaked up every word of David McCullough’s award-winning book, The Path Between The Seas, a well-written epic chronicle of the canal’s construction. The facts intrigued me, but I wasn’t sure how to turn them into an engaging fictional story.
     Months later, I was sorting through some old family photos and came across the picture in this blog. The woman is my husband’s aunt, Dora Carothers. Born in 1882, Dora grew up on a farm in Cutler, Ohio, the oldest of nine children. She graduated from nursing school in her early twenties and then worked as a Red Cross nurse in Europe during the First World War. She later moved to Kentucky, riding a patient circuit to care for the rural population. Dora never married. She was a beloved, hard-working career woman who paid for her younger siblings’ college education. She died in 1969 at the age of eighty-seven, having lived a remarkable life. I wanted to tell her story but wasn’t sure how to approach the project. After all, I’m a novelist, not a biographer.
     Then, inspiration hit when I realized Dora graduated from nursing school about the same time the United States began working on the Panama Canal. I began losing sleep, feeling excited about the possibilities of aligning a gripping fictional story alongside historical events. My mind swirled with ideas. What if I create a young protagonist based loosely on Dora’s life? What if she has a brother who works in Panama? What if that brother gets so sick and must return home but is unable to travel alone? What if he begs his nurse sister to come and get him? What if that sister sails to Panama to rescue him and something unexpected happens? What if the trajectory of their lives are changed forever because of this incident? 
     Two and a half years later, answers to those questions culminated in my fifth novel, Clara’s Way. Set in 1904, the story depicts the controversial first fourteen months of the United States’ occupation in the Canal Zone through the eyes of an altruistic, 23-year-old nurse. The book, which ultimately is about love and loss, courage, and the unexpected paths that shape our lives, has just been published on Amazon. 
     Now you know how I get ideas that turn into novels (and I got to promote my next story!). If I stay alert and curious, follow my intuition, talk with people, read a lot, and travel to new places, inspiration will surely follow, just as it did after visiting Panama, and finding those old family photos. I can’t wait to see where my next writing journey takes me. 
     What inspires you? What stirs your imagination?

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“There is no greater agony than bearing an untold story inside you.”
― Maya Angelou