My Foot

I am spending much more time in the yard with its blooming roses and peach tree, the baby guavas and small lemon tree. Since I broke my foot and ankle and fibula I'm unable to take my five mile walks. I'm off the foot for three months. So the yard provides a sanctuary of sorts. I sit at the white cast iron table in the uncomfortable chair with my leg propped up on the other chair. I inspect the lemons, six so far, slowly turning yellow, read and write, drink tea and water in the morning then switch to something more hearty in the late afternoon. Thoreau exhorts us to take advantage of every accident that befalls us. He echoes Seneca who wrote "Let us bear with magnanimity whatever the system of the universe makes it needful for us to bear: we are all bound by this oath: To bear the ills of mortal life, and to submit with a good grace to what we can not avoid." So here I am basking cleverly in my fortune.
 Lauren has brought over an umbrella so I now have shade all day and am able to use my laptop outside. Luxury indeed!

    This yard has been the scene of many late night libations. Often after work I pour myself one and sit in the quiet dark either watching the stars or moon. There are also those nights when the fog rolls in and I put on my purple fleece before pondering life's mysteries in the cool damp air with something from Scotland warming me from the inside. On nights when the air is calm I listen to the surf repeat its endless music. I wonder why I haven't hung a hammock out here for those times when I dread going in to bed. Perhaps I will.

  This is a fine afternoon and early evening spot as well. It's as good a place to share a bottle of wine as any. My guests over the years have been many and this simple table with the iron grizzly claw I use as a coaster has been the scene of grand and far reaching conversations.
  The garden is also where I sit to talk on the phone, on those rare occasions when I do. Talking on the phone is not one of my strengths and I avoid it as much as possible, Fran being the major exception.

  The most intense phone call I ever made was while sitting near the roses. Although before the call was over I ended up pacing along the guava hedge as tears flowed uncontrollably.
  It was a sunny afternoon, the ocean only a slightly darker blue than the sky, when Fran phoned to tell me I had better call Bobby.  That because of a horrible turn of medical situations he had elected to remove himself from dialysis. Without dialysis I knew he would only have two, maybe three, days left.
  I sat for a bit in the sun rehearsing what I would say to my friend of more than thirty years. My mind numbed for a while and all my thoughts were a mush of incomprehension. I had no choice but to dial and wing it.
  Well, Bobby made it easy on me. "You talk to Fran?" He asked. I said I did. "Then we don't have to talk about my decision. Just know I'm at peace with my choice and know it's the right thing to do."
  I couldn't argue. Over the years Bobby had told me that when his time came, whether it was on his terms or not, he would be ready. We then talked for, I don't know how long, maybe almost an hour. We told stories about our adventures together and what it meant to be friends. We laughed about our foibles and struggles but without regret or shame. We reminisced about family and travels and all the times we had that made us feel lucky. There was much to be thankful for.
  Then the bravest friend (tied with Mide) I've ever had was ready to say goodbye. I asked if I should check in with him tomorrow not being able to believe that this was it. Bobby said no, that he'd be ok. I was at complete loss for what to say. Then he told me to be happy and listen to some good music in the next few days. That it would help me get through the sad stuff. Only Bobby would be more worried about me than he was about himself. He had accepted and was comfortable with his final days on earth. I could tell even over the phone that he was grinning that unique crooked grin of his. Quite possibly through tears. I know my face and shirt were soaked.
  We then each said "I love you." As only old friends can, and then we hung up. Four days later I was on a plane to go to the wake and funeral.

  In my Canyon Ranch tote bag I put my phone, iPad, a bottle of Rosè, two glasses, (you never know who may show up) books, cheese, bread, a Bluetooth speaker, corkscrew, water bottle.
 I loop the strap over my neck and slowly crutch myself down the five steps and negotiate the stone path the six yards to the table. I set up my command post and settle in for a while. I loaf and read and write. Sip wine, snack. I idly wonder how I ever found time to work and if I'll ever have the constitution to fully go back.

  A most decedent interlude. A visit to the Wus in Sacramento for too much wine and over the top food. The first night we enjoy the legendary hospitality of Joanna and Pak at their comfortable home. I've written about their food many times and this family style table was as memorable as any. Pak, as usual, kept our wine glasses full for several hours. The lamb chops were exquisite.
  We were slow moving the next morning but the Wus came to our hotel so the kids could have a swim. Pak went out for some Middle Eastern snacks which we ate poolside. But nothing too filling as we were off to a big dinner.
  Dinner was at The Kitchen, a pre fixe menu where you have your table for the night. I recommend Googling it because I'm not sure I can't do justice to the experience. But here goes. Six courses with wine parings. Breaks between courses when you are encouraged to wander into the large kitchen and avail yourself on such delicacies as oysters, fried olives, cheeses, smoked salmon, paella and much I'm forgetting. Main courses included chilled tomato soup with steelhead caviar and Dungeness crab, smoked pork tartare, seared scallops, roast sirloin with corn ravioli and more desserts than I could count. The chef continually reminds us we are welcome to seconds or thirds of any dish we please. Pak and I overindulged on the scallops. (Which I found an equal to a few weeks later at Toma here in Santa Barbara)
   Lauren and I augmented our experience by splitting a martini, Joanna selected some sakes to go with the scallops and I finished off with a scotch I had never had before. A nineteen year old Benriach. The entire evening was entertaining and unique. I'll tell you honestly it was quite a shindig rivaling that ten hour lunch at Carpenter's restaurant in Phoenix. But that is a story best saved for later.
  The next morning it was off to Berkeley to have lunch at Alice Waters' Chez Panisse, another rarity of a restaurant where we lingered for a large part of the afternoon. I simply had to treat us to a bottle of Domaine Tempier Bandol, a rather delicate rosé that I haven't had in years. In fact it was the last time I ate at Chez Panisse that I had a glass.
  I have spent my life immune to buyers remorse and this was no time to start suffering from such foolishness. Our food bill for the two days was what my old eating pal Chip would call a personal best. Something to be quite proud of.
  Although I have to wonder what dad would say about such blatant extravagance. I suspect he might think it was over the top. Lately, for some reason, I've been thinking about what he would have thought about my odd life in general. Stuff like my injury and no desire to go back to work for a while due to general sloth. My lived in and cluttered beach apartment. My monthly wine bill. Lauren. All the stuff I've accumulated. (Books, music, clothes) What I paid for a bottle of scotch recently, I can see him shaking his head in disbelief. However I don't think it was expensive enough for him to shit his pants. My fading lack of interest in our Red Sox and pretty much any other sporting event. Except maybe for woman's curling which I believe is off season right now. I thirst for his opinion on these and other strange occurrences that seem to come my way with a regularity that is perplexing.

  Now after a few days of the very finer things it's time for a short period of restraint. Cold water, granola, lentil soup, solitude, detox tea, a nap, that sort of thing. A head clearing. An immersion in nature would be helpful but that's some weeks off at best. I substituted a twenty-nine minute rendition of Dark Star from Europe 72 as I lie on my bed absorbing the sounds as a meditator would concentrate on chants. I, however, doubt my reflections are any more enlightening or soulful. But I'm not sure how to measure these things.
   A few days later the first hints of autumn are in the air. In fact, tomorrow is the Equinox. The day started out overcast and cool with slight scents of decay on the light breeze. Crows flocked raucously through the neighborhood. Later on the wind picks up and from my front door I can see huge whitecaps on the ocean. A steady wind catches the umbrella and knocks over the table. Luckily I'm retired to the chair on the stoop. The neighborhood quickly becomes dusty. I'm relishing a martini and flipping though Thoreau's Autumnal Tints. Thoreau and gin, odd bedfellows for sure. The sober naturalist combined with the slight feeling of euphoria brought on by the chilled Darnley's View (from London of course) with a hint of lemon is an elegant mixture. I round off the afternoon by putting on the Keith Jarrett Trio live at the Blue Note. The twenty-three minute magnificent version of Autumn Leaves completes the scene perfectly. I know it would be too much to ask for a burst of New England foliage. But I'll be back there soon enough.

   I'm stir crazy. Dare I brave the short walk to Shoreline on crutches. Well...  Of course I do. In my rucksack I put a book (Herzog by Bellow) and water, a sweatshirt and my iPad. It takes me fifteen minutes to get to Vicky's bench and I'm winded. But the ocean! It's the first time in a month that I'm able to breath in the salty air and watch Pelicans, dragonflies and sailboats. I'm euphoric. My foot throbs and I try to ignore it. Perhaps I'll have to take a Narco later, but for now I sit in the sun relishing my tiny slice of independence. I vow that the moment the road to Glacier Point is open next Spring I'm hiking the Panorama Trail!
  I crutch back home, it takes a little longer and according to my iPhone the round trip is .28 miles. A far far cry from my usual morning saunter of six or seven or the fourteen of the Panorama Trail. But I gotta start somewhere.
  Back in the garden I celebrate with a glass of rosé and read Bellow. It's an afternoon of birds. The crows are up to their usual antics, a hummingbird sits still in the peach tree, the California towhees rustle in the flowers and a flock of tiny grey birds work their way through the guava hedge before moving on up the street. The closest I can figure from Ken Kaufman's Lives of North American Birds is that they are Bushtits. No kidding.

 Lauren is at work so I make some ramen as the day darkens. The night cools and I put on Janos Starker playing Bach's solo cello concertos. I finish the rosé sitting in the dark yard as the music soothes my tired mind. The stars overhead, as usual, look on with total indifference. What could be more natural?

 Prolonged sedentariness leads to vivid dreams that stoke the fire of wanderlust. One morning I wake up with an aching need to be climbing Mount Carrauntoohil, Ireland's highest peak. Years ago I did it with Aidan Bradley's cousins and friends and Lisa and Brenda. Aidan called off due to a bum knee.
  There were about twenty of us in all. Carrauntoohil is in County Kerry a short drive from Killorglin, where we were staying for a few days before heading to Dingle.
  We met at the base of the mountain on a typical misty and blustery day. And while it was overcast visibility wasn't bad as we started through a muddy bog-like pasture before finally coming upon the trail proper. It rained off and on but nothing serious. The air was cool and heavy as we tramped up the slope.
  Our hosts let us Californians tag along and they were as full of questions about the states as we were about Dingle, Middleton, Cashel, the Puck Fair, castles, and all the charming taverns that slowed our progress when driving through the lush countryside.
 The summit was dreary under darkening clouds but a buoyant mood prevailed as we celebrated our accomplishment and posed for pictures next to the tall cross and then huddled next to rock windbreaks to keep warm. Being Ireland flasks appeared and a few toasts were made. We tarried for a while enjoying the vistas before starting the descent. Going was slow since the the rocky slopes were slippery from the rain. So we slogged along our cheerful way looking forward a cozy room and a warm glass. And Aidan read our minds because when we got back to the cottage he had a bottle of 21 year old Bushmills waiting. Imagine my delight. We savored a few sips while changing into dry clothes before heading to town for dinner.
  Such are my memories this morning as my foot throbs while encased in the heavy black boot that keeps me from twisting my ankle but makes me lopsided.

  I decide five weeks into this life-of-the-crutch that it's time to set them aside for a minute or thirty and attempt to hobble over to Shoreline using one of Ted Eksuzian's handmade canes. A relic from the old neighborhood that I've kept for more than thirty-five years. It's an engraved and polished stick from the woods at the end of Dove street where the Eksuzian house was at the road's dead end. One of Ted's hobbies was carving out ornate canes, walking sticks and staffs. He gave them away as gifts to everyone from friends, the neighborhood kids, people he met at stores or restaurants to several presidents of the United States. I own a modest collection. And now after all these years I have an opportunity to see if they are as useful as they are beautiful. I have adorned my stick by wrapping a tie-dye bandana around the handle to improve the grip as well as add a touch of flair. Letting my old freak flag fly as it were.

  I am feeling brave and strong and push all my foolish thoughts aside and slowly, yet deliberately, plod over to the park. It takes me ten minutes to cover the short distance to Vicky's bench. It's a beautiful day, cloudless and calm. There is no surf and no surfers. The ocean is flat and peaceful, pacific. The water is clean and clear. Visibility looks to be about ten feet, pretty good I'd say.  A few shorebirds float on the gentle tiny waves in the middle of the cove. The islands are in sharp focus.
 I saunter another quarter mile to a bench facing the islands and sit in the sunshine for a half an hour. My thoughts are scattered but for the most part calm. The foot doesn't throb nearly as much as I thought it would. But I'm not sure if I can endure five more weeks of looking at this ugly boot. Although I'm not complaining about all the sympathy drinks I've been sponsored. I hobble back home and wait for Johnny Reilly to pick me up for an afternoon of errands. And perhaps one of those drinks.

  I give the crutches another few days and then I switch to the cane permanently. It certainly feels like progress.  To be continued.....