Blessings on My 91st Birthday

So yesterday I celebrated my ninety-first turn around the—what orb is it, moon? sun? gosh I forget…is that a sign of old age? Very like…

It was a day-and-a-half. Began with my husband’s poem—oh, what a treat, having your very own original poem from your poet husband!

To accompany the pot of our local Alta’s Wild Women coffee (fresh-ground from beans), I happily opened the huge package of Racine Danish Kringles—Almond!—sent from Wisconsin by my cousin Joanne and her husband, David. My grandmother is Joanne’s great-grandmother—thus we are cousins separated by a generation. Joanne is a brilliant Jewish genealogist…so fortunate to have your very own genealogist in one’s family. The Shers are generous and dear.

Happy Birthday call sung by cherished Julia Azrael Willens and her Earl now awaiting son David’s first child. Julia and I go waaaaay back…

Then I opened an e-card from my technical Guardian Keeper Counselor, Jeanette Lundgren…with Kevin Bacon sitting on a bale of hay singing a song just to me… Jeanette says there are two more cards waiting…yum. Jeanette and I share an appreciation of Blue Mountain cards.

Then opening a package I’d been wondering about, from my children in Santa Monica, Amanda and Jim. It is a book: The English Understand Wool by Helen DeWitt. Later Jim told me it was recommended by Ann Patchett in one of her monthly videos from her Parnassus bookshop in Nashville. The novel, said Jim, is a very fast read, and mesmerizing. Cannot wait. It’s been a long time since I’ve actually sat down and read a book…usually I listen to a book and knit. Now I’ll have the old pleasure of reading...

More e-cards—from my cherished friend of the years BB (Before Bill) Dale Tate…Gene’s nephew and his wife, Theo and Susan Philips…dear first-Santa-Cruz friend Linda Charman…

The celebration plan was to begin with a family breakfast at The Silver Spur—fave breakfast restaurant in these parts, hefty menu (Bill loves their bacon which, alas, is rationed in this house). I usually treat myself to their enormous blueberry pancakes, but yesterday there was French toast heaped with slices of strawberries/kiwis/oranges/bananas plus blueberries slathered with whipped cream on top, oh my.

At The Silver Spoon I tucked on front and center the 4-inch wide ruffled pink pin I’d found in April for Bill: “It’s My Birthday!” So that when I walked through the crowded restaurant, kind diners as I passed would say, “Happy Birthday!” A pretty little girl in blue gingham came over, leaned close to me, stood on tiptoe, looked up at me and whispered, “Happy Birthday!”  I asked her name, she said, “Lily.” Ah. But then in a moment passing a table with a family obviously celebrating, I heard a woman’s voice, “It’s HER birthday, too!” I stopped, looked down at a pretty young girl facing up at me. “Oh! How old are you?” “Twelve…” “Well, I’m ninety-one, what-do-you-think-of THAT?” She didn’t know what to think of it, she just kept smiling up at me. Lovely moment.

And then a bit of unwanted distress. As I was walking out of the restaurant to the car, I inexplicably felt dizzy… “What is THIS?!!!?” I kept asking myself, annoyed I’d forgotten my walking stick and was perambulating unsteadily. I managed to catch up with Bill and hang onto him, and—against my usual judgment of not worrying him—stand on tiptoe to tell him, “I’m feeling dizzy…”

Oy.

The beauty part is that we were on our way to an appointment at our cardiologist’s for me to be uploaded with a heart monitor (byproduct of my day and night in the hospital after my passing out three days ago). We drove there—dear William driving. Will I ever get used to not being able to slide into our beloved Rav 4 behind the wheel, snuggle comfortably into the seat, and carefully back out of our driveway? The answer is no. Alas. But hell, I’ve had a good run–since I was sixteen and only one small fender-bender.

At the doctor’s office, I was able to be taken into a room early, as I needed to lie down. Alas, dears, my blood pressure was down to 79, oooph, but fortunately an EKG was normal. So I sat it out, drank glasses of water and stayed calm. Apparently a couple of meds I’ve been given for high blood pressure got themselves overdosed (no complaint about any of my doctors, they are, to a person, marvelous). “Just don’t take the losartan and hydrochlorothiazide till you talk to Dr. Sawhney next week, OK?” So now I’m down to just one med at night, the one that helps control my cholesterol. And a baby aspirin. Fine with me.

So heart monitor in place, no longer feeling woozy, we came home. I did some proof reading on our novel—newly entitled Death in Costa Bella. And the phone began to ring again. Cherished longtime friend Danielle—a survivor of painful as well as joyous times in my past—Danielle knew Katie and Maggie–son David’s children– as little girls–calling from L.A.

Granddaughter Maggie called from Corsica—oh oh oh. Her bouquet of rust and gold roses arrived not long after. Our coach Hollis called—it was Friday morning and we weren’t in place, but he knew why. And serendipitously, then came to the door adorable Ruti, incomparable gym friend—awe-inspiring Israeli who’s served in the military, is fond of praising or adjusting my make-up, has made herself guardian of my presentation of self—much appreciated. Ruti is a great cook and baker, and in a sack was her warm banana nut bread crowned with a Happy Birthday in silver script. I cut and delighted in a big warm slice at once, asked Bill to hide the loaf so it wouldn’t all disappear before our second slice. How dear and generous of busy Ruti!

More bouquets came to the door…a luscious bunch of peonies, ranunculus, roses, dahlias, stock, lisianthus…reds and oranges and pinks in a handsome vase…from Bill’s daughter, Catharine. Just then, coincidentally, came a call from Catharine’s son Arthur, in Paris. How super. Another coincidence, Catharine’s brother Bill and his wife Carla called from Peru with Cameron and sister Sophia.

And another bouquet, roses as gloriously orange and red as a Santa Cruz sunset…from granddaughter Katie, boyfriend Taylor, and Katie’s begetter Geoffrey–this bouquet with big fat white lilies—Geoff’s addition, Kate told me this morning.Granddaughter James aka Frannie and her extraordinary Christopher called–James fresh from visiting in Hawaii stopping by to pick up their pup Joey at Amanda and Jim’s on their way home to their new apartment in London…I almost promised we’d visit (it’s a very slim likelihood at this point, but hope springs, as you know).

My best friend from Bancroft Junior High School, Susan Johnson Goodrich sent a note…reminded me she is a year older because I skipped a grade. When did I do that?

Oh my goodness, then I looked at Facebook. Father Joe, who married us, retired many years, wished me Happy Birthday. Several daughters of my mother’s and father’s friends were there, wow. Choir friends, Idyllwild friends, Malibu friends, amazing amazing and marvelous. Most grateful.

And then it was suppertime. The kids had promised to make the supper. What dish? Bill’s grandson Jordan asked—and then he astonished me by saying, “You want it from that Otto—Otto guy?” “Ottolenghi?” I asked. “Yeah, him, want something from him?” Wow. I didn’t know Jordan’s friend Lena was a gifted cook. The two of them went through my Ottolenghi library, were pleased to find the volume titled, Simple, and they produced a superb—I mean gorgeous—supper based on “Pasta with Pecorino and Pistachios.” The pasta was something I’d never seen, trofie from Abruzzi—our neighborhood New Leaf Market actually had it. It’s little squiggles, quite unusual, these interspersed with small chunks of bias-cut snow peas, nuggets of pistachios, subtle underneath flavors of anchovies, lemon, and pecorino. An inspired dish and Lena prepared it to perfection. She also made a perfect tossed salad (I polished off bits of cucumber and cherry tomatoes for breakfast this morning—do you also like leftover salad? Even the wilted leaves are yummy I find). For dessert, Bill had given the kids his card and from The Buttery, Santa Cruz’s legendary bakeshop, they brought home a beautiful white-frosted two-layer dark chocolate cake with marionberry filling. The top was decorated with a greeting of my name and one red candle. Sublime.

More cell phone calls—literally from all over the world—and more eletters. More from Bill’s beloved family…they seem to regard me as one-among them now…

After supper Bill wanted to count how many people touched base. We stopped around seventy family and friends generously remembering my birthday.

And then there was the coup de grace. Cameron’s card. Longtime readers will remember that Bill’s grandson who was born in Santa Cruz but whose family now livein  his mother’s native Peru, Cameron lived with us and went to local schools for three years, then this last year stayed to be home-schooled in Peru. But now he’s coming back to graduate from Santa Cruz High School! So happy. Well, Cameron’s card—when I saw it in my Inbox, I admired it as a charming commercial card, and wrote him, “For a moment I thought it was your art, Cameron!”  Cameron replied, “It is my art, I’m glad you enjoyed it.” I’m afraid the technology of editing a photograph for these pages is still beyong me, but just look at the face of that giraffe (I’ll try to keep working on revealing it)…as sweet as the young man who drew it.

One thing recently touched me deeply. A reader—no idea of her age or place—wrote she enjoys reading about my “fabulous” life. That rocked me. Fabulous? If she saw my study…the state of our garden…the piles I leave around me… Of my ninety-six year-old husband who makes our bed each morning…insists on doing our laundry…who won’t let me help him set out the garbage on Thursday nights (no, I do get to lug out the bucket of kitchen scraps)…who is ever ever ever patient, generous, and loving with me…

My life, I will agree with her, is fabulous in one way: with love and family and friends. If I remember times in my life when I’d think about these years—the years after Gene died when he took drama with him—I could never have imagined how happy I’d be. How blessed. Blessed blessed blessed. I don’t know your definition of fabulous, but to me, my life is indeed fabulously blessed. All thanks to a retired professor of eighteenth century literature and film studies—and writer and uber-generous friend.

Oh gosh, and more thanks to an eighty-eight pound eight year-old, our glorious German Shepherd daughter, Uschi.

Ninety-two.

On my way I hope.