September 11, 2001

     I was in my grandmother's Italian hill town (Ariano-Irpino) that day. I had just had lunch with my friend Milena and we were walking back to her classroom for her afternoon sessions. She ran the English Lab School where she taught English, as well as Italian, French, and Spanish. 
     As we reached her class at the top of the stairs, an awaiting student starting talking to her excitedly. Milena translated what was being said. 
     Her first words were, "A plane hit the tower in New York." My immediate thought was "ooo, bad airport accident."
     The student explained more to Milena, who then turned and said, "Two planes hit the tower!" As she turned back to the student who was telling her more, I thought, "wow, a really bad airport accident!"
     Then came the words that put me in shock: "And a plane hit the Pentagon!" 
     She had to stay and teach her class, so I walked alone down the hill to my hotel. After somehow contacting my kids in San Diego to be sure they were safe, I watched TV for hours. Milena should have pluralized the word tower, or said Twin Towers, but maybe her student's information, or Milena's English, didn't translate it that way for me. 
     The broadcasts seemed surreal, not only for what was being reported, but for the way in which I saw them. All the English language broadcasts were overdubbed in Italian, and I understand almost no spoken Italian. All the chyrons at the bottom were overwritten in Italian, so I couldn't read any updates in English. I had limited channels to choose from in this rural area, but the videos and photos told me more than I ever wanted to know. 

    I immediately went to the phone in the lobby and called my kids in San Diego, worrying that attacks might have happend there to the headquarters of the Pacific Fleet, to the research institutes, to the military bases. All was okay in San Diego, except for the shared horror of the morning. 
    The next morning, I went down to the lobby for breakfast. The dozens of guests already there were quiet, and I felt like all eyes were on me—the poor American. I imagined, maybe hoped, that they were quiet out of kindness and respect for the tragedy that had just happened.
     That was eleven years ago, but it's still so real for me. 
     And still so surreal.

Bob's Big Boy—The "Way Back" Machine

     Bob's Big Boy is a restaurant chain that started in the 1930s. I think I first heard about them when I was in high school in the mid-'60s and remember being absolutely stunned that they had two patties in one hamburger sandwich...so innovative!
     After I got married and my kids were old enough for us to enjoy a restaurant experience, we would go there. After trick-or-treating one particular Halloween when they were about four and five, we went there. My son was the cowboy, and my daughter was the little witch all dressed in black. In those days, they were young enough to share a fish and chips dinner and be full afterwards. They passed along the salad to one of us because neither of them wanted it. Of course, we had to take a picture next to the tall Bob's Big Boy statue out front. My husband and I remember when the time came for them to each get their own dinner. They were growing up.
     Years later, when my husband and I were at the brink of breaking up, I took the kids to Bob's Big Boy for lunch, and I told them what was about to happen. They were 12 and 13 at the time. My daughter, unusually quiet, sat there, just absorbing the words; but my son spoke up. He said, "Great. That's all I need...divorced parents." My heart vaporized within me. 
     Back then, I was singing nearly every night in a local rock band, so the kids stayed with their dad, in their own home. He worked weekends, so I spent most of mine with the kids. We enjoyed the local mountains or the beach or Balboa Park; but quite often, those weekends included a meal at Bob's Big Boy, so we collected many more memories.
     These days, sighting a Bob's Big Boy is quite rare, but there is still one in town, so I invited my son, his wife, and their two daughters for dinner tonight. We oohed and ahhed over the Original Big Boy Combo and the hot fudge cake dessert on the menu, looking the same as they had more then 20 years earlier. 
     Kevin and I laughed together has he told his two daughters, ages nine and five, about him progressing from sharing a meal with his sister, to having his own combo plate, to moving on to the spaghetti with chili. Lily dabbled at eating her mac and cheese; but Kyra had the best applesauce and the best cheeseburger (only meat and cheese for her) ever! We found out that kids eat for free, so you know they'll be back. 
     And, once more, my son and I stood out front next to the Bob's Big Boy statue and took photos. 
     Tonight at dinner, I got the warm glow of having a reunion—not just with family, not just with one of my children, but with my entire past and with my children as teenagers and youngsters. 
     Bob's Big Boy proved to be more than just another restaurant tonight. It was a "Way Back" Machine of sorts, taking us 'way back' into happy memories while creating yet another for us to tuck away for future smiles.

Harder to Fall

     There is the old phrase "the bigger they are, the harder they fall". That might apply to our expectations in love. At least for us older folks.
     We fell in love more easily when we were younger. We suffered our share of breakups along the way; so, as we got older, we lowered our expectations.
     We don't expect to find someone who would be perfectly suited to us. At least not easily.
     Because we learned about compromise, we know we will not find someone whose views and opinions match ours. Not exactly.
     We expect that "all the good ones" are taken, so we have to settle for second best.
     No, you are saying, this is not true. I agree. But we have grown a bit numb to the process.
     And that's where we run into trouble.
     We have learned to ignore our expectations. We won't consider fanciful expectations, until they look like more of a sure thing than they used to. We tend to ignore them until they go away. Unless we fall in love.
     That is when all the blood drains from our brain and we again do stupid things, like daydreaming about a future as half of a loving couple, imagining our new sweetie pie being fawned over at family events, even envisioning that certain ceremony that unites two into one....
     The deeper we fall, the less the brain works, the more hope takes over, and the bigger our expectations become.
     Then reality strikes. The feet turn cold. The looming commitment is spurned. Our big expectations tumble.
     And the bigger they are, the harder they fall....

A, B, C, C, C, C, ....

     My friend Rachel's husband died yesterday in the small, dark hours before dawn. She is only 33. Her husband Brian was 41. They were married not even six years. Their son Lucas, who they call Luke, is about three.

     She is a friend, but I never actually met Brian. Rachel is the daughter of José, who I dated for about a dozen years, mostly during the '90s. 

     Rachel was about nine when I first met her. Our August birthdays are one day apart, and we are both typical Leos, but in our different, generationally-appropriate ways.

     I saw her a couple of times during my time with her dad, but knew her mainly through his words, his memories of her as a toddler: her straight, black hair hanging down to her 'culito'—his Spanish term for her baby bottom; or, after his divorce, Rachel standing at the screen door, crying her eyes out, watching him walk away after a visit. He said those moments killed him. 

     In 1997, before my son's wedding, I wanted a make-over and went to see Rachel at Merle Norman's. 

    José and I broke up the next year, but stayed in touch. Rachel knew that, and she called me in 2003 when her dad was hospitalized in a coma. She told me he might not make it. I immediately drove the hundred miles to sit with him. He didn't move; but, for one last time, I held his hand; told him how much I still loved him; that I knew how much he loved me, too; and that it was okay to let go and find peace.

     He, too, died later that evening, in the small, dark hours before dawn.

     I lost track of Rachel for awhile, but somehow found her again. Maybe it was Facebook. I can't remember. Rachel posted her life on Facebook, telling when Brian's cancer was treated, went into remission, or resurfaced. Her friends rallied around her.

     I baked a carrot cake for them, coincidentally Brian's favorite. Rachel was to meet me to pick it up, but sent her sister instead. Brian had taken sick very suddenly and had to be rushed to the hospital.

     At another time, we were to meet for lunch. After waiting awhile, I called her. Oh, no, you have the right date and time, she told me through her tears; then apologized because she was at the hospital with Brian. He had again taken a sudden turn for the worst.

     In 2011, we got together for dinner and talked long about her situation, and also about José, laughing and sharing stories. She knew he was no saint, but we agreed that we loved him dearly and we knew how much he loved us in return. 

     In early 2012, Brian was admitted to the hospice on an urgent basis, something that would recur several times before he passed. Rachel came to my place that first time, in tears over his suffering, her heart breaking for fear of losing the love of her life, about Luke losing his dad, about Brian's own sorrow for not being there for Luke as he grows up, and about her fears of coping afterwards. So much for one to take on...at any age.

     A, B, C, C, C, the Big C, Cancer, Cancer, Cancer. That's what took Brian yesterday. That's what took my ex's wife of 20 years in 2009. What took my dad in 1990. And my mom in 1982. And friends. And classmates.

     On Facebook, I see so many posts of anti-cancer images and slogans, with entreaties for all of us to 'like' and 'share' them "if you are against cancer." If? Are you serious?

     A, B, C, C, C, ... C me die. C me die. C me die....

Past Lives; Past Loves

     How strange is it to have someone waltz back into your life after nearly twenty years—someone you've known for near half a century. The talk come easily; memories are shared; warm embraces exchanged; plans made for lunch, a walk on the beach, a ballgame.
     I find myself joining in, yet holding back. It might take awhile for me to open my heart again to welcome someone in as a partner, a lover. Not out of fear, but out of lack of practice! Maybe I've lived alone for too long now. It seems that those 'old feelings' of companionship and love need some dusting off....