No Scone Left Unturned

This week, unfortunately, I stumbled across a recipe for scones in the New York Times. I don’t know how I could have gotten to the ripe old age of fifty-hand-over-mouth-mumble without knowing how ridiculously easy scones are to make. And now that I’ve lost the illusion of them as something only English people (who seem ever so much more clever than we) can whip up, Lord help me. And you, if you’ve clicked on the link above. Curse you, Susan Guerrero!

Today I made two batches, telling myself that I would share them with others; when Jimmie eschewed a hot fresh scone for a Thomas’ English Muffin this morning, I knew I was really in the danger zone.

And yet, that wasn’t the first good idea I had this week. Yesterday, at the end of the work week, Jimmie and I scootered over to the park for a half hour, happening upon a flash-mob of toddlers all under 3 playing with their parents in a postage stamp of green grass in the center of the park. It was adorable. A diverse group of parents, from the nearly neglectful rockers languishing on a bench as their tow-haired two-year-old dashed madly around the grass, to the maniacally kiss-crazy mom chasing behind her son chortling, “Good job, Joey!” every two seconds. It seemed to be the only thing she could come up with to say, but her adoring offspring suffered her kisses with a delighted smile, giggling into the falling tendrils of his mother’s hair. Meanwhile, his father stood nearby waiting for the two of them to notice he was there. A pair of doting grandparents sat on a bench reading, watching their late twenties daughter tossed a ball with her Boden-clad daughter, sparking the question, “Who wears a skirt to the park to play?” Such a mean-girls thought seemed inhospitable in the midst of “the children’s hour.”

There must have been 13 under-threes in the group. I wondered whether they were a club. They all seemed to know each other, and there were companionable grownup chats happening around the perimeter of the grass at benches such as ours. It was only when I saw a caravan of strollers forming, winding away from us toward the playground area that I remembered seeing the film crew breaking down their setup as we’d entered the park. I noted that the yellow caution tape had been removed from the perimeter of the playground. So, yes, they did know each other because they all shared the same playground at the same time of day. Mystery solved.

Jimmie and I remained in companionable togetherness on our bench, chatting about an idea for a play I’d just had. I hasten to add that this idea comes from the same hare-brained place that the idea to make three batches of scones in as many days comes from, but here it is.

Spin-Cycle: The play takes place in two acts featuring the early morning denizens of a gym to the rumpled, linty late night hijinks of a laundromat. Producers, don’t despair! You could utilize the same cast members, because god knows the morning people make dirty clothes apace. Tag line: What goes around comes around.

Brilliant, right? No, Els, it is not.

These are the idle meanderings of someone whose brain is task-saturated. And that’s my home life. Last week, Jimmie and I careened from doctor’s office to doctor’s office to lab to X-Ray, in preparation for his procedure next Thursday, the same day Brett Kavanaugh most likely becomes the next member of the Supreme Court. Despite that inauspicious coincidence, I have no reason to believe our procedure won’t go well and Jimmie will thrive afterwards. But I’ve become dizzy with details for managing his pain and prep. Simple screwups like the fact that it turns out I’d been overdosing him with Motrin for several weeks.

And so, I’m baking. Never a good sign; since I do spend so much time “researching my first play” at the gym, baking is a self-sabotaging act of dietary regression, and I can see it’s resulting bulges through my sweaty togs. On the other hand, I rediscovered the fascination of cooking good food as well, when Jimmie’s great niece, Niki, came through last weekend, demonstrating the beauty of well-cooked greens and delicately grilled cumin-flavored potatoes with swordfish. 995E7EB8-58E0-4BD9-B03B-9F54A336EE08This morning I cut the beet greens off the beets I’d bought and made a lovely chopped beet and onion sauté to go with my brown rice and scrambled egg breakfast. Which I promptly followed with a maple walnut scone chaser. Slathered in Earth Balance…

So hit me up if you want a tin of scones or some good play ideas. I clearly have plenty of both.

 

My Sanctuary, Fitness

Last November, my gym of 3 years standing folded. Days before Thanksgiving, without any warning, all of the inhabitants of that (insert old gym’s name here) community were rather unceremoniously kicked to the curb. I walked by the still-empty storefront the other day, and rather than feeling the familiar ire about the situation, I felt the curiosity of potential for that space. But those thoughts drifted away like the soft whispy clouds of a late summer’s afternoon as soon as I had walked past.

Transitions are hard. Change is hard. Change is good. Transitions are good.

Working out has become as important to my sustainability as, well, breathing. Dropping my five workouts a week because my gym closed, wasn’t an option. I rely on the cardio workout to reset my brain, my psyche, my attitude. If I go for several days without working out, I find myself grumpier, more prone to look at the dark side of things, just not as even keeled as my life requires that I be.

As a result of having lost my workout home, I began exploring other options. I investigated Pilates, SpeedPlay, Sync Yoga and Spin, and eventually accepted an invitation from one of my favorite sweat-sisters, Allyzon, to try out her new spot, Sanctuary Fitness. Their logo is Peace through perspiration. Couldn’t have said it better.

There were a lot of reasons I shouldn’t like it. My old gym had been right around the corner, about 200 steps from my bed. I had to get in my car to get to this new gym, but of course, at 5:30, there’s not a lot of traffic. I had to feed the meter, but that proved to not be too big an impediment. And after a few mornings of the new ritual, it became comfortable.

I love the physical plant of Sanctuary Fitness. There is a spacious foyer with friendly folks personning the front desk. They give you towels to use, though for some reason I still bring my graying (insert old gym’s name here) towels to sweat into. It’s a little Linus-like, I suppose, my last link to familiarity.

And sure enough, most likely due to the power of my sister in sweat, Allyzon, I noticed familiar faces from (insert old gym’s name here) showing up. The bikes are better. There are weights, and sometimes elastic bands to work the upper body while you are riding. The bike shows metrics with average watts, rpms, calories, miles, etc. It’s accountability at it’s best. And by the time I get home to make a second cup of tea, I have the results waiting for me in an email.

IMG_234793692C01-1

In addition to spin, they have High Intensity Interval Training (HIIT) classes, which I sprinkle twice throughout the week just to remind me that I’m twice as old as almost everyone in the class but my body still works (more or less). The instructors are encouraging, as in encouraging us all away from the comfort of our beds, our comfort zones, our patterns.

For me, fitness is my sanctuary. I’m in much better shape now than I was in my forties, or possibly my thirties. The ritual of getting up, going to the gym, making some time for me, seeing my friends every morning (because I now go 7 days a week, btw), is critical to my hanging in there for another day of whatever life brings me. I appreciate this need for ritual because many of the other things that are ritualized for me are not as personally satisfying and a little more grueling than the forty-five minutes of sweat equity I get at Sanctuary.

So thank you to all the trainers, Allyzon T., Brandon H., Kevin, Reed, and all my workout buddies for the Sanctuary respite that I need and for kicking my butt.

Recharging Our Batteries

Sometimes there’s a synchronicity in things that borders on breathtaking. This week it’s about batteries.

  • Your alta fit bit battery is low.
  • Your internet isn’t functioning (four calls and a trip to Staples to buy a new Uninterrupted Power Supply when the old one was fine) only to discover it was indeed the modem. A trip to the Beverly Center where you discover there is no Spectrum Store. A glance out the window indicates that it is at the Beverly Connection, which to the Spectrum technician on the phone was the same thing, I guess. After 15 minutes there, I finally noticed the board where our names were listed in order of being helped. I was #22. I plugged in my earbuds and waited, doing some people-watching.
  • Jimmie’s scooter battery dies while his niece Stella is visiting and they are in the park necessitating a full tilt push of the device back to the apartment. (I’ve been there before – humiliating, ridiculous, a test of the humanity of others.) God love Stella. When I returned, I found them at home drinking Starbucks beverages, so she pushed him to Starbucks and then home, something that I wouldn’t ever have done.

Anyway, you can see the theme here. Recharging batteries.

Summer is about recharging our batteries. The days at work are shorter in the summertime, and there are fewer interruptions, allowing us to organize the puzzle that is the following academic year’s season.

More time for visits from family and friends. More time to give back. This summer I’ve started recording interviews with some of the West Coast stage manager notables, for the Stage Manager’s Association “Standing in the Dark” series of podcasts. Selfishly, this allows me time with friends and mentors like Jimmie McDermott, and Mary K Klinger.

IMG_0542
Els and Jimmie and Mr. Bighead, of course. 6/22/18

More time for following our grandbaby’s exploits on the Insta feed.

IMG_0535
Granddaughter Skylar’s joyful mud discovery during a recent Father’s Day camping trip with Mom and Dad.

We had a captivating visit with Stella followed by one from Jen and S. Extraordinary people and we are so lucky to have them in our lives. On the last day, S found a green worm on its way to our tomato pot on the balcony, and brought it inside, where it writhed and danced on her tiny finger like a tiny green belly dancer before finding sanctuary on a full leaf of Romaine lettuce where she proceeded to eat several large holes in the leaf, in a perfectly round shape.

IMG_0572

More time for reading the Sunday paper, especially when your internet modem dies a horrible death. More time to discover to your infinite pleasure that Jonathan Franzen doesn’t seem to give a whit about social media and adores birding. I knew I felt a kinship to him.

More time for finding and using the sweat glands, more time for explosive step ups in HIIT class, and more time for fitbit Workweek Challenges posed by former students. I’m coming for you, Ashley S!

More time for reading. I just finished reading Todd Purdum’s book, Something Wonderful, Rodgers and Hammerstein’s Broadway Revolution, a beautifully researched and entertaining dive into the history of American Musical Theatre, a subject high on my radar of late. Apparently high on other peoples’ reading lists as well, as this photo and Guardian article revealed. But enough of that. I’m recharging my batteries. No perp walk for me. I told my husband as I got about half-way through the book,

Lucky you! I’m going to sing all the lyrics I encounter.

Which turned into one of the sweetest pastimes we’ve had. Out of the murky depths of our long fused, long term memory banks came the swells of the live theatrical shows of his youth and mostly televised shows from mine. Granted we sounded a little closer to Archie and Edith on the piano bench than Shirley Jones and Gordon MacRae,  but nevertheless, it was lovely. We beamed at each other.

Summer brings the crunchy, sweet wholesomeness of cherries, watermelon, lighter evenings and the prospect of summer vacation on the horizon. A week of unscheduled recreation with family. Time to attend book signings by friends, and to go to the movies.

In essence, time to recharge our batteries.

SpeedPlay with The Reformer

It’s traumatic to lose your gym after four years of an established routine of working out. Instructors I loved, a block from home, face it, I was spoiled. I could pour out of bed at 5:30 and saddle up by 6:15 with a cup of milky tea in the left bottle holder, and a water bottle in the right.

I had a community of friends who I worked out with. I didn’t know them well, but I knew them by name, I knew their individual gym strengths and habits. We all had our specific bikes that we headed for, mine in the way back left side of the studio, no matter if it was a small class, I still liked the bike closest to the window, behind the open doors, for air and people watching. Sophie and Christina rode the bikes in the front row, one or two to the right of the instructor. Lynn, who came on Saturday mornings and did the spin portion of the class, spun her heart out on the bike in front of me, sporting Canadian t-shirts and a sporty cap with the bill pointed up like she was riding in the Grand Prix. André, who always put his cycling shoes on in the lobby, chatting amiably with the instructors, and Xin, who always took the bike to his left, and who’s delicate tattoo I admired as much as her pace on the sprints. Gordana who had her coffee cup, which she stowed in the cubbies during yoga and returned to after putting us all to shame with her yogic prowess.

Sophie, Brian and I formed a team for the marathon ride last June, were we rode pretty much non-stop for three hours to raise money for a Cancer association. Sophie occasionally brought her adorable daughter, Charlotte, to Saturday morning classes, where she would sit and quietly play with her ipad, then move to her yoga mat with enviable flexibility, giggling throughout the class. It was charming.

On Saturdays, I ceded my left window seat to wise, intrepid Ellen, with whom I could discuss our latest theatre samplings, and who finally convinced me to go to the Pageant of the Masters for the first time since we moved to LA in 1986. I miss her wry sense of humor as we groaned together on adjacent mats in the Yoga room, the two elder stateswomen of the classes. The last Saturday, as a moving truck jockied around on the street outside for fifteen minutes before pulling away, I joked.

Maybe it’s the repo man coming for the bikes.

Since the abrupt closure of our gym, I’ve been reminded of how much my exercise dollars are in demand, and through the ClassPass App, I’m discovering various workouts in the DTLA area. Last Saturday, I took a demo class at Club Pilates DTLA followed up with two more classes this week that left every muscle in my body aching, but with a renewed sense of excitement about the forced change-up this closure has necessitated. And face it, I’ve reached the Pilates phase of my life, right? I’ve always associated it with women in their 50s though again, I was the oldest one there. Anything that involves equipment with the quaint moniker of “The Reformer” is surely something a grandmother needs.

This morning, I worked out at SpeedPlay DTLA, an interval training gym where, for 60 minutes, we did a series of nine-minute workouts on a rowing machine, floor work, and treadmill. The instructor, Jenny, asked the three of us if there were any injuries she needed to be aware of before we started.

Yeah, I’m old. My body doesn’t work as well as it used to.

And walking back home with Sophie and Christina, it was all I could do to stay vertical. But really, all this chatter about exercise is just the entree to the real Reformer of my holiday season. IMG_7202She stands about 2.5′ tall, and has a will of steel. To draw a parallel with the Pilates Reformer, she’s two reds and a green. Don’t get me wrong. I love the stretch and endless entertainment she provides. Spending time with our granddaughter reminds us of the rigors of parenting. I am so impressed with her parents’ unflappability and good humor. Toddlers are mercurial creatures. There’s really no way of knowing where they’re going from moment to moment. Everything is a process of discovery and learning. My Reformer is learning the ABC song, for example, which she sings with intent focus and a little lack of clarity in the EFG section. Her intervals are fast, as I learned after chasing her in her socks across the gritty soil near the Natural History Museum outdoor café, with dozens of parents and grandparents watching as I grabbed the back of her shirt and she went down face first in the gravel, bursting into angry tears. Good one, Nana.

On the flip side, she has an unwavering sense of wonder that only seeing things for the very first time in your life can induce, and the ripple effect of that wonder is a delight to all around her.

Having a spirited toddler in the house is a reminder that life is unpredictable and we must stay flexible in our approach to new challenges. Like the moment when her parents slipped out to get some sushi while we were eating the delicious-if-I-do-say-so mac and cheese I’d made. Like heat lightning followed by a midwestern summer storm, her face collapsed, melting from noodle concentration to an instantaneous and very audible obsession with the loss of parental security. She wedged her tiny body in the corner by the door and wailed for the next 6 hours. Okay. I’m exaggerating. At least if felt like that. I finally resorted to 52-card pick up to distract her, after trying numerous other approaches. Nothing but seeing Nana lose control of those cards over and over and over and over and over again would console her. Later, when we were getting ready for bed, putting her PJs on, her parents slipped back in. I wish I had a picture of her face at the moment when she realized they were home again – the relief, joy, love that swept over her features and made her body wriggle was intense and palpable. There’s nothing like the immediacy of emotions in a toddler to remind us of the journey through life. IMG_8784

Later that night, after she declared “I’m hungy” and I went to get the noodles back out, she sat in her booster chair, and we chatted. The conversation went something like this:

Nana: Hey, Skylar, you were really crying earlier.

Skylar: I was cying.

Nana: I have an idea! Next time we get to spend some time together, let’s skip that part, okay?

Skylar: seriously nodding

I know we won’t be able to skip that part for some time. But it’s nice to know that My Reformer stretches me in ways that I haven’t been stretched for some time.

 

Heartbreaking News…

Earlier this week, Jimmie and I attended Spamilton at the Kirk Douglas Theatre. It’s the first time we’ve been to the theatre together since we went to see Punk Rock at SDA almost a month ago. In all truth, we hadn’t been planning on attending the theatre again together not because we loathe the theatre or spending time together, but because the Circumstantial ROI of our theatre outings has become negligible for Jimmie. You can read here about our last Broadway Adventure.

The schlepp to the theatre is fine. We enjoy each other’s company and it’s nice to get out and see our adopted city’s sights traffic periodically. Assembling and disassembling Jimmie’s magical scooter is fairly automatic – no waving of the wand (that would be welcome technology, please), but it’s manageable. The logistics are surmountable. But when you can’t hear the play, what’s the point of surmounting the logistics?

Once we get to the theatre, sure, I have a moment of terror when Jimmie heads into the men’s room and I lurk by the door, craning to hear a thump and to ensure that no one takes his scooter for a joy ride. Other onlookers frequently are kind and offer an arm to walk him in and out of the men’s room. But I still look like some kind of perv, which is awkward.

Last night as I lurked before heading into see the show, I got a text from one of my friends from the spin gym where I have been a member for about four years. I had missed the email from the founder of the gym, which was entitled “Heartbreaking News…” In the brief email, she spelled out her reasons for the upcoming abrupt closure of the gym – on November 22nd. My phone lit up with other messages from friends I’ve met and gotten to know at the gym. I was completely distracted throughout the time leading up to the show, and immediately afterwards, restored my phone to see more communal wailing about the closure.

Heartbreaking News…

The power of words.

Since I wrote the last two posts, I’ve discovered people’s hunger to discuss and share the issue of giving care to our loved ones. A half dozen people have approached me to share their own stories, proving that we humans have a lot going on in our lives that isn’t necessarily visible in our daily comings and goings. Many people are shouldering their responsibilities at work while also carrying untold pounds of personal grief or struggle at home. And we don’t talk about it in any kind of direct way. We hide it as though it’s something to be ashamed of when it’s not. It’s just completely a part of our lives. We carry it because we want to, or in some cases, we need to or have to.

Tuesday, Jimmie and I visited the doctor after he experienced drainage difficulties in the morning, which I was able to help him solve with some of the medical equipment I had left over from over a year before. Note to self. However much you relish the idea of a personal bonfire to eliminate the traces of your medical mishigas, you should resist. By saving two boxes of single use catheters, I saved us a trip to the ER and missing a lecture. And yes, I know you were all asking yourselves,

What was she a girl scout or something?

Just as you shouldn’t get ahead of yourself in medical equipment armament, don’t Konmari yourselves into an ER visit as your situation changes.

Our visit to the doctor was late in the day. When we came in, he was in a hurry, and unfortunately hurry isn’t in our repertoire anymore. Jimmie inadvertently scooted into the wrong room requiring me to use my air traffic controller batons to steer him into the correct one, where the doctor did a quick ultrasound. As Jimmie stood to get dressed again, his back was facing the doctor when I asked him about the biopsy results.

The doctor, lowering his voice, quietly said,

Oh, They didn’t tell you? There’s aggressive cancer in the prostate.

I looked at him, incredulous. Did who tell us? This was his surgeon speaking. Also, I couldn’t believe that he was trying to tell me this without including Jimmie, who is extremely hard of hearing and facing the window while he pulled up his pants. My bossy sister emerged.

Oh, no. You need to tell him this directly.

And in my loud, most comely voice, said to Jimmie.

Jimmie, you need to turn around. The doctor has something important to tell you.

Jimmie turned and the doctor delivered the news. Again, he was still in a hurry, not that he was being unkind or elusive, but this was his last appointment before heading over to the adjacent hospital, and the details were brief.

Aggressive prostate cancer. Hormone therapy.

The power of words. When Jimmie stood up from the table, he caught his leg on something sharp, and as I hurried to help him with his pants, the doctor and I both watched as two small blooms of blood developed on the back of his khakis. He quickly applied gauze and tape, and then Jimmie and I executed the extraction of the scooter from the office.  Everything else about the exit from the office is fuzzy. I can’t speak for Jimmie, but I was in an emotional blackout.

The next twenty-four hours moved in a blur. We decided to go to Spamilton to take our minds off the unknown.

The follow up appointment with his GP two days later calmed us down. He confirmed that the entire tumor board of the hospital had reviewed Jimmie’s case and were unanimous in the treatment plan. Somehow hearing that was a comfort. Prostate cancer is slow moving.

Heartbreaking news…Aggressive Prostate Cancer. These word combinations are tough to read but it is our reactions that are our own to manage.

In the case of the closure of my gym, the truly heartbreaking news was that I had already paid for my 2018 membership and have yet to hear back from the management about a refund. If I am honest with myself, I had been thinking that I needed to change up my workout plan. Spinning, as good as it is for cardio, is boring. I’d been thinking I’d like to try pilates, or something else. So barring legal issues getting my membership fee back, while the news is heartbreaking for all the spin instructors at the gym and for the convenience of having my gym within 400 paces of my front door, these words can be managed.

In the case of Jimmie’s cancer, we will move forward with treatment, and take it a day at a time. Lord knows we are practiced in that. And we even have more theatre outings in our future. Last night we attended, heard and enjoyed Circle Mirror Transformation to see the MFA Y2 Actors in the Scene Dock Theatre. Tonight Eurydice is on the ticket.

This morning I got a text with some photos from Chris.

A bear broke into my truck last night

Now that’s heartbreaking. Especially given how much the truck has meant to Chris.  But that’s why we have insurance.

I’m grateful to be blessed with all the things we have. Good enough health to be able to attend a gym on a regular basis. Good enough medical care to help us through this crisis that Jimmie is experiencing. Lots of loving support from family and friends as we go through this ordeal. Good enough auto insurance to repair Chris’ truck. All of it is surmountable. As Chris texted me this morning, “This too shall pass.”

Heartbreaking News…Aggressive Prostate Cancer…Bear in the Truck. The power of words do not render us powerless.

And in the meantime, it seems fitting that Thanksgiving is right around the corner.

 

Piss Mas Eve, A Caregiver’s Story

A positive update. Jimmie’s recovering well from the dreaded P surgery two Thursdays ago. For those of you who are recoiling from my TMI posts, please just go back to reading posts with puppies or politics or whatever makes you to feel better or worse. Lord knows that there is enough suffering in the world to avoid posts about peoples’ personal plumbing perils. By the way, tonight is Piss Mas Eve.  Continue reading “Piss Mas Eve, A Caregiver’s Story”

Park Pals

Jimmie has spent his fair share of time in parks. Years ago, when our son was between the ages of about two to ten, Jimmie took him to various parks around the San Fernando Valley. When we lived in North Hollywood, they headed east to parks in Burbank, and occasionally to the North Hollywood Park. When he was seven, our move to Van Nuys moved us closer to a park in Studio City, where parents who didn’t work 9 to 5 gathered with their kids. They were friendly adults with diverse interests with whom we wiled away the hours on the bench: musicians, stay-at-home Moms and Dads, unemployed actors and stage managers with call times after dinner. Okay, so I was the only stage manager.  Our camaraderie was mandated by our kids’ fickle friendships. The summer days drifted by, punctuated by frequent trips to the ice cream truck and the parks’ recreation office.  We came and went according to the napping or eating needs of our children.

I remember more than once miss-timing those needs and carrying our squirming squalling four-year-old son under my arm back to the car, while waving jovially over my shoulder to the other parents. The benches were hard concrete, but it didn’t deter us; Jimmie took two daily two-hour sessions at the park. Sometimes when Chris was older, they’d ride to the park on their bicycles – Jimmie, seventy, Chris, seven.

Jimmie used his time in the park productively, working on writing his memoir, or tossing around a baseball with Chris, sometimes visiting with our friend Jason, who’d walk over from his house on nearby Teesdale Avenue. Park denizens in the 1990s had few distractions. No one took endless Instagram pictures of their children, or checked email, texted, or tweeted. Cell phones weren’t really a thing yet. We spent a lot of time reading books and magazines on the bench, doing the crossword puzzle while glancing up periodically to make sure no one had died.

And then, almost as abruptly as our park adventures had begun, Chris outgrew the park, and we no longer went.

Fast forward twenty-four years. Chris now goes on outdoor adventures with his wife and baby, camping and hiking in Northern California. And we are city dwellers, amidst an ever-increasing forest of high rises in downtown Los Angeles.

But there’s still a park next door, with a playground lousy with climbing apparatuses and slides, nestled on a cushiony surface that allows young children to fall and jump without damaging their ankles, or skinning their knees.

More relevant to us now, though, are the many benches scattered around the park. Jimmie has his favorite he likes to head to when he goes to the park. His visits are, as in the old days, daily, but only once a day, in the afternoon. He rides his scooter over to his bench, near the south end of the park, positioned at a busy corner good for both people-watching and viewing the changing northern facing skyline. On the rare and very happy occasion where I can join him for a park visit, he narrates about the regulars habitués of the park. To our left, the seventy-year-old Korean couple who come to the park every afternoon; he precedes her, always carrying his newspaper. They enter the park from the south west. He’s better dressed than she, who wears the same park outfit most days. For the longest time she wore black slacks and an oversized orange checked flannel top. Recently she has changed into a beige top. He sports a natty powder-blue track suit, the jacket zipped up. He likes the shade and she prefers the sun, so they sit on separate benches. They don’t talk to each other much while they’re in the park. He’s a voracious reader; when finished with the paper, he frequently pulls out a Kindle and reads that. She goes through a series of exercises, meanwhile adjusting her slacks at the waist, rolling her shoulders forward and back. Usually after about a half hour, she’ll stand up and leave the park, leaving her husband on his bench without a backward glance.  Jimmie and the man have never spoken to each other beyond the one time when Jimmie said “hello” on his way to his bench. Their benches sit opposite faces of a small lawn measuring about 20′ square, Jimmie’s on the south side, and his on the west.

I always marvel when I visit Jimmie there at how sacred the regulars’ spots are. No one ever sits on Jimmie’s bench, and rarely have I seen anyone other than the Korean couple on theirs.

When I got home for dinner today, Jimmie said eagerly,

Something interesting happened at the park today.

He’d entered the park as usual, from the north west, gliding on his scooter under the mosaic clock tower and scooting south parallel to FIDM. Halfway to his bench, he stopped short, chagrined to see a stranger had commandeered his bench. Quickly, he reconnoitered, pointing his scooter due east toward one of the benches under the shade of a bougainvillea-cloaked pergola. He parked, got off the scooter, and sat on the bench looking back across at his own regular bench, keeping his eyes on the man on his bench and willing him to get tired and leave. But the man, in his forties, casually dressed, looked settled in and content there, sitting and taking in the park. Across the grass, sat the Korean man; his wife had apparently already left.

Suddenly, Jimmie noticed the Korean gentleman purposefully walking over toward Jimmie’s usual bench. He began to talk animatedly to the man sitting there, occasionally looking over his left shoulder at Jimmie indicating to the man that he was talking about Jimmie.

Jimmie could tell from the distance that he was asking the man to move to the adjacent bench. The man didn’t argue at all, but looked a little surprised to have been asked. The Korean man then turned to Jimmie and raising his arm triumphantly, he vigorously beckoned Jimmie back over to his bench. Jimmie stood, getting on his scooter again. Seeing that Jimmie was coming, the Korean man turned and walked back to his own bench. Jimmie smiled as he drove to his bench,

Thanks! You got my bench back!

As Jimmie told me the story at dinner tonight, he giggled, delighted by the unexpected kindness of the man. We laughed about the narration that he and his wife must have about us, and what he must have said to make the man change places to the other bench. And what might have happened had the interloper not been as charitable himself. I was happy that Jimmie’s made a new friend at the park. I told him he needs to take the man a present tomorrow. Perhaps he could share his New York Times with him.

Last week, we took our granddaughter to the park when they were visiting, and while there, observed the comings and goings of other young children and their parents.

But some my favorite interactions are happening in the sixty-and-over-set on the south side of South Park.

 

 

Hiking into the New Year

This morning at the crack of dawn, I woke and pulled on my pants and boots, grabbed some breakfast setting off to meet two old stage manager friends (okay, old as in I’ve known you a long time, not actually old. Geez, people are so sensitive) to go on a hike.

I love hiking, though you’d never know it from practice – I think today’s hike is the first one I’ve taken since the summer when we stayed up in Tahoe, and hiked from the parking lot to the beach one day. Living in California and in Los Angeles where there are an abundance of hiking trails doesn’t seem to have been sufficient to get me outside, but a simple question posed by a fellow stage manager on facebook actually got me out the door.

Anyone wanna go on a hike?

You’d think three stage managers could organize a hike through deft email execution-an email or two, right? Our arrangements were hilarious, taking about a week and 16 emails, and an actual live phone call to realize. As I pulled up outside Susie’s house at 7:40AM, I replayed the email exchanges in my head, laughing that the three choices of hikes did not include the very real possibility of rain, and as I stepped out of the car, greeted by Susie on the stone steps to her house, I proposed hike #4 to IHOP. Fortunately, she didn’t go for it.

We swung by to pick up Michele and off we went to our hiking destination, which I think was Eaton Canyon, though I can’t swear to it because I’m not apparently from this region, having lived in LA only thirty-three years. There was a heavy mist on the windshield, but I didn’t pay much attention because it was great to see good friends and colleagues from so many years and there was a lot to catch up on.

Professionally, we’ve all worked together on so many shows that I can’t really remember which ones they were, but I always credit Michele with training me to be a truly autonomous ASM. She was the PSM on one of the CTG Celebratory shows – perhaps the 20th Anniversary, when as ASM, one of my jobs was to cue Gordon Davidson onstage riding an elephant. It was early in my career, one of my first ASM assignments at the Taper, pre-renovation, where the elephant (and all scenery for that matter) had to come in through bedroom-sized doors SL. I was intimidated and also admired Michele for her years of experience as one of the top SMs at the Taper. Deferring to her, I asked her what she wanted me to do next.

Run the deck!

And so I did, learning that I was there because she trusted me to know what to do next, otherwise I wouldn’t have been there.

I’ve been admiring Susie’s penchant for strenuous hiking for several years now. I’ve wondered how she’s able to put in the miles she does with her work schedule. Kind of amazing. I was glad to be there this morning. We started down the fire road into beautiful Eaton Canyon. At least I assume it is beautiful, because the conditions were quite misty and we couldn’t see too far down the road, kind of the perfect metaphor on this eve of a New Year fraught with political uncertainty.

img_7499
Stage Manager Selfie: L. to R. Susie, Els, Michele

This was the selfie I took of the three of us, looking fresh as we started off, me sporting my GumCha, a Christmas present from my Dad and his wife; this scarf is typical of those woven by rural farming families in West Bengal, India for more than 2,000 years. The 4o year old GumCha4Health project was started by local health and development professionals to

…create a self-sufficient, self-sustaining, community-based financial model for providing long-term support for healthcare and health education programs (including contraception and HIV prevention) for poor rural farm laborers, subsistence farmers, their families and their communities.

It’s pretty and bright, and apparently gets softer every time you wash it. I’ve worn mine almost every day since Christmas and it’s in the wash for the first time as I write this.

So, what do veteran stage managers talk about on the trail for 2 hours? Taping out floors and how sore it makes us when we’re done? Yes, a little of that, but much more about our lives outside the rehearsal room. The three of us share life synchronicity which they might not appreciate my sharing with you, but which gave us plenty of good conversation over the next 5.6 miles. The first 2.8 were mostly up the hill, where we were passed by bicyclists, runners, dog walkers, and other folks out and about to ring in the New Year with a good cardio workout.

We stopped periodically to huff and puff, and per Susie’s usual routine, we greeted every single person at least once, and some of them twice, the cyclists, as they lapped us up the hill and back down. This paid off at the top, when we were able to ask someone to shoot the picture of the three of us by the Henninger Flats sign.The second 2.8 miles were down hill, in the pouring rain. I was grateful to have my GumCha with me to wipe off my glasses. The lovely tree portraits below were taken by Susie.

By the time we got back to the car, we were able to wring water out of our clothes. We raced home to take showers or hot baths, and for a good nap before tonight’s festivities.

What will the New Year and the road ahead bring? Hard to say, hard to see even, but in spite of the rain and mist, we will still get there with persistence, civility, and good hiking shoes.

Happy New Year!

My Fitbit Flex 2 Told Me to Sleep In

In the beginning of 2016 I set a fitness challenge for myself to work out 56 days in a row in honor of my “35th” birthday. Didn’t fool you there, did I? Well, I met that challenge, and in the past few months, I have been, without a challenge, but with some effort, working out an average of 5-6 times a week.

Exercise is so critical to maintaining a healthy attitude about work and life. I am pretty sure that without the exercise I would be a quivering mass of nerves and not handling the stresses of the full production season, plus the life challenges we are facing, plus the publishing of my husband’s book.

So as a celebratory gesture, I bought myself a lilac colored Fitbit Flex 2. I had to wait almost two weeks for it to arrive, but as I discovered, Fitbit was anxious to inform me via email all information about when I would receive the product in the mail, tracking number included. I tracked it obsessively as it made it’s way from Indianapolis, through La Grange, IL, Kansas City, KS, Amarillo, TX, Continental Divide, Essex, San Bernardino, and Chino, finally arriving on my doorstep on October 1st, as promised.

After charging the tracker and downloading the app, I read about all the things my new toy would track. The number of steps I took, of course. When I completed the first 10,000 steps it shivered on my wrist and lit up in celebration of my athleticism. The first day I wore it around my ankle, like some deviant lilac colored ankle monitor. Switching the tracker between the two bracelets required me to move the clip from the small bracelet to the large bracelet. I only broke two nails in the process. Went back to the box to discover that there was not a second clip, so I ordered that and can now track its progress to my doorstep.

My Fitbit actually advised that I sleep in this morning, breaking my nearly two months long record of attendance at the gym. I had been at a dress rehearsal of A Midsummer Night’s Dream the night before until 11:00PM.When I set my goals, I didn’t figure I needed to set a workout goal but I did intend to get more sleep; when the alarm went off this morning, I rolled over and obediently slapped it silent for another two hours just to make my Fitbit happy. Something tells me that I may not have read the manual correctly…