Fog City

                                                    Sister Susan's Seventieth Birthday

Pandemic. Virus. Isolation. Sheltering. Police. Murder. Death. Protests. Riots. Looting.

These are the times we live in. Mentally and physically taxing our senses. I have to examine daily the entire gamut of emotions. It's a veritable roller coaster ride. Thrust into this mixing bowl of uncertain ingredients was my sister's birthday.

My brother Casey and I discussed months ago the absolute need to be with her on her 70th birthday. We are now old. A condition unthinkable not so long ago, but here we are. Limitations abound. Unfortunately she is most affected by limitations. She lives below the poverty line in an unforgiving tract of high desert. Stuck. The only redemptive quality is she can dip her toes in the cool Colorado river when temperatures settle at 110 degrees. She's alone. She's suffered ongoing culture shock for the long 25 years she's been in Bullhead City. Hence the importance of our being there.

Casey and I put our heads together trying to form a travel plan. A back story surfaced as a template for such a journey. You see in 1977 Susan was in a difficult situation. She lived in Chicago and her little world had crumbled. Casey and I lived here in San Francisco. She reached out to us for help rescuing her. We didn't hesitate. Casey had a classic Pontiac Catalina convertible road tested and ready to go. We set sail non stop arriving in the Windy City in 40 hours. She was grateful to see us. The car was loaded, we reversed course and headed due West. A memorable trip!

Initially we planned to load Casey's van with lawn chairs, a cooler, and other amenities for the long 10 hour drive to Arizona. A certain reenactment of that awesome 43 year old journey of brotherly love. We tried to discount vision problems, bad backs, stiff knees, pot bellies, and other assorted maladies. It would be historic. Lucky for me, his son Drew desired to go which changed the dynamic. He was flying in from Boston on the wrong day at the wrong time. Everything changed. The new timeline wasn't conducive for me. My enthusiasm drained. I even thought of bowing out, but that would be shamefully inexcusable. I needed to honor her long struggle. Frankly the change in plans worked better for me. I flew to Vegas, an hour and a half, rented a car and drove the 90 miles to her house, easy peasy.

I arrived a day ahead of Casey and Drew, which allowed me and Sue time to catch up uninterrupted. I hadn't visited her in probably 10 years. Our hug was deeply felt and emotional, significant because of our age and mortality. She launched into showing me all the detailed work she'd done making ready her humble abode. It was stunning. So much to see and linger over, while listening to the labor involved over the previous month. I commented adoringly it was a 3D mixed media art display on a grand scale. She should charge admission. She talked and talked interspersing reminisces with recent happenings, painting a large splendid picture of her life over time.

The next afternoon the boys rolled in like thunder. Casey drove alone from San Francisco to Las Vegas because Drew changed his plans. To arrive at Sue's a bit earlier, Drew flew to Vegas where Casey picked him up. A long tiring drive for old Casey but he's a good sport. Casey presented the birthday girl a beautiful bouquet, a grand gesture, while Drew hauled the cooler of iced beer out of the van. Once greeted and seated Casey broke out the cigars and the love fest was underway. The joy of being together at last was infectious and laughter reigned or rained.

There were no extravagant plans for her birthday. Just being in each others presence was the balm needed. We did enjoy a delicious lunch at her favorite local spot, high on a hill overlooking the valley. She had her heart set on a Rueben sandwich with German potato salad, washing it down with a margarita, and wasn't disappointed. When back outside we were gobsmacked by the suffocating heat. Her usual ritual is to submerge herself and a lawn chair in the cold rushing water of the Colorado river, not 500 yards from her front door. Needless to say we all followed for the refreshing dunking. We spent the better part of the day sitting near the shore while the waves lapped up around us neutralizing the stifling heat. Later in the evening as the moon rose and the temperature dropped to 101, we ordered delivery from her favorite Italian restaurant. We enjoyed a leisurely dinner with Spumoni ice cream for dessert. The banter was light and as refreshing as the cool river waters. Old family members remembering childhood, and the experiences that bound us. A much needed stroll down memory lane, ending with genuine hugs of endless love.

Happy Birthday Susan Ellen Raher!!

These black and white photos are from 1977. The scene is the Great Salt Flats.
We stopped for a break and a Kodak minute!
We were driving from Chicago to San Francisco!

Fog City

Today is June 2nd, 2019. My brother Steve’s birthday. And tomorrow is my sister’s birthday. Susan will be 69 and Steve would have been 68. Unfortunately he died at 21. Sad. So today he’s been dead 47 years. And I wonder. I named my first born son Steve. And today I  think about them both. My son is cause for consternation. He has a big and giving heart. That there is no doubt. He is 42 years old and has lived an erratic and adventurous life. His goodness, his joy, the things that make him happy, seem always shrouded in delusion and silence. He always is uncomfortable communicating. His expectations never align with his reality, or our reality. Consequently he exists in a dream world of his own making. And when that dream gets shattered, which it inevitably does, he lashes out. Why is the question. Why can’t he abide by the rules, protocol, and processes which are required to get through this maze of life. I think he just doesn’t care. He knows what’s needed and asked for, but procrastinates or simply doesn’t complete the task. Normal things like housing, laundry, food, identification, bills, finance, all seem to escape his ability to cope. Hence his life is in a constant state of flux. He’s not stupid, although I question that over and over, because of his repeated problems. This flux, his flux, only seems to bother him after another breach in the process. He glides along, slides along as if the broken pieces will magically emerge whole, like a movie run backwards. And the people he’s entwined with suffer. They suffer his anger and frustration. Especially his mother, who only wants him to be happy. With all of his snafus she’s there with her worry and her support. She prays incessantly and worries incessantly, to the point of exhaustion. The burden she carries as his mother, and the cloud of doubt and gloom is affecting her profoundly. I’m affected. The only one who doesn’t seem to care is he. He changes for the better, with good intentions, but it only lasts so long. Sometimes months. Then his demons kick in and his one step forward is two steps backward. And on it goes. The trouble is, he’s wearing down his mother. She’s old and I’m old. We don’t need his shortcomings to be our anxiety. But they are. Parents!

My brother Steve. Frankly I barely knew him. I was three years older. Our young worlds really didn’t overlap. And once our family disintegrated the separation between individuals became more obvious. He was a good boy and funny with a mischievous streak. I remember when he was very young he had asthma. My mom would set up a steam tent over his bed so he could sleep easily. He grew out of it though. One Christmas I won’t forget. The family still pretended to be in tact. Toys were scattered about in the living room and under the tree. We four kids were playing with new stuff and lounging in our pajamas. Steve was looking around and assessing and comparing Santa’s gifts. When out of the blue he yells, “this is the worst Christmas ever!” I guess he didn’t get what he ordered and my mom was chagrined. As we got older and our childhood became adolescence and teen, things really changed.  I had become relatively delinquent and with my dad out of the picture Steve somewhat followed suit. He experimented with nonconforming styles, like Beatle boots and longer hair. He started to get in trouble. My mom, poor thing, was a basket case. She had no coping mechanism for out of control teens. Some how she decided, and I’ll never know how and who with, to allow Sue and Steve to become wards of the state. Both were shipped off to the state reform schools for boys and girls. So much for the post World War ll, 1950’s American family, it was over and radically altered forever. A shame. Steve survived his stint and actually thrived. He came home to finish high school. He developed a group of great friends and even was a star on the swimming team as the lead diver. So today I think of him and a time long ago, fading from memory more each day. Memory is all we really have and when that’s gone, well it’s time to go. For Ramsey my troubled son, I hope he finds his bliss, just a wee bit, before I shuffle off this mortal coil.

Fog City

I saw a photo posted on Facebook yesterday by a friend. She was at the super market and couldn't believe eggnog was already shelved in the refrigerator section. My anxiety level involuntarily spiked. The holiday season is truly upon us. It just means my tranquility, my solitude, my sugar levels are all being upset, altered, adjusted, compromised and I have to refocus.
     Actually I had a preview of things to come the past two weeks. Fleet week roared into town, quite literally with the Blue Angels displaying their aerial delights. Also and at the same time, the Hardly Strictly Bluegrass festival rocked Golden Gate Park. I'm sure if you could view the city from high above it would appear overrun by ants. People everywhere! There were obvious obstacles to overcome, but each extravaganza was free and more than worthy. Excitement and enthusiasm was the general mood of all who came to share the wondrous entertainment. Multiple stages provided diverse musical talents and wandering from stage to stage, to hear your group of choice was the norm. The weather complied with the good attitudes, providing sparkling blue skies and comfortably warm temperatures. The clear skies was a blessing for the air show on the bay. Many years our normal fog pattern obscures any chance for the Blue Angels to perform their aerial acrobatics. Not this year, it was actually hot. For the extra million souls who descended on our fair city the weekend was satisfyingly spectacular. Since everyone was in such fine form and happy the inability to get anywhere without significant delays was a mute point. Thank goodness!
     Following such an energy draining weekend, the next one was a combo plate. Remember at seventy going all day takes an inordinate amount of effort. But October marks special events in Raher history. My brother Casey's birthday begins the focus, albeit he handles activities from his end, and our involvement is nil. Our anniversary follows the next day. Then Ramsey's birthday concludes the three days of remembrance. Cassidy and Lauren treated us to dinner, celebrating our forty third wedding anniversary. We enjoyed casual and humorous conversation, which tends to be lacking in most family encounters, simply because the children demand so much attention. And rightly so. But it's always nice to ask questions and receive explanations without interruptions. I left pleased. Ramsey's simple birthday gathering was quite similar in the level of pleasure derived. Being with his son Rowan and basking in our blood linkage has a very life affirming element. Again the conversation over delicious pizza was easy, enlightening and needed. Lovely Reina educated me about ideas, I previously hadn't thought to delve into. For that I'm grateful. Of course being with family, sharing joy, absent of rancor, reinforces emotions and philosophies which guide our journey.
     Although all of these events and encounters were rewarding, they were just a prelude to the onslaught yet to come. To clarify somewhat, all these heavy duty activities were semi spontaneous. Meaning they were sparked by a phone call, a time on a schedule or a notification. They weren't planned well in advance, so I couldn't dwell on the pros and cons, and incite my anxiety meter. Now the next couple months, populated with a string of holidays, raises the annual problems. Who, What, When, and Where. Yikes! Well maybe a cold eggnog will help!

Fog City

Life expectancy, now there's a thought. I just turned 70 and what makes that number significantly different from other ages marked by birthdays, is the national average of the male's life expectancy doesn't extend beyond the 70's. Sobering indeed. Meaning what exactly, well, I won't see my grandchildren graduate high school, or marry. But that's alright. My three sons have accomplished enough to accentuate my existence with meaning and for that I'm at peace. One goal I'm striving to achieve is fifty years of marriage, and that is a joint effort, which pushes the boundary of that life expectancy number. You never know!
I spend time now remembering, comparing experiences, placing significance, and analyzing, applying regret or not, wondering how things might have been different, and do I really care. Second guessing is futile. Then there's perspective, how I view my life from this vantage point, looking back. I cringe at some of my youthful indiscretions. At the time they didn't seem significant, just thoughtless acts of expression, usually misguided. Experiences I hope to share by writing a small memoir, but I hesitate because time dilutes our ego driven self importance, and in the end my life like most all of us, is irrelevant in the grand cosmic chaos.
But getting old has its trials. First it doesn't help to spend much time looking in the mirror, because the person you see and the person you thought you knew can be radically different. The process of aging is so slow, well it does seem to accelerate the older I get, but the ideals, the ethics, the etiquette, the foundation for a persona, were built long ago. As I age and my perspective and tolerances change the foundation remains pretty much intact. Therefore when I'm bombarded by changes from the youth culture, I naturally resist for a time, until I compare my past to their present, and realize it's just the cycle of life. Perspective. Go with the flow, or drown!
The physical aspect of getting old is probably the most difficult aspect to reckon with. Activity use to be a defining characteristic, and to accept the erosion of that definition can be depressing. Playing, working, being extremely mobile become more difficult, even painful. Adapting without prejudice or bitterness, are key to remaining optimistic and hopeful, when all you really want to do is fall down a well of cynicism. Balance. Physical balance and mental balance, daily exercises which provide needed awareness. Walking and reading help.

Still playing at 70!

Thanks Ashby
Oh to be 8 again!

I'm 70, I like to be quiet, and yell. I like to laugh, and cry. I like to listen to my heart strings, and watch the world go by. My grandkids remind me the children are worthy!