March Memories from Years Gone By

March Memories/2020 

Five years ago today, San Francisco Mayor London Breed and the mayors of five other Bay Area counties ordered residents to shelter in place, starting March 17. Three days later, California Governor Gavin Newsom announced that policy would extend to include the entire state. 

I know this because I just read my blog entries for 2020. I wrote that I’d been staying in even before March 16, because a week earlier Newsom had recommended that people 60 and older stay home because of the rapdily spreading COVID-19 epidemic. So I did.

In a blog post, I admitted I’d driven to the edge of the continent once, defying the shelter-in-place order, “to make sure the Pacific Ocean was still there.” It was — but the next day the governor closed all the parking lots at the beach. 

Phew. Remember when we were told the shelter-in-place order probably would last about four weeks, and then everything would go back to normal? Yeah — it didn’t, and in some ways, it still has not. 

Remember how scared we were before a vaccine was available, and then how desperate we were to get one? Later this week, I’ll pop in at the Kaiser clinic for my ninth COVID shot. My doc recommends I get boosted every six months, and I appreciate the extra protection, so I’ll go.

I giggled when I read my post from 2020 that defined my “Essential Self” at that time. My “Must-Haves” included clean sweatpants, t-shirts and tie-dye socks; a Zoom Costume for my upper half, complete with dangly earrings; my favorite music; plenty of good food; a charged phone and Kindle; and enjoyable freelance writing and editing assignments. 

Five years later, I can’t argue with any of that, but am so relieved that we’re all out and about again.   

I hope we’ve learned not to take that for granted!

March Memories/1994 

“What’s doing in the Maldives?” 

That was just one of the quirky questions that would open our Sunday afternoon ritual for almost a decade, as Ross Winter and I paged through an atlas to look for an island to move to in retirement. Each week, we’d research a possibility or two. 

One Sunday, I was certain I’d found a perfect spot — the Dry Tortugas, islands 70 miles west of Key West, Florida. As we talked about the location, Ross not-so-innocently asked, “Did you check out why they’re called “dry?” I had not. Turns out there is no fresh water there. Oops. 

When Ross took a vacation in Greece, he sent me a postcard from the island of Symi, also spelled “Simi.” He praised the place, suggested we consider it a possibility— and signed off with “We could be Simians!” I still have the card.

After perusing the atlas each Sunday, we’d work the crossword in the New York Times — he used a pencil, and I opted for a purple felt-tipped pen, which always annoyed him. Next, I’d serve as prep cook, slicing and dicing and assembling whatever ingredients we needed, and then Ross would cook dinner. 

At the time, Ross, a native Australian, was co-founder and artistic director of a regional modern dance company. When he was approaching 50, he decided to choreograph a full-length parody of “The Nutcracker” for his company, and he spoke often of his plans for his show "The Madcracker" during our Sunday dinners. 

At some point, I insisted that he include a tap number in the second act. In response, he challenged me to perform it. Though I have more nerve then talent, I’d danced as a kid, so I quickly rounded up some talented teachers to prepare me for the role. 

For the next eight years, I left my job as a newspaper reporter for two weeks and toured the Midwest with the show, dancing (well, sort of) in gazillions of red sequins and flapping fringe. 

Yep, I used to be fun! I’ve always believed you have to collect wild and crazy experiences when you’re young so you have something to talk about later when you’re hanging out in the lounge at your senior residence. And I do!

Bonus: All those years, because it was a paid gig, on my income taxes I got to list “tap dancer” along with “reporter” as my profession.

In March of 1994, my career in show business and those idyllic Sundays came to an abrupt end. While I was off watching gray whales in San Ignacio Lagoon in Baja California, Mexico, Ross was in a car accident. He died a week later. Though he's been gone 31 years, I miss him still. 

And I still have no idea what’s doing in the Maldives.  

Conversational Twists

 Say what? I didn’t see THAT coming! 

Three times this week, conversations have taken wildly different turns, gone in directions that I could not have predicted. Laughing is good — enjoy! 

When I called a local business for answers to some pressing questions I’d asked a few days ago, the woman I spoke to said she had the information, but haven’t gotten back to me “because I had to drive two hours there and then back to pick up a mule.” 

A mule!

She then regaled me with a great story about a rescue mule she was adopting. “He’s a handsome fellow, and stands 17 hands high,” she said. “He let me ride him with no problem.” 

I’m from Missouri, so I am marginally informed about the animals, which are the offspring of a male donkey and female horse. Mules were first introduced in Missouri in the 1820s, and have served as the official state animal since 1995. 

The website tended by the Missouri Secretary of State boasts: “Missouri mules pulled pioneer wagons, plowed fields during the 19th century and played a crucial role in moving troops and supplies in World War I and II. For decades, the Show-Me-State was the nation's premier mule producer.” And that’s everything I know about mules.

I know a tad more about donkeys, because my friend Amy gave me a copy of "Running With Sherman: The Donkey With the Heart of a Hero" by Christopher McDougall. The book is funny, compelling and ultimately, heart-warming. 

Here’s the official blurb on McDougall’s story: “Burro racing, a unique type of competition in which humans and donkeys run side by side over mountains and through streams, would be exactly the challenge Sherman and Chris needed. In the course of Sherman’s training, Chris would enlist Amish running clubs, high-spirited goats, the service animal community, and two Sarah Palin–loving long-distance female truckers.”

Of course I told the proud new mule owner about Sherman’s story. Then she answered my original questions, and we wished each other well.   

The Hunt for Miniature Mandarins

I wasn’t looking for answers on Instacart, the online delivery service that brings my groceries to my door — I was searching for Kishu mandarins. These tiny little packages of Vitamins A and C are sweet, juicy and really easy to peel. 

Fruit Factoids, from AI: “Kishu mandarins may have originated in Southern China in the 8th century. They became a favorite in Japan and were introduced to California in the 1990s.” For weeks, I’ve been ordering and eating them, and though the season is coming to an end, I’m not ready to move on to a different variety just yet. 

Instacart’s site indicated the store where I bought my last two orders was all out of Kishus. I called the store to ask whether a new shipment might be expected, and the clerk’s answer was a big surprise.  

“We have Kishus right now,” she said. “I’m looking at them.” She invited me to come to the store and grab what was available, as the season is almost over. When I explained that wasn’t possible just now, the clerk suggested I order a different variety on Instacart but add a note indicating what I really wanted. That seemed iffy to me. 

“Let me talk to the manager about why the website shows Kishus as out of stock,” the clerk said. Back on the phone, she told me the manager said the store never sells these particular mandarins on the Instacart website, because the store never knows when shipments will arrive or how big they may be. 

That would be interesting if it were true, but it is not. I told her that in the past month, I’ve already gobbled up three pounds of Kishus ordered from her store through Instacart.

Next, the manager got on the phone, apologized for the confusion and kindly offered me a private delivery at a reduced rate. I said I’d call back if I wanted to set that up. Back on Instacart, I found Kishus in stock at a different store, and an hour later I had a new supply. 

Up On the Roof 

(Go on, sing a few bars as an homage to The Drifters.)

On Wednesday night, I missed the monthly meeting held by my building’s management company. A neighbor who provided some highlights later mentioned that some residents have been smoking on the roof of our 13-story apartment tower, home to about 130 adults 62 and older. 

"What an insurance nightmare that could be for management at a senior building where smoking is not permitted," I said. From now on, my neighbor told me, management has decreed that the door to the roof will be locked. A few hours later, when I repeated this news to another neighbor who had missed the meeting, she said she was sad to hear that. 

The roof, she said, was a great place to watch fireworks on July 4 and New Year’s Eve, and “now a few smokers have spoiled that for everyone.” I had not known about these fireworks-watching parties— but I do know that this particular brave friend is legally blind.

Considering the Price of Eggs   

Pondering this plethora of odd conversations brought another twisty one to mind, the story Woody Allen tells in his movie “Annie Hall” about his brother. I found it on the Internet, of course:  

“It reminds me of that old joke — you know, a guy walks into a psychiatrist's office and says, hey doc, my brother's crazy! He thinks he's a chicken. Then the doc says, why don't you turn him in? 

"Then the guy says, I would, but I need the eggs.”