A Compliment to Savor

“Well organized.” That’s how the woman from the moving company described my stuff as we toured the condo so she could estimate what moving to San Francisco might cost me. Every time she opened a closet or walked into a room, the phrase “well organized” came up again.

Organizing is easy when you’ve heaved out two-thirds of your stuff. The heaving – that’s not easy. I’ve written about it before, in earlier posts here. In today’s New York Times Magazine, Rick Marin writes about it, in “Lives: Objects of Accumulation.”

Marin’s dad has died, his mother is in a nursing home. An only child, he boldly goes into their home, filled with 50 years’ accumulation of stuff, and begins to sort and pitch. The project took him five 15-hour days, some of it spent discarding a drawer full of rubber bands, a closet where he found his grade school projects and rooms full of dusty, musty books.

I’ll pause now for a moment of gratitude from my son, because I have saved him 75 hours of toil by getting rid of so much of my stuff. (Note to son: I think this proves you owe me a four-day visit. I did the math using waking hours only.) When I’m in the nursing home – or have walked into the sea to go south with gray whales – he won’t have to do what Marin did. “Well organized.” That’s what the woman said about me when she looked at my condo.

Kay Ryan, poet laureate of the United States, addresses the topic of clearing out in a poem called “That Will to Divest,” which appeared in the April 12 issue of the New Yorker. Because I don’t have permission to print it here, I’ll just say that Ryan succinctly notes that the more stuff you get rid of, the more urgent it becomes to toss out most of the rest of it. Her poem includes this: “It gets harder…not to dismiss rooms, not to divest yourself of all the chairs but one.”

And why not?

Years ago, every time I announced I had bought a new pair of shoes, one male friend was incredulous. “You can only wear two shoes at any one time, and most likely, you will wear two that match,” he would say. The same is true of earrings – or was, until I started mixing up the pairs for an interesting look. I’m past that now, and I also own just 12 pairs of earrings. Even that seems too many.

“Want what you have.” That’s the mantra I repeated often after I took the buy-out from the Post-Dispatch. Then, when I decided to sell the condo and move, I discovered I didn’t even want much of what I had.

Now what I want is to live among family, the family my son joined when he married. Wonderful people, one and all, they wait patiently to welcome me in San Francisco while I wait in St. Louis for the condo to sell. The good news is that people are meandering through now, two or three a week, looking at the place.

Even better – I’m well organized.

The Untold Story of Maggie the Cat

Countless times, I’ve asked Maggie, my cat, to tell me about her life before she came to live with me. She always declines. Perhaps the memories are too painful. Or maybe like all cats, Maggie lives in the present, and does not care to revisit times gone by.

I adopted Maggie through the St. Louis Cat Network 13 years ago to serve as a companion for Ginger (my big orange guy cat) a few months after Ginger's half-brother, Scoop, died. I thought it would perk up Ginger to have a friend, and the two could be company for one another when I was at work. This beautiful tortoise cat came with a name and a small pink-flowered bed. I allowed her to keep both. The vet estimated Maggie’s age at about 2.

For the first three months, Maggie hid under the couch. Ginger ignored her. When she emerged, she started following Ginger around, begging him to play. He ignored her. At long last, they became friends and eventually were inseparable. Ginger got diabetes and I treated him for three years before he reversed it. (Only cats can do that.) He lived a few more years and then, at 18, became senile and his health went downhill.

Maggie and I both grieved Ginger’s passing. About six months later, I brought home a tuxedo cat who needed a home. He had lost his siblings in a farm accident and was missing a foot, though you would never know it from how well he maneuvered. Tux was about 3 years old, and I thought he might cheer up Maggie. Instead, she was furious. Maggie yelled and cried. Tux yelled and cried. I yelled and cried. I took Tux back to the vet, who found a new home for him.

One day about four years ago, I was cleaning out my folder marked “Cats.” That’s where I keep vaccination records. Maggie’s adoption papers were in the folder, and tucked among the tips on how to care for a cat and feed a cat and love a cat was an envelope I had never opened. Inside were the papers from the day Maggie was turned in to the Cat Network.

“I don’t need these,” I thought and started to pitch them. I even wondered if I had been given the papers by mistake. Then for some reason, I unfolded the papers and read them. I discovered that longtime actor and director John Grassilli had brought Maggie to the Cat Network in early 1996. That explained her name! (Maggie is the lead character in the play “Cat on a Hot Tin Roof.”) I had known John slightly, as I was second-string theater critic at the Post-Dispatch at the time. I also knew John had left St. Louis some time ago, so I thought no more about the connection.

I did ask Maggie about John, but again, she had nothing to say. On Tuesday, my waking thought was that John Grassilli likely was on Facebook. I looked. He was. I sent him this note:

“Hi John -- I was at the Post much of the time you were in St. Louis, and often reviewed theater. More importantly -- and I didn't realize for a long time that you were involved -- I have Maggie the Cat, a tortoise-colored cat you turned in to the Cat Network rescue program. We've been together 13 years! I'd love to hear your story about her, and fill you in, if you are interested.”

Just hours later, this came back:

“Hi Pat. Maggie...after all these years..very good to hear. We (now ex-wife Sara and I) were walking in Tower Grove Park when we heard her cry from a sewer drain. She wouldn't come out so we went back home, got the car and some cat food and then coaxed her out and took her home. We were going to keep her but our female cat Rita would have none of it. She was a bit of a bully too so we looked around and found the shelter. We thought it was a great place and we trusted they would do good by her. (We didn't know how good as it turned out.) We always wondered what had happened to her. Thanks for letting me know. Her extended story would be great to know if you have the time. Rita, who is standing behind me now demanding supper, in her better moments would like to know too, I'm sure.”

I sent John more details and a handful of photos. Then I gathered Maggie up in my arms and said, “Tell me about the day you were in a sewer drain – how horrible! You must have been really scared! Thank goodness John and his wife rescued you!”

Maggie wriggled and squirmed, jumped down, flicked her tail and went into the kitchen for a snack.

Cooking with Ed and Ross

Ed Myers has died.

Ed Myers – the man who was my boss at the Central Midwestern Regional Educational Laboratory (CEMREL) in 1981-82, the man whose low chuckle that would build and erupt into delighted laughter, the man who taught me not to defend or explain my decisions, the man who occasionally got me bumped up to first class when the CEMRELites went to Washington, D.C.

Ed Myers also was the man who challenged me to edit a huge government grant application and then write the executive summary. Later, it was Ed Myers who announced to a room full of staffers that what I wrote blew him away. When St. Louis got 14 inches of snow, Ed Myers came to my apartment and dug out my car. And he excelled at pointed asides, delivered quietly, with eyes averted so you weren’t always sure you’d heard what you thought you’d just heard. You had.

The last time we talked – maybe 18 months ago -- I told Ed Myers that I get to San Francisco from time to time because my son and his bride live there. We tried to work out a time to get together, but he was traveling when I was coming to town. We agreed to try again.

We didn’t. And now Ed Myers has died.

Ed Myers was my mentor and my friend. Early on, we made a pact: Ed would ignore that I was fat and I would ignore that he was short. That worked well for us both, and allowed us to spend time appreciating the big brains we both brought to our friendship.

He also introduced me to two of his best friends, men who changed my life in so many ways. E. Joseph Schneider was one of them. The first time I heard Joe speak, I was convinced he was the male manifestation of me, so what was not to like? We had many long-distance conversations about journalism, politics and Fargo, North Dakota.

Ross Winter was the other. Befriending Ross was a lot of work, because he was a loner by choice. The artistic director of a dance company, Ross knew things about art and life that I wanted to know, so I persisted. Over time, I wore him down. We ended up as family for one another for a decade, and I loved him with my whole heart. Ross died March 13, 1994.

Later that week, after spending two days cleaning out Ross’ condo with his two sons, I called Ed Myers. “You have to come to St. Louis and help me,” I said. “I’m trying to help Stephen and Alex, and no one is helping me. I'm a mess. I cannot do this alone.” Ed Myers came, and he helped.

And now Ed Myers has died.

Ross and Ed taught me to cook. They both knew a great deal about cooking, about good food, about wine. Occasionally on Sundays, we’d gather, and we’d cook and eat together. When Ed’s true love, Carol Thomas, moved to town, Ross and I continued the tradition of cooking and eating together. Since Ross died, I’ve done serious cooking only on rare occasions.

When the call came this afternoon that Ed Myers has died, my refrigerator was uncharacteristically full. The last big-deal meal I cooked was over 11 months ago, before I put the condo on the market. I just don’t do that anymore. But today, cooking was on my agenda. After I thanked Nada for the call, I reached out to Joe. I wrote a note to Carol. I called two former CEMRELites.

Then I headed into the kitchen and I started to cook. As I chopped and peeled and measured, I took a deep breath and invited in warm memories from long-ago afternoons cooking with two of my favorite people. And I cried. I’ve never gotten over losing Ross.

And now Ed Myers has died.

The Writing Life

Five years ago this October, I walked out of the Post-Dispatch for the last time. Yet just last week a well-meaning woman came up to me to say she reads my articles in the Post all the time.

“I write some travel stories for the Post now and then,” I said, “but I left that paper some time ago.”

The woman asked whether I was enjoying my retirement. I retired from the Post, but I have not retired from earning a living, I replied. She asked what I’m writing now.

Ten minutes later, I paused for a breath. Later, I realized how lucky I am. One of the reasons I always loved daily journalism was that I did something entirely different every day. Happily, that is still true, only now I find myself working on three or four different assignments in a single day.

In that regard, I am juggling oranges – and trying not to make juice.

Before I launch into a litany of current work, I want to say something about work I completed last Sunday evening. I had the privilege of writing the script for the Fifth Annual Kevin Kline Awards ceremony, which took place Monday night.

Scripts for award shows consist primarily of patter for presenters who must eventually say “And the nominees are…” Kline awards are given out in 22 categories, and most of them this year were presented in pairs, so I worked with a lot of people, generating patter, shaping patter, rewriting shaped patter and then tweaking rewritten patter. In one month, I crafted seven drafts of the script, which is typical.

I love the theater and I love theater people, so this job was a lot of fun. Even more fun was sitting in the audience on Monday night, listening to the audience laugh at lines I wrote for the presenters! What a great assignment!

Daily journalism is not part of my life anymore, but weekly journalism is. For the past year, I have been writing features and news stories for the St. Louis Jewish Light – profiles, advance pieces on special events, interviews with individuals who have achieved fitness goals or advanced medical science in some way and even a travel story about Jewish attractions in San Francisco.

“Thank you for letting me do journalism,” I said to Larry Levin, the publisher, at a luncheon late last year. I love the work. I like and respect the people I report to and I enjoy meeting the people I interview.

For the past year, I also have written for several national grocery store magazines, working with a company that publishes the magazines and the occasional calendar. I get terrific emails from my boss there: “Are you available to write 200-250 words on honey in 48 hours?” or “Can you jazz up a story from our files on soup?” or “I need 150 words on white beans – are you up for that?” I am always available, always willing, always up for that. Fun stuff!

The visitors’ association in a small town in Alaska approached me some months ago about a tourism marketing campaign. I responded to their request for proposals, and I got the job. Alaska is a favorite state of mine, and the research was as much fun as the writing. A friend who works for the Catholic Health Association has come calling three times, assignments in hand. A small arts organization calls on me for help with publicity and newsletters from time to time.

Recently, I edited a book for a doctor, and he says he’ll contact me when it’s time to put together a marketing plan. Two organizations have approached me about writing books, and I have put together a proposal for a third. And I still take great pleasure in leading writing workshops, where we all write together and surprise each other (and ourselves) with what we have to say on any given day.

So in case anyone asks, I am no longer at the Post-Dispatch. Except for rare occasions, you can’t read my writing in those pages anymore. Yet I am writing, and people are reading. Perhaps more importantly, I am earning a living writing, as I have since my first newspaper job more than 40 years ago.

Here’s what crime novelist Mickey Spillane had to say about that: “My speed depends on the state of my bank account. When it’s necessary, I can write 5,000 words a day.”

Yep!

Ten Months and Counting

The day I put the condo on the market -- May 22, 2009 -- I ran into my massage therapist in the locker room at my gym. “What? What?” she said, staring at me with concern. I told her what was up. She said she had never seen my eyes so shiny, my face so animated.

Three months later, as I lay on the massage table in defeat, the therapist said, “I knew you couldn’t sustain that level of exhilaration. No one could. I’m not sure it’s healthy, and I’m glad you have calmed down.”

On Monday, nearly 10 months after listing the condo, I dragged in for my monthly massage. My mood was quiet, closed, sad – and I suspect my face reflected that. “It’s been almost a year,” I whined. Then I drifted off to that other planet where I always go when I have a massage.

Later that evening, I practiced coping with the fact that I may still be living in the condo on May 22, 2010. Here is what I came up with:

A year is a long time.

“My financial advisor says I can retire, but not for another year.”

“We’ll get that debt paid off, even if it takes a year.”

“Twelve months from now, everything may look different.”

A year is a short time.

“Just last year, I was still a junior.”

“Twelve months ago, we were planning the wedding, and now we’re just three months from our first anniversary!”

“Twelve months from now, everything may look different.”

A year is a long time if you count minutes and hours while looking ahead.

A year is a short time if you count seasons while looking back.

All years bring some good, some bad -- and then we characterize them.

Annus mirabilis means “year of wonders” or “wonderful year.” You remember – Frank Sinatra sang about one (“It was a very good year…”) and collected the Best Vocal Performance (Male) award in 1966.

Annus horribilis is year of a different sort. You hear people speak of those kinds of years. “Last year was terrible…”

So what defines my past year? Much mirabilis: Joel and Patricia got married. Joel and Patricia bought a house. I got to spend Christmas with them, in the house. I have been inundated with work -- wonderful work, fun projects, unexpected assignments, much glorious work.

A bit of horribilis: The Cancer Fairy blasted me again – but (mirabilis) it was tiny, it was contained and lopping off the body part did the trick, requiring no further treatment.

Also, Lee Enterprises, which owns the Post-Dispatch, decided that they didn’t mean it when they agreed to provide the free health insurance I was promised when I retired. Soon I will be asked to find $7,000 a year to pay for health insurance that was promised as free. That just about wipes out my Moving to San Francisco Fund, but thank goodness I’ve been working hard. (See mirabilis.)

Of course, this is horribilis for all 150 people who retired under the yellow contract and also has sideswiped the people who retired under the previous contract and a lot of top management retirees, as well.

Like everybody else, I had a year that offered some good and some bad. Here are the words I am hanging onto:

“You need to stop worrying about selling the condo. You have a terrific agent, and you need to let her do her job,” counseled my massage therapist. “Besides, it hasn’t been a year yet.”

Tease Now, Play Later

Today – March 5, 2010 – is a tease.

Look at the sunshine. Consider that sky. Feel the hint of warmth in the day. Listen to the birds chirping. Wait – is that a crocus peeking out? Is it possible that spring really will come again?

Or maybe today is not a tease, but a belated valentine for my friend Joe Hanrahan, who said earlier this week in an email: “We need to break the 50-degree mark and get Spring Training going!”

And then we did. That’s what today is all about. Good thing, too.

“I apologize for being crabby,” said my friend Carol. I was mystified. I was sitting next to her at lunch yesterday. I was crabby too, and it had not occurred to me to apologize. The cold weather, the Party of No, the earthquake victims in Haiti and now Chile, the news from the war fronts, and a betrayal heading my way (and aimed at 149 other Post-Dispatch retirees, as well) from Lee Enterprises regarding our health insurance costs all have conspired to upset me and a lot of people around me.

One friend, stressed about juggling two high-pressure jobs, said on the phone just this morning: “It’s amazing how clear the connection is here on the Titanic – I can hear you perfectly.”

All the gloom and doom swirling around so many friends right now reminds me – though admittedly few others – of part of the opening paragraph of Herman Melville’s “Moby Dick.” Here it is:

Whenever I find myself growing grim about the mouth; whenever it is a damp, drizzly November in my soul; whenever I find myself involuntarily pausing before coffin warehouses, and bringing up the rear of every funeral I meet; and especially whenever my hypos [anxieties] get such an upper hand of me, that it requires a strong moral principle to prevent me from deliberately stepping into the street, and methodically knocking people’s hats off – then, I account it high time to get to sea as soon as I can.”

We all know that damp, drizzly Novembers of the soul can occur even in February (maybe especially) or in March, and that last bit gets to the heart of one reason I am crabby.

Remember the reason for this blog? Last May, I put the condo on the market so I could start a whole new life in San Francisco by my son and his bride and the sea. I called the blog Late to the Haight because I missed being there for the Summer of Love by four decades and then some. But 10 months after listing the condo, here I still sit in Creve Coeur. The new issue of San Francisco magazine arrived yesterday, but otherwise I am no closer to living in the City by the Bay.

With that in mind, today is a tease in another sense. Today I signed a contract with a new realtor, my third. New realtor, new price, new forms to fill out – all that somehow encourages me, makes me think that maybe my dream of moving to San Francisco is not just a wild fantasy after all.

Ten months ago, I read a list of sure-fire ways to sell your home. One of the items on the list was “work with a third realtor.” The tongue-in-cheek reasoning was that by the time you sign with a third realtor, your place has probably been on the market long enough to actually sell. Ha. Ha.

We all know that today's weather is a tease, that more cold, dreary weather is on the way. That’s inevitable – it’s March. And I know that it’s highly unlikely that suddenly hoards of condo-seekers will rush to my place and fight over who gets to buy it.

But hey -- spring will come, and eventually, the condo will sell. I know this because sometimes a tease really is a promise of what's next.

Fleece Explosion

The planets aligned a week ago Sunday, and all six of the Favorite Female Friends gathered at the Boathouse to celebrate Carol’s and Beth’s birthdays. You know the world is too complex when it takes half a dozen emails followed by as many phone calls just to set up a lunch with friends – but we did it.

Everyone looked great, and we admired one another as we sat at the table by the fireplace. Carol had on a magenta fleece jacket, a color that looks great on her. I said so. “I don’t wear sweaters anymore,” she said. “I wear fleece jackets instead. You can easily adjust when you are too warm or when you feel chilly.”

I replied that I used to have two fleece jackets, but when I got smaller, they went to the resale shop, and I have not replaced them. Carol continued to praise all things fleece. Judy mentioned everything was on sale at Eddie Bauer, including fleece. I said maybe I would get myself a new fleece jacket. Carol jumped up and urged me to try on hers. It fit – and she said I should keep it.

Keep it? “Are you sure?” I asked. “It’s wonderful!” Carol hugged me and laughed, and that was that. The six of us have been friends for 35 years, and that is how are with one another – but what a delightful surprise.

Tally: One fleece jacket.

On the way home from lunch, I stopped at Eddie Bauer. I bought a long-sleeved tee shirt marked down to $9. The next day, I popped back into the store to buy another shirt in a different color. I know from experience that you can pay twice that for a quality shirt at a resale shop. There, hanging next to the shirt I planned to buy, was a red fleece jacket marked half off and then discounted even further as per the sale of the day. I bought it.

Tally: Two fleece jackets.

I own a fleece vest. I bought it for $10 at the Alpine Shop at an end-of-winter sale half a dozen years ago. After I bought the red jacket, I looked on the Eddie Bauer web site to see what fleece vests were selling for, as I had not seen any I liked at the store. I browsed L.L.Bean’s web site. Then I looked on ebay. There I found several fleece vests, but the deal I liked best was two from Land’s End for $25 – with free shipping. I bought them. They arrived, and they are wonderful, in perfect condition.

Tally: Two fleece jackets, three fleece vests (counting the one I already owned.)

“Can I sleep in my fleece jackets?” I wondered one night as I crawled into my new bed. I love my new bed – see the previous post – but the sheets are COLD when I first crawl in. Before I bought the new bed, I had slept on a heated waterbed for at least 25 years. I miss that heater! When I whined to friends, everyone suggested flannel sheets.

I did the research, and discovered that women of a certain age who experience sudden temperature fluctuations at night don’t do all that well with flannel sheets. I also discovered that fleece sheets are now available, and that fleece wicks away perspiration. Fleece sheets, one web site claimed, are perfect year ‘round – not too cold and not too hot.

As I lay in bed pondering the idea of fleece sheets, I reached over to pet Maggie, who sleeps on a small fleece blanket I bought to keep the cat off the comforter. (Sometimes, it even works.) “That feels good,” I thought. The next day, I bought some fleece sheets on line.

I washed them. I dried them. I put them on the bed. I was skeptical. That night, I crawled into bed. My bed was warm! My bed was fuzzy! My bed, which previously had been cold and crisp and not at all welcoming, was warm and fuzzy -- and I was immensely happy. I slept well – so well that when morning came, I did not want to get out from under the warm, fuzzy sheets. When I did get up, I went on line and found the same sheets for half price on an end-of-season sale, and I bought a second set.

Tally: Two fleece jackets, three fleece vests, two sets of fleece sheets.

I’m set, I said to myself. I am prepared for any occasion that calls for fleece. The very day after I swore off purchasing another single thing, fleece or otherwise, I found a reversible fleece vest in my size at a resale shop. It cost $9. I bought it. You do the math for the final tally.

And I do mean final.