When I Bought an “Evening in Paris”

Birthdays weren’t consistently celebrated when I was a kid. The fact is I can’t remember ever having a birthday party. To my mother “it was just another day.” But “us kids” made an effort to celebrate mom’s birthday, at least minimally, by giving her a card or small gift. In the case of one birthday, I had saved up a couple of dollars from babysitting so with this bounty in hand, I headed down to the dime store, practically the only store in town. (This was before malls, chain stores and online shopping.) No matter what you needed, it could probably be found at the local Woolworth’s or similar variety store apparel, auto parts, dry goods, toys, hardware, furniture, and a selection of groceries.

It was hard to buy a present for my mom knowing that whenever I asked her what she wanted for her birthday she’d always say, “Save your money. I don’t need anything.” (Ironically, this is the exact phrase I use when someone asks me what I want for mine.) On the face of it this sounds like a typical sacrifice a mother would make. But it’s also a way of saying you’re not worthy or don’t have an imagination or longing for something. What did you long for, mom? What was your secret desire? I know we don’t have a lot of money and the money we do have “didn’t grow on trees.” But there must be something you really want. I was always looking for a way inside her brain to find out who she was like what happened when you moved to Texas that time?

But I did have desires and longing. One of those desires was always to move out of the small town I grew up in and see the rest of the world. I’d page through books that showed national parks and it seemed so far away and out of my reality. I read books where people did wondrous things and lived in apartments in big cities and went to parties. I watched movies that took place in big cities and characters had jobs in offices. This all seemed so far from any reality that I could attain. Was there really a bunch of whole other worlds out there to explore or was it just all an illusion? Books and maps assured me there was.

So when I went shopping that day I was looking for something really special, something that would make my mom smile, make her eyes light up, something really pretty that she could put on her vanity, something that would lift her spirits. Maybe if I found something special enough she would wear it when she was with my absentee father and they could make their marriage work. This is a lot to ask a present to produce. But I had high hopes, high apple pie in the sky hopes.

The store where I was shopping had everything except food. I was particularly intrigued by the selection of buttons; ones bejeweled, ones in all shapes made of wood, clear, etc. Comic books, hairspray, cards for all occasions. I searched the aisles, temptations all around competing for my hard-earned money. I combed through row after row, looking for the treasure and then I spied it, a cobalt blue bottle with the label “Evening in Paris.”

I had never seen anything so beautiful. The shape of the bottle, the cobalt blue color, the domed cap. I don’t remember what it smelled like but the bottle was evocative of another world. A world in which women wore pearls and high heels, had cocktails before going out for a night of dining and dancing. All this occurred in Paris, of course.

My mother never went to Paris and as far as I know, she never aspired to visit there. But I thought this might inspire her to dream. It inspired me so I think, looking back, I may have bought this cologne just as much for me as my mom though I never used it.

I presented it to my mom and she responded, “Thank you honey.” I didn’t expect anything effusive. That wouldn’t have been in character. But I had hoped it might spark a conversation about dreams. The indifference or stock “thank you” didn’t deter me though. Even all these years later when I see that bottle I am reminded of the dreams and faraway places I imagined in my youth and how I made many of my dreams come true.

My Moment in the Twilight Zone

8 a.m. Saturday morning. Location: A sleepy, small town in northern California. Nearby a woman is driving to the town’s natatorium as she has done before on countless Saturdays. She knows that the regulars will be there, chatting, waiting in line for the facility to open. But this Saturday morning everything was different, strange. This disruption in her routine would continue to puzzle her in the days to come and made her question whether she got the date and time wrong or she was experiencing cognitive decline or whether she had temporarily entered….the twilight zone.

As the woman arrives, she looks for a parking space and notices her preferred parking spot is available and silently exclaims “Yes!” But her enthusiasm quickly turned to puzzlement when she discovers that empty parking spaces abound, unusual for this time and day. And although it is early, it is noteworthy that no one is walking by and no cars are driving by.

As she gets closer to the entrance, she notices there is no line where there usually is one. There’s no pre-swim chatter, no sign of pool shoes or towels hanging out of backpacks. What is going on? Where is Jan or Marlon or Michelle, some of the pool regulars? There’s only silence, broken up occasionally by croaking frogs.

She walked up the stairs and there was a Closed sign on the door. She checked her phone to make sure she had the right time. That checked out. She checked the bulletin board to see if there were any announcements about pool closures, after all there had been pool closures due to lack of lifeguards before. Nope. There was an announcement about lifeguard jobs available and a schedule from 2023. But nothing about a pool closure.

Things weren’t adding up.

She walked back to her car and checked her phone to make sure it really was Saturday. It was, at least according to her phone, if she could trust that. Puzzled, she reluctantly started to drive home. But couldn’t let go of the uneasy feeling-why wasn’t anyone else here? So she turned her car around and waited to see if anyone else showed up to the closed pool. She did see someone carrying a towel walking toward the pool. Then another person parked in front of the facility. This person didn’t get out of their car but she could see him getting on his phone, undoubtedly to let a friend know the pool was closed.

Relieved, somewhat, she drove home still feeling unsettled. She theorized the others must have gotten some kind of heads up about the pool being closed. Once home, she immediately checked the web site to see if the pool closure was announced there. Nope.

This inexplicable disruption in her routine occupied her thoughts the entire weekend. Was it her reliance on things the way they had been for years not allow for this change? As an elder was this emphasis on something others would consider minor a cause for concern? Could this be the first of many experiences pointing to a cognitive decline?

She sent an email to the manager expressing her disappointment that the facility was closed but made sure to let her know how much she loved the pool and appreciated her and her staff’s efforts. “It’s such a friendly place and wonderful resource.”

The manager responded, letting her know that she checked with her staff and the pool was open on Saturday. Emails were exchanged, each describing their version of the events. She decided that she would wait until Monday to see if things would return to normal.

It did. The next Saturday all was well, too.

Recounting the details of a seemingly insignificant event may seem overly dramatic. But this was my experience. I felt the unease intensely and made me wonder about my sanity a bit. Things have returned to normal, expectations are being met each time I go back. But what lingers from the event is a mystery to me and I can’t shake the odd feeling from that day.

*The aforementioned Natatorium, known to the locals as the Richmond Plunge.*

Master of None

I’m a dabbler. The pattern goes like this: I hear a story on the radio or happen upon an article or see a TV show and there it is. I feel the call. My pulse quickens. I have a sudden urge to find out everything I can about my new obsession. I look for a class to take. I read about the subject. I buy supplies. I’m all in, sure that I will stick with it this time. I pursue it doggedly for awhile, then gradually my interest tapers and ultimately I stop doing it altogether. In the process, l have left behind a trail of unfinished work, half completed journals, abandoned web sites, cameras, meditation cushions, and countless “how to” books and art supplies.

My latest dabble is watercolor painting. In this case, it wasn’t a radio or TV show or a random article that drew me in. This time I have Facebook’s algorithms to blame. My feeds started to continually show me lovely watercolors accompanied by poetry. Reader comments to posts suggested that other budding artists had taken up the brush and had fulfilled their dream. Whether by monitoring my browser searches or by mental telepathy, Facebook discovered that I was a new retiree and determined I might be looking for a hobby to keep me busy.

Mind you, though I have a secret desire to be an artist, I have never shown any aptitude for it. My artwork never evolved past crude drawings of houses, suns and rainbows. In the past, I got average grades in art and teachers never encouraged me. Still, I hoped that I had a hidden untapped talent and that with the right teacher, I would “get it” and this skill would be magically unleashed.

Before I had even lifted a brush, I envisioned myself with other artists I had admired on trips, wearing a wide brimmed hat, brush in hand, painting plein air, around here, in France, the Sierras. I imagined that I would capture landscapes like the ones I’ve admired. Now, having never taken a class or shown any aptitude for painting, I had decided that being a watercolor artist would be my retirement identity. Taking this delusion a step further, I envisioned myself as the subject of a profile in AARP, you know the kind in which they profile people who have an amazing “third act.”

When I stopped daydreaming about my future self, I realized I needed some structure so I signed up for a class and then went into equipment buying mode. This is all part of the immersion process for me. I spent hours combing the web for supply recommendations to get myself equipped for my newfound interest. To supplement my classroom learning, I searched for tutorials on YouTube, followed Facebook “watercolors for beginners” groups, followed Pinterest groups, took screenshots of watercolorists work I like as examples to emulate. I ordered several books from acclaimed teachers. Armed with the right supplies, I was confident that I would succeed and thrive as a watercolorist.

Then I went to the class.

By the second or third class I started to realize how much effort it is going to take to become really good at this! Still I made a vow to myself that this time would be different. I will stick to it for the long haul. I won’t give up on an interest like I have in the past just because it’s too hard.

In class, I couldn’t help but compare my progress to the others. Even though I knew that several people in the class either took it before or had a background in watercolors, I felt my progress was too slow. The teacher who tried to be encouraging I guess, spent more time with me than the others. I felt remediated though, rather than supported. The will to become an artist was there but the innate talent hadn’t yet emerged under this teacher’s tutelage.

Back at home, I set up my dining room table to accommodate all my supplies. I had a dedicated art area so was confident that this would guarantee my success.

For a few months, I painted. Sometimes I’d do a couple of small images a day and started to building a portfolio. I felt proud that I could thumb through my images and say “I created that.” It was so satisfying to watch the picture develop on the page. I started to move away from the tutorials and did things on my own. I realized landscapes, people, and florals were not my thing but patterns, especially repeating ones, were.

Then something familiar happened. I stopped painting every day. Initially, a day would go by and I would vow to make up for it the next day. I’d stick with it again. Then more and more days went by without me picking up a brush. When I went back, it was like I had to start all over again. I don’t know why my interest dropped off. Maybe I had a couple of disappointing images in a row and got discouraged. I wasn’t living up to what I thought my output would look like.

In my heart I know that some lucky people are born with an innate talent or may have just had a lifelong interest piqued at a certain age. But that’s not all it takes to become good at something. The real talent lies in sticking with it. There is a drive that keeps artists intensely focused on the art or work, leading to growth year after year. They may have other interests but the main focus of their energies is their passion for their work.

Recently I looked at the images I had produced so far and pronounced to myself, “This isn’t bad. Maybe I’ll pick this up again sometime.” For now though, all the supplies are still on my dining room table.

Meantime, pickleball beckons…

The Power of a Child’s Hug

It was Saturday, my pool day. I had finished my workout and was leaving just as people started to arrive for family swim time. When I got to the changing area of the locker room I heard a voice, high-pitched and enthusiastic, say “hi!.” and then I felt two arms encircling my legs.

Startled, I looked down and saw a child looking up at me. She had black hair, big eyes, long eyelashes, and a wide smile. In that moment, the people in the background faded away, and all the locker room noise was drowned out, the hum of the hair dryers, the hissing of the showers, the chatter of the women. All my attention focused on this child. I bent down and said, “Hi! You have a nice swim, OK?”

Having been acknowledged, she giggled and ran off to go with her mother and was gone before I could say what I wished I had said. “Thanks so much. I really needed that. I haven’t had a hug in a long time. Sometimes I feel invisible and it’s so nice to be noticed.”

Walking to the car, I found myself smiling broadly which is something I rarely do. Despite it being a cold, cloudy day, I was warmed by the gesture of this child. I was surprised at how unexpected it was, how it touched me, and how I got what I didn’t know I needed. I was especially surprised that I received this gift from a child.

The thing is I’m not very comfortable with kids. I’m not around them very much and I don’t seek them out. I was not one of those women who always wanted children. I made up my mind when I was very young that I wouldn’t have any. Watching how my mom struggled being a single parent with 5 kids, 4 boys and me, the only girl and the oldest, I decided that the noise, chaos, and despair I lived through growing up was not for me. When I got older, I would proudly proclaim to friends that “having a dog is the closest thing I’ll ever get to motherhood.”

But every now and then I see a child like this one and wonder what I missed out on. For a moment, I can imagine a life with a stable family, children, happiness, fun. Then just as quickly as the perfect family images appear, they go out of my mind.

In that girl, I saw glimmers of myself as a child. I flashed back to a picture I have of me, age 5 or so, sitting on top an old black and white TV, legs extended, wearing saddle shoes, smiling mischievously, naturally curly hair in full display. That child looked sassy and open to conversation with anyone.
What happened to that spirit? I used to be like the child at the pool.

As I grew older, I never wanted to stand out or be in the spotlight. When I got recognition for good grades or an activity, I brushed it off. I didn’t want anyone to make a fuss. Fearful of saying the wrong thing or looking stupid, I took the “only speak when spoken to” credo to heart and have carried it into adulthood despite knowing that it doesn’t serve me well. I preferred being in the background. So, you’d think that since I prized invisibility when I was young, I’d appreciate feeling that way now that I’m older. But I don’t.

When I was younger, wanting to appear invisible was a choice. But these days, it’s not a choice and I find that any time I am seen, I welcome it.

This girl saw me, and I like to think she chose me because she sensed that I needed what was so easy for her to give-acknowledgement and affection.

I wanted to honor the memory of this girl who left such an impression on me, so I gave her a name, Cora. I didn’t want to keep referring to her as the “child I met in the pool that time who unexpectedly hugged me.” When I feel like I’m invisible or need to experience the joy and openness of a child, I can think of Cora and her sweet smile.

Cora reminded me of the importance and joy of connecting. Since I met her, I try to follow her example and say “hi” and smile at strangers. My greeting may not be as enthusiastic as hers but it’s still effective and I find that most people smile or say hello back. If I don’t get a response or feel that someone is being halfhearted, I don’t dwell on it as a failed attempt as I have done in the past.

I’ve discovered that the simple act of reaching out first to someone is enormously satisfying. If I stretch myself, I ask the person’s name if I run into them more than once or twice,

All this sounds so basic but somewhere along the line, I didn’t learn this simple lesson of connecting because I was so fearful of being judged. I eventually had to ask myself, “You mean I could have been doing this my whole life?” I flashed back to all the missed opportunities for making the connections in the past and had to force myself to stop, remembering that adage “When you know better, you do better.”

Looking back, I was closed off, waiting to be awakened and Cora’s youthful impetuousness gave me an example of how I could be in the world. I probably won’t be wrapping my arms around strangers’ legs to get attention. But I do try to say hello or smile. You never know when someone is feeling invisible and will be glad to be seen.