Maya Angelou

An inspiring woman on many levels. I met her once...

It was September of 1979, and I was on my one and only East Coast Grateful Dead tour. In a week's time, I saw shows in Glens Falls, N.Y., Rochester, N.Y., Augusta, ME., and then 3 nights at Madison Square Garden. (Ah, youth!)

My friends and I had just seen the final MSG concert. We had been staying with a deadhead friend in Manhattan. He wanted to drag us California kids to Greenwich Village for our first egg cream. We happily complied, and were soon chattering excitedly at a busy joint in the village. It had been lots of fun for all in the big apple, but we were ready to go home. As we verbalized our homesick thoughts, a woman in the booth next to us turned around and with the most beautiful smile said: "Oooh, I love San Francisco!" We then all conversed about the many things we loved about that city by the bay.

There were introductions at some point... And when she said her name was Maya Angelou, I was electrified-and not just because I had just seen my favorite psychedelic band kick ass at the Garden!

Being a big reader and wannabe poet, I immediately recognized her name. Not so sure whether the deadhead dudes I was with understood my giddiness or the prowess of this woman. I most certainly did! I've never forgotten her warm smile and kindred words. Thanks for inspiring, always, Ms. Angelou.

More than a decade later, I was at home in La Selva Beach with my 7-month old daughter, watching the inauguration of William Jefferson Clinton on t.v.  It was a celebratory time. I had worked for his campaign in my precinct, and life felt pretty damned hopeful. As I sat with my nursing daughter, watching Maya Angelou read her now-famous innaugural poem, tears of joy streamed down my face and onto my brand-new child. I will never forget that memory. The poem was published in small paperback form and I promptly purchased one for myself and one for my father, who also loved words and was hopeful about our newly-elected president. I still have mine, of course. Hoping to read the poem aloud to Glen later, when he is home from work. (He was forewarned, HA!)

Maya Angelou shares this date with my father. Today marks two years since he departed, leaving an emotional crevasse I am just beginning to understand. I mourn what was... And even more so, what was not.

Here's more about her San Francisco ties: 

http://blog.sfgate.com/stew/2014/05/28/maya-angelous-san-francisco-connections/

Wordless Wednesday

9/9/94

Today would have been my Father's 19th

wedding anniversary.  I guess it still is, technically.

He married his true love about eight years after they started dating, both wanting to be sure that they had "staying power."  They were quite the match.

Their wedding ceremony and reception took place at The City Club in San Francisco on a warm autumn evening.  My brother was best man, I was maid of honor.  It was a dressy affair.  There was music and merriment.  

Everyone had a lovely time, of course. My children and then-husband and I stayed in the city that night, at the Hotel Canterbury on Sutter.  Owned by an old friend from Galileo High School.  (RIP, Jon J. Lehr.)

Late that same night, my then-husband left our hotel room in a crazed state, and disappeared into the belly of the beast (The Tenderloin area) until the next morning.  The writing was on the wall, and yet it would be another five years until I escaped my doomed union.  I'm a slow learner.

The photo is another from Stillwater Cove 

on the Jenner coast, where some of my father's ashes were scattered back in June.

Happy Anniversary, dearest dad.  Glad we both found real love in our lifetimes, eventually.

Metolius River

My stepmother stayed with friends who have a place on the Metolius River recently.  It's near Portland, and is a spot she's enjoyed many times through the years.  With my father.

This was her first trip to the river without him.  A river he loved.  Which is why she scattered some of his ashes into it.  He is everywhere!

Facing Future

This has been a year of painful realizations. Maybe it's because I now spend more time alone than ever in my life. Which I adore, and wish I had begun sooner. Or, I could blame it on the madness of menopause.  Or the emptiness I continue to feel over the loss of my father.  Whatever the impetus, it's been a raw and rough-edged time.

Many of the friendships which have existed for decades are virtually unrecognizable to me now.  Is it them or me?  Some of both, I think.  

My father spoke of a similar phase in his life about 20 years back.  Same age as I am now. It seemed impossible to imagine at the time.  But I was 20 years younger, and could not have foreseen the changes in myself and those I thought would always be around.

My former tribe has disbanded, due to age, politics, apathy, addictions, and the death of a famous lead guitar player. I'm okay with that.  My one regret is placing so much value on things that were ultimately unsustainable.

My Father's Tree

We planted this Ohia Lehua tree today...

Happy Father's Day

Sailing on San Francisco Bay...

Wordless Wednesday

These photos were taken by my daughter. That's Stillwater Cove, near Jenner, California.  I've written posts in the past about this amazing place on the edge of the Pacific.  One of my father's most favorite spots.   Yesterday, some of his ashes were buried next to that bench with the jaw-dropping view.  

All That and More

Peter Malcolm Dewees Obituary: View Peter Dewees's Obituary by San Francisco Chronicle

What Are The Words?

 What are the words,

 to say goodbye?

Shall we all be high boys,

  waiting for the end?

A calm perspective,

  Is worth... what?

Hysterics?

  not helpful, maybe not

A recap of the shared life?

  Not possible

The end cannot be a coda.

It is the ebbing,

  Almost gone, already.

Ah, could we not run one more time?

  Show them how it should be done.

  Check in with Joe Zambone,

  A call for Mike at the square 

  to exit Stride, and play 

  Polka Dots and Moonbeams.

    Or applaud Ed Wettland...

     or Jim Lowe.

 

 Offer a bottle of good wine 

  to some winsomes.  

    A Ridge Zinfandel, perhaps.

 

 Even then, to the Saloon,&Johnny Nitro,

    And the final stop,

       Gino and Carlo.

  Leaving a trail of big tips along the way.

 Standing tall,

       If only briefly.

  So long, pal

Bill McIntyre, June 2012

(Poem to my father by his longtime friend and confidante, Bill.) At sundown tonight, we will light the candles I received from Robin and Roger on this, the anniversary of his last California  sunset.

Sacred Space

Losing the self in a ritual is the prelude to experiencing the sacred in the ordinary.

Manfred Steger

Starting to build a spot to honor my father's passing. Catharsis feels pretty good.

I'm Way Deep Into Nothing Special

This is one of those rare times when the world and life in general have rendered me semi-mute. (Don't laugh!)

No specific reason for it.  All is "fine."  I'm in an excellent place, physically and mentally.  Transform or die, right?

Time is creeping up on the one year anniversary of my father's demise.  Grief has taken me on quite a ride these last 12 months.  I'm adapting to the emotional sinkhole that exists in his absence.  Oh sure, he stepped on my heart many times in the 54 years I knew him. No pedestal required.  Still, I miss that keen insight and wicked wit.  He was SO smart.  About most things.  I look forward to having some sort of ritual for my father when a daughter arrives next month.  Maybe we will paddle a kayak out into Hilo Bay and toss some of his ashes and lots of fragrant Hawaiian flowers.  Or plant a new fruit tree here and scatter them around it.  The surprising thing about his death is that I felt like I was prepared for it.  He was sick for 4 years.  I guess you can't prepare for what you haven't experienced before.  

Over the course of the last decade, I've noticed a trend I could not possibly have predicted and yet it now feels eerily inevitable.

The trend involves friends-- or more accurately friends from another time.  Folks I saw lots of music with.  Mostly one particular band, which strikes me as frighteningly myopic at this point.  Good old hindsight.  Don't get me wrong;  I wouldn't change it and I don't have buyer's remorse. (Well, maybe a little.)

The majority of us former deadheads have parted ways, or communicate very little.  I still have a handful of longtime friends that I met that way, and we have seen each other through the decades.  One of them arrives for a visit in a few weeks, but she is a rarity.  All of them began as friendships based on the unswerving love of that particular music.  When the music stopped, I began to find I had little or nothing in common with people I always figured I would know for a long time.  

Some who resisted any type of lifestyle change are either dead or invisible now. Then there are those who swung to the right in ways that scare the shit out of me.  Especially when one considers where their heads were 30-plus years ago. Or where I assumed their heads were.  Every once in a while, one of those folks from the old days pops up somewhere and I am often floored by their tightly-closed minds.

Maybe we got different things from our days of youthful abandon.  I don't know, but I have been wondering what the hell happened to almost everyone.  

Birthday Blues

No birthday negroni for you this year.
An auspicious date, one I've remembered since I was a small child is now just another day to get through.

Life continues without you, of course. Maybe that's what gets at me. The realization that more than seven decades translate to nothing more than a box of ashes beneath your former pillow in your widow's big, lonely bed.

I carry on, hoping to one day find peace and acceptance amid the wreckage of right now.



Photos of North Beach, etc. courtesy of my older daughter.

The Dream

Around the time I learned what the word divorce meant, (I was seven.) I had a dream that remains vivid to this day.

I am in the city of my birth, San Francisco. In what seems to be my neighborhood of Lombard and Leavenworth streets not far from the Art Institute.

I am alone, wandering. I come upon a long stairway that goes downward. Hundreds of concrete stairs. It takes quite a while to reach the bottom. When I do, it's a dead end, with only enough room to turn around and climb up again.

I notice a kitten there, crying in the damp confines, and pick it up. I remember that I had been asking my parents for a cat, but they didn't want one. I decide to take the poor thing home with me and ask them again.

It takes a very long time to reach the street level, and I am feeling nervous about my dad's reaction. Finally, I reach the door to our flat, ring the bell, and someone buzzes me in.

I climb the additional stairs to our place and see my dad waiting for me at the top.
He is smiling. He has a razor blade and a box of band aids in his hands. When I reach him, he says nothing. Just quietly begins to make small cuts in my skin, all over my arms. He then methodically begins covering up the cuts with band aids. Never angry, just smiling gently. Silent.

That's where it ends. I never told my dad about this dream, but I have never forgotten it. My parents were divorced a few months later.

Wordless Wednesday

San Francisco
July 2012

SF JAZZ... Revisited

Doh! (Cue Homer Simpson) I accidentally deleted this post from yesterday.

http://www.sfjazz.org/center
The SF JAZZ Center just opened in my hometown. It is a venue my father would have enjoyed a great deal, which is why some of his friends had his name inscribed there. Immortalized!

Facebook Rehab

It's been a month since I deleted my Facebook account. Here are some observations...

First and foremost, I feel less overwhelmed/frustrated/agitated as time goes on. There were too many meaningless details in that world for my psyche to process. And most of those details had absolutely no bearing or impact on me personally. Yet there they were, all day, every day. From many people who would never think to call me on the phone, or send a letter. Since I speak to my 3 children regularly, I do not need Facebook to know what they're up to. The same can be said for my close friends--the ones I've known for decades. We communicate in other ways.

The thing that really clinched it for me was realizing that more than a hundred Facebook "friends" were observing my day to day happenings, and in some cases, I had never met them, or else we had not communicated since high school-or longer. And that made me feel strange. It wasn't that I had issues of any sort with these people, only that it felt creepy to share personal stuff with people I did not know.. Especially when they rarely, if ever commented or communicated. That felt like straight-up voyeurism, and there are countless lurkers out there, who want to read all about you, yet never share their own happenings.

Blogging is a better format for me. I generally think about what I want to post, rather than the stream-of-consciousness, share everything style of Facebook posting. My blog is an opportunity to write about what's happening, or express my opinions in a more edited and less in your face form. And it's kind of like a diary--a diary that now spans close to 8 years of my life.

The benefits of no more Facebook have been clear. Am reading books like I have not done in years, and am focusing on writing every day. I am less drawn away by the distractions, and able to be present in my new life here. I feel like my life is my own once again, and not public domain. My man notices the changes too, especially since he never submitted to Facebook. My father was on it for a time, until he deleted his account about 6 months before his death. He called to tell me that he was deleting it because he found it tedious, trite, and increasingly annoying. (He was never one to sugar-coat!) I am so thankful he did that, since there isn't much creepier than dead people's Facebook pages. Case in point? My man's now-deceased father's page. Where people STILL comment as though he is somehow seeing it. This despite the fact that he died over 3 years ago! Sigh...

I guess I just am not Facebook material, and am alright with this realization. Many I love enjoy it, so no judgement if you do as well.

Am I Ready For Some Football?

It's Super Bowl Sunday in America. A day to celebrate with slothful behavior, eating unhealthy food and swilling cheap beer.

Typically, I am disinterested in football. As was the man, for most of his life. That has changed over the last few years, and he now enjoys watching a game here and there. Except that he never takes any of it seriously, which is not the case for the average football fan. Like my crazy ex-husband, whose mood was totally dependent on the outcome of a game. Ridiculous.

I now enjoy watching the occasional game with the man. Not that I actually understand what's going on most of the time. Hey, everything looks good in high definition, right? Since we are both San Francisco Bay Area natives, we like the 49ers.

My dad was a lifelong fan of that football team, from the moment the franchise arrived. Through seasons of glory as well as massive defeat, he was right there. He wasn't your stereotypical fan, since he was the dean of a college, loved spending time in Paris, and did not indulge in cheap beer or Buffalo wings. But he loved the team as much as any overfed, undereducated fan did. Perhaps even more so.

Last season, the 49ers came so close to making it to the Super Bowl. Alas, it was not to be. Dad was disappointed, but hopeful for the next season. A season he would not be around to enjoy. I find it bittersweet that his beloved team is playing in the Superbowl today. He'd have been thrilled beyond belief.

So... I'll watch it later today, when the man is home from the farmers market. But it just isn't as exciting as it might have been, had my father been alive to yell and scream at the television. Since I do not believe in the afterlife, I won't pretend that he is "up there" watching. What I will do is keep him in my heart, and root for his team. Even if I rarely comprehend what the hell is going on.