Coffee House by the Bay - Roxie

Julian the Parrot immediately greets me with a loud “Hello” when I walk in the door. He does this with everyone he recognizes. Then he whistles in that same catcall kind of way that construction workers sometimes throw my way. He saves that for the ladies. Clever, huh?

I head for my table on the covered patio at the rear where I see several other regulars having their morning cup of java. They smile, wave, say hi, or raise their mug in a welcome gesture. My table sits at the edge where I can watch the shrimp and oyster boats as they begin their morning ritual. Seagulls are swooping about, hoping there will be a morsel or two for them this fine day. Two brown pelicans float patiently in the water for the same reason. A great blue heron seems to lord over them with his haughty expression. He knows he can beat them with his large wings and aggressive behavior. He usually does, too.

Cindy brings me a large brown mug of her fine coffee along with cream and sugar. She knows I doctor mine extensively. She teases me with, “You think this is enough sugar, Honey?” She has filled the container to the brim.

“I’m not sure, Cindy, let me work on this bucket and I’ll let you know if I need more,” I joke back.

The oyster shells crunch softly when she turns to pour refills for the gang across the patio. They are in great spirit today, telling jokes and bantering with Cindy while she empties the hot steaming dark brown brew into their cups. Cindy makes the finest coffee around. I’ve tried to replicate it at home but it’s just not the same.

I’ve decided it’s not the way she makes the coffee, or even the type of coffee she uses. The atmosphere of her coffee house by the bay is what keeps me coming back. Oyster shells blanket the floor. A menagerie of multi-colored plastic chairs and tables rest atop the shells. It’s not uncommon to see someone shimmy and shake the table or wriggle around in their chair to nestle in those shells so there’s no wobble. Brightly patterned napkins and placemats are brought freshly cleaned with each mug of coffee. It’s homey, comfortable and welcoming each and every time you enter those doors.

The aromatic smell of Cindy’s coffee permeates the air immediately upon crossing the threshold of her establishment. She remembers our names and is ever ready to lend an ear for your news, be it good or bad. Cindy is an older woman, probably around 65. But I could be wrong about that. She has more energy than two twenty year olds. Gives me hope.

Today she has donned her famous red “kitchen bitch” apron and several of the gentlemen are teasing her and asking if she’ll be their kitchen woman. She laughs and says, “Maybe.” Clever, huh? She keeps them coming back for more. I admire her very much.

I finish my usual one cup of coffee, leave a couple bucks on the table, and pick up my scribble notebook. Cindy smiles softly and says, “See you tomorrow, Honey.” And so she will, so she will.

Letter to a Friend - Roxie

10/24/09

Dear Tamar,

We’re enjoying one of those stunningly beautiful fall days on the coast. The cool north breeze is blowing wispy clouds quickly away and the sky behind those clouds is the cleanest, purest blue you’ll ever encounter. It’s reportedly been said that Rockport has some of the freshest air in the country and today I truly believe it. It’s noticeably invigorating.

As I walk out the front door I see two white pelicans skimming over Salt Lake and a great blue heron perched on a bulkhead hunting his morning meal. The white pelicans are such a treat to see because they are just now arriving from the north. The entire country and Canada funnels a major migrating corridor right through Rockport and birders from around the world visit each year. Laughing gulls swoop and caw adding their voices to the general feeling of happiness.

Across the street on the vacant tract of land I see and hear RC airplanes emitting a low drone from their tiny little engines. I’ve seen these people before and they usually appear on a Saturday morning. You can tell it’s a Saturday morning because our usually quiet street is busy with the comings and goings of weekend visitors, vacationers and locals running errands.

Next-door stands an unfinished house with plywood boarding nailed over the windows; the vacant lot between us reveals construction materials and tall weeds. I wish they’d finish, it’s unsightly and the weeds harbor mosquitoes by the thousands.

As we continue our walk I notice the breeze has changed from north to south – all in about 10 minutes. In the lull of changing wind directions there is virtually no breeze whatsoever and in that instant I realize I should have sprayed mosquito repellant on my bare arms. They land on me for their morning meal forcing me to walk faster and even jog at one point. There’s one on my arm now – splat – I sure hope that’s my bright red blood and not someone else’s, gross.

As we walk by a rack of trash cans I notice a not so pleasant smell. One of the large gray plastic ones has somehow flipped itself with the lid askew allowing that reek to permeate it’s immediate vicinity. They must have eaten boiled shrimp recently because the peelings are baking in the sun contributing nicely to that nasty odor. We jog by just to get it over with. Too bad the trash pickup isn’t until next week.

Not far down the road on the left stands a typical beach house on stilts under construction with scaffolding completely surrounding it. The painters are working today and busily lather a pretty pale yellow on the exterior. A radio blares Tejano music and Abe and I match our steps to the music’s beat. Every single painter stops and stares as we march in time to the tune. Two of them grin and wave, perhaps wishing they could walk with us.

Next door to that work in progress lies a vacant lot with yellow plastic rope surrounding it. My guess is the owner wanted to prevent the workers from parking on their property. But come on, it’s just a vacant lot, how much damage is being done by the wheels and feet of the workers? Not very neighborly conduct if you ask me.

Two doors down sits another vacant lot with tall yellow sunflowers beaming at the sun as brightly as it beams at them. Their brown middles follow the sun’s path and I congratulate whoever so aptly named them.

Further on I notice an ebony black grackle in the tippy top of a Norfork Pine. The backdrop of the azure blue sky and the evergreen tree emphasizes his dark silhouette. He warns in his strident voice that we are approaching although we exhibit no threat to him or his relatives.

Across the street an older man loads a green wheelbarrow with what looks like large bags of soil. His ratty blue tee shirt and ragged blue jeans indicate he’s ready and willing to get dirty. I immediately notice his snow-white moustache when he turns. The contrast of the brilliant white against his tan skin is startling. If he only knew …

In the distance I hear what sounds like a thousand motorcycles approaching. As I turn to see what the commotion is about I am astonished to see what appears to be a motorcycle brigade coming down our dead end street. There must be 60 of them! Almost all of them wave as Abe sits quietly beside me with his head on a swivel, as if he were watching a tennis match. I wave back at most of them knowing I will get a second chance since they have obviously taken a wrong turn and will be returning very soon. Sure enough, within a few minutes they come back, headed in the opposite direction. The noise is deafening and I’m sure many people have dashed to their windows to witness the disturbing uproar. The head motorcycle guy probably won’t live that one down for a while.

At the end of the road where we turn there stands a woman with a beautiful baby in her arms watching as grandma decorates the front porch with witches, ghosts and jack-o-lanterns for Halloween. The baby appears more interested in Abe as indicated by the huge grin peeking out from the sides of her pacifier. I wave but she doesn’t wave back. Her wide smile says it all.

I tie the leash around my waist as I normally do and on the way back home an elderly gentleman teases me by saying, “It’s easy to run if you have a big dog pulling you like that.”

I laugh and reply, “Yes, it’s much easier.” But really, Abe doesn’t pull me at all; he walks obediently beside me as he was trained to do. What a good boy.

As we stride back the way we came I notice two little boys toting palm fronds, looking for a place to build a fort, I presume. Their dad sports clippers and has been diligently loading the trailer with cut ones. He smiles and says, “Hi!” Maybe he has those younguns helping instead of allowing them to build a fort. I believe both endeavors earn merit.

As we near our gate I hear our wind chimes with their gentle low tone and realize we are truly blessed to live in such a gorgeous setting. With Copano Bay as our constant wide-open view on one side and Salt Lake on the other, I can honestly say I wouldn’t want to live anywhere else. Pinch me!

Tamar, I would really like you to come down for a visit. It will give you a chance to get away from the bitter cold that has begun up there in British Columbia and you can see for yourself what I have shown you here. Don’t worry; I’ll do the pinching!

Love you! - Roxie

Condom Ramblings - Tamar

The sign on the triple xxx video store my bus passes every morning on my way to work blinks in bright red letters CONDOMS 25 cents, and I wonder...

What today can you buy for 25 cents? At our store about the only thing would be a one and half inch Styrofoam ball, and you’d still need some pennies for sales tax. I don’t think there’s anything in the corner store that cheap, and even if there were, it would probably be old, dusty, and stale.

So let’s see. For 25 cents, I bet they are plain. No ribbed, flavoured, lubricated, studded, juicy (?), micro thin, bumpy, glow in the dark (would you have problems finding it otherwise?) condoms here, I bet. Just plain ordinary condoms, probably used for self-service only. But then I guess you wouldn’t need one.

The problem with not knowing much about condoms leads to a search on Google, which means if I come to a mysterious bloody end, the cops will probably confiscate my laptop and find all these condom sites on its hard drive. Oops. What we wouldn’t do for research.

Anyway, these condoms, which are probably made in China, are very cheap and may make a perfect Christmas gift for someone you don’t know very well, but who may expect a present, like a co-worker, or mailman, or maybe your dentist. Just pop in a pretty gift bag and add a tumble of curly ribbon, and there you go.

You can learn a lot on a bus trip if you keep your eyes open.

Bliss - by Roxie

Here I am – in bliss. I’m sitting on the double lounger upstairs with a Dos Equis in hand, a silly dog literally begging for a sip of beer, one of the most beautiful views I’ve ever seen, and picture perfect weather. What more could one ask for? I dare say nothing, nothing at all.

Have you ever wished you could fly? I have! Can you imagine it? Floating on the wind, seeing everything below you in perfect clarity, dipping and diving, singing, literally having the time of your life.

I envy the birds I see as I sit and contemplate what flying might be like. Ah, there’s a dragonfly, too. Or is that two dragonflies? Hmm, flying AND mating at the same time, that has to combine two of the most pleasurable activities on the planet. Lucky dragonflies!

I suppose that’s “all I’ve got to say about that” – Forrest Gump.

Saturday at Canada Place - by Tamar

Our Saturday walk brought us to Canada Place, where Howard was thrilled to discover three cruise ships. To add to the excitement, one had just arrived, so we had the joy of watching it tie up at port. In fact, it was so exciting I sat on a bench reading my bus book while I waited for him to scrutinize every inch of the three ships.


After finishing the bus book, (a bus book is whatever I’m reading at the time of the bus trip. I bring it with me so I can read it on the bus. Why waste precious time just sitting when you can read?) I decide to see what’s happening on the cruise ship in front of me. This one has finally tied up, and has unloaded hundreds of people who will rush to the taxi stands and add to the Saturday morning traffic congestion. I notice lots of people buzzing around the lower deck wearing bright orange life jackets, and for a minute, I wonder if something really exciting is going to happen, like maybe a sinking or something.



But no, Howard informs me it is a mere lifeboat drill. Some of the crew pull on blue poncho-kind-of-covers over their life jackets; I guess they’re team leaders, or drill sergeants or something, I have no idea. The crew separates and groups of five or six line up and stand beneath each of the lifeboats. And then they just wait. Some of them fidget, but some of them stand really really still. I have no idea if they get extra points for standing still. The blue ponchoed people walk around, but I don’t even see them taking notes. Maybe they have really good memories.



After a long time, it seems to me, someone announces something over the PA system. We all know what PA systems sound like, whether on a ship or in a hospital; add to that the foreign accent of the announcer, and all I heard was a repeat of blah blah blahs in an Australian accent. I assume the crew could understand, though, as they left their posts and wandered off somewhere. I noticed some of them were wearing chef’s hats. If I ever ended up in a life raft on the middle of a huge ocean, I would hope to share that life raft with at least one chef. At least he would know how to prepare the sharks and octopuses that would try to eat us. Another thing I noticed is that life jackets make people look fat.


When Howard realizes I am about ready to jump over the railing, he comes over and we continue our walk. Because of ongoing construction, we have to retrace our steps, which means climbing up five or six flights of stairs at one end, and down the same amount at the other end.



By this time, even though we had walked very few steps, the number of the ones that went up had wreaked havoc with our leg muscles. We will never climb mountains. We decide to walk around the new Conference Centre, so we can finally, after years of waiting, see the other side of the cruise ships that are tied up at Canada Place. How could life ever get better than this?


We come to a group of people, who obviously weren’t robbed of their cameras last week. They were all taking pictures of an RCMP officer, all decked out in his scarlet dress uniform and little brown hat, sitting on a horse. Wow. He had ridden that poor little horse to the waterfront that day, so they could stand – well, he was sitting, but the horse was standing – in the sun and accept donations for the SPCA. Now, maybe it was only me, and I wasn’t in the best of moods at the time, but I thought maybe if he stood beside the horse, it might be kinder and more apt an advertisement for the society of prevention of cruelty on animals. I wanted to hang around for a few minutes in case the horse took a bathroom break, but by this time, Howard was way ahead of me, so I ran to catch up. Well, I didn’t actually run, but I caught up with him anyway.


I think everyone who owns a sailboat in Vancouver was out in the harbour this morning. The ocean was the most incredible shade of blue, and the sky a perfect cover with a coordinating shade. A breeze riffled the waves, and the hundreds of white sails drifting over the water would have made a beautiful picture. Assuming, that is, that one had a camera.


Because the sea wall walk still was under construction, we had to take a short cut to the road, which of course consisted of about 500 stairs. And Howard thinks I’m happy now that we’ve finally started our walk.


Ha.

A Tree and a Bike - A Poem for Roxie, our Tree Climber

a tree and a bike
are not really alike
as a tree cannot roll down the street
the bike it can glide
and take you for a ride
with just some small help from your feet

a tree just stands tall
not mobile at all
and waits for the scamper of feet
to its branches up high
where the leaves dip and sigh
it will offer a secretive seat.

from the bike you may tip
and scrape knees, hands and lip
and bonk your head hard on a rock
in a tree you may fumble
breaking bones as you tumble
and give you a terrible shock.

so, a tree and a bike
are somewhat alike
they can both cause a great deal of pain
but if you're like me
the bike, or the tree
will seduce you again and again.

A Weird Day - Roxie

It was a weird day yesterday ... very weird!

Around 11:00 a.m. a northwest wind started blowing - it was the first "cold front" of the season. I'm not just talking about a little wind - it was blowing so hard it scared me. I estimate between 50-60 mph winds. The back of our house faces due north and you could see it coming across the bay straight for us. It looked menacing and was.

As the first of the wind arrived it began clanging the wind chimes so loudly you couldn't hear yourself think. The spa cover flew open exposing the hot tub and filling it with debris - leaves, dirt and who knows what else - there could be a small child in there for all I know. The outdoor furniture started moving and it's heavy teak. Cushions were flying. The cushion from the upstairs deck lounger blew up and over the house and was pinned against the fence in the front yard, unable to move due to the force of the wind. A small decorative ceramic accent table fell over, breaking off the top portion. It was a house-warming gift from Sarah and I was sad to see it go. Randy gathered the broken pieces that didn't immediately blow away thinking he was going to glue it back together. A pipe dream at best. I'm certain it's impossible.

All the palm tree fronds were pointed to the southeast. I noticed how stalwart the trunks were and what a perfect tree they were for this part of the world. Otherwise we'd be just another desert with no foliage. They can withstand a heck of a lot of wind and water without budging even an inch. Impressive! But not all of our landscaping is palm trees. The other, less hardy plants were being buffeted beyond reason. I'm amazed they are still standing.

The pool water was white caped, I'm not kidding. The waves produced by the wind were crashing over our pier. I've never seen that happen in the four years we've lived in this house - never. We have a rock breakwater for which I am truly grateful after seeing the waves hit the neighbor’s bulkhead and crash up to their roof! I'm sure they will have some repairs to do when they return.

I don't know what the cold front did to the barometric pressure but Abe's behavior was beyond crazy. He has a basket full of chew toys and antlers and he proceeded at one point during the chaos to empty his basket of toys and pick each one up individually and then drop it on the tile floor making an enormous racket inside. As if the outside noise wasn't enough to rattle me already. He spread them everywhere. Then he picked up one of them and started running helter skelter through the house as if his very life depended on it. He hunched over, toy in his mouth, and ran so fast there was no way he could stop on these tile floors - so he would slide until something got in his way. He slid so far it was like a pro baseball player's last ditch effort. I couldn't calm him down. I finally had to get the squirt bottle out for him to settle. I made him sit and stay and he finally did. I didn't let him out for quite some time. He never does any of those things. Usually he's a pretty calm dog. Not yesterday, he exhibited very strange and erratic behavior. I can only attribute it to the change in the weather.

The power of the wind had me in awe. There is nothing quite like Mother Nature to get your attention. We mere mortals can't compete with such true majestic supremacy. I am still in fear and wonder of it's strength, intensity, and sheer audacity of being. I now have a whole new respect for wind.

Skating - Tamar

Yesterday morning, while digging in the bottom of the closet for a pair of gloves, I banged my head on a pair of skates that were dangling from a hook. This actually was the first time they caused pain to my head, but they had on several occasions over the past year, caused a couple of other body parts agony.

In a moment of frivolity last February, my co-workers and I decided to try out the ice at the new Olympic Speed Skating Rink in Richmond. Since it had been years since any of us had skated, we thought it would be fun and exciting. Ha.

Pauline, always wanting to be the centre of attention, skated a few feet and fell down, landing on the back of her head. I was still on the bleachers tying up my skates when I heard the commotion and saw the remaining two of my group standing and staring at the lump on the ice. I sped up and stepped on the ice for the first time in fifteen years. Holding onto the side of the rink, I half-skated, half-walked, to the spot to see what was happening.

Languishing in the attention, surrounded by all the skaters on the ice, she waited for the first-aid attendants, who fussed over her and pushed her on a chair to the first-aid room. Very classy.

Dazed and a bit confused – so what else is new? – Pauline spent the rest of the evening sitting off-rink and watching the other skaters flow by gracefully.

I was doing pretty well, actually, until the spiky thingies at the toe of my right skate caught in some invisible something, and I went down too. Instead of choosing to land on my head though, I decided to land on my right knee, which accepted my weight with a slight crunching sound and enough pain to ricochet several naughty words in my brain. Unless I crawled to the side of the rink and pulled myself up on the barrier, I was there for good, or at least until the Zamboni came out and scooped me up.

This, I found, was indeed a good way to receive attention, as several younger gentlemen skated to my aid.

“Are you okay?”

“Yeah, I’m fine, thanks. Just need a hand-up. “

Half-skating, half-limping, I moved along to the gate and half-hobbled to a bench, where I sat and nursed the tender, throbbing lump that once served as my knee.

After a few minutes, it was twice more around the rink, just to prove I could, then we capped the night with a visit to Tim Horton’s, replacing the calories we had just burned with lattes and donuts.

Skating and Timmy’s – how Canadian, eh?

Evening in Paris - Tamar

Looking at Paris in this light, with the sky pulling a huge fluffy blanket of pinks around its shoulders, I realize how amazing the past few days have been. Here I sit, on a petit veranda that separates the room I rent in the charming 19th century inn from the amazing view of the skyline, and I almost tremble in anticipation of where I will go next. One week is hardly enough to absorb all the history, hardly enough to make my own new history, but move on I must.

I wonder if my husband has realized yet that I am gone. I wonder if he has gone from missing me as in ‘where the heck is my dinner’ or ‘how come I have no clean jeans’, to the point where he will call the hospitals and the morgue; where he will stumble to the police station with my crumpled photo in his hand and a vague description of what I was wearing the last time he saw me flickering in the corner of his brain.

As I place my empty wineglass on the table and wait for Jacques, the garcon from the bistro on the corner who insisted on walking me back to the inn, to once again fill it to the brim with the sweetness of the red grape, my mind wanders back to my before life. I spent most of my energy trying to keep my two teenage sons in school and out of jail; they had both developed a love for cannabis and the cheapest vodka they could buy with their fake ID’s and scruffy faces. One already had a 5-year prohibition on his driver’s licence; the other was on probation for breaking into a seniors’ home with the hope of stealing narcotics and sedatives.

My husband, on the other hand, was seldom in trouble with the law; he remained a hard working and a hard drinking longshoreman whose only goals in life were cold beer and a willing woman. I imagine him now, rolling over in bed and grabbing me, but getting a pillow instead. A grunt, a curse and an arthritic lurch onto the floor, then to the bathroom for a long pee and a fart; I don’t miss my early morning wake-up call at all.

Soft tendrils of guitar music waft like smoke from the room beneath mine; and I lean back in the chair and breathe the notes, and the soft air, and the now fuchsia and purple sky deep into my lungs. I know it won’t be long before he realizes I‘m the lucky one who held the 14 million dollar lottery ticket in my hand, the ticket I bought with the last two dollars I will ever steal from his jeans’ pocket while he lies snoring in front of the television. However, it won’t matter to me.

There’s a lot of world for me to find, and I plan to trip through every inch of it; I only have to stay a step ahead and a heartbeat away.

I am Red - Roxie

I am red!

The color of a fire engine as it races to save your home and all your precious possessions. I am more vibrant than a crimson maple leaf in autumn. The maroon of the Texas A & M Aggies is pallid in contract to my brilliance. your Mom's ruby ring could not hold a candle to my brightness. The scarlet letter "A" on Hester Prynee's gown pales in comparison. I can outshine the juciest cherry or the most succulent Red Delicious apple. Claret, Burgundy or even Merlot wine dims in my vivid glow. My child's birthstone, the garnet, is feeble as I stand in all my glory. I am the shade of blood when you nick yourself while shaving. The tint you see in your mind's eye as you become angry. The hue of ink in the final column when you realize your budget isn't quite adding up. The blush on your checks when you comprehend the cute butcher is flirting with you. The dye of your hair when you realize your hairdresser made a miscalculation in mixing her potion as she slowly turns you toward the mirror, fear in her eyes. The tint of your bloodshot eyes after an evening out on the town when you drank too much of the aforementioned Claret, Burgundy or Merlot wine because your hairdresser so thoroughly made a mess of your curls. The perfect hue of hat to wear on said flaming tresses to hide the blunder made by stylist you would NEVER see again.

Yes, I am red!

The Orange Sock - Tamar

On this cloudy gray and chilly day, I took a chance at sunshine and hung my laundry outdoors. As I pegged my husband’s socks in a row like soft white soldiers, I noticed I was hanging them with their heels all facing the same direction. This brought me back to a time when I was young and single, living free and trying so hard to make a mark on life.

I turned 20 the year I moved to Trinity, and became the middle teacher in a three-room school on the hill. The School Board had found me a boarding house in the community, and I got the biggest bedroom of the three, since I was paying the most rent - $50 per month. I moved in with my Herman Hermits and Monkees records, my What, Me Worry? poster, and my hopes and dreams of teaching all the little 8 and 9 year olds of the town their multiplication tables and world geography.

I soon settled in my new home. The couple who were my landlords would become, in the future, my aunt and uncle by marriage, but long before then Evelyn became my friend. We would play Scat for pennies, and she would drag me to Bingo, which I soon learned to hate. And every now and then, I guess I would help a little around the house.

My sister would probably never believe this, as she knew I would hide in the bathroom whenever there was a chore to be done. (At least that is how she remembers it. I think I may have been a little bit lactose intolerant.) However, I remember one sunny, warm day when Evelyn was doing laundry, I ended up hanging it out for her, and I remember pegging a row of her family’s little white soldiers on the line. However, when I came to the bottom of the basket, I found one lonely single orange sock, all by its lonesome.

I counted the socks on the line, and moved the middle one to an end, so I could peg that little orange sock in the middle. When Evelyn came out, she started to laugh, to see that bright exclamation point surrounded by white. I have no ideas which way the heels were pointing. That didn’t matter to me back then. What mattered was the single little stocking dancing in the breeze.

At that time in my life, the orange stocking and I were very much alike. We were both independent and bright. We didn’t care what anyone said, as long as we could dance and enjoy the dance. In fact, if I remember, I enjoyed being a bit different, pushing the boundaries, and meeting new adventures head on.

The years have passed quickly, bracketed by a married life, and my babies are now adults with their own babies. I hope they find their own adventures to bring them smiles as they grow older. I hope at least once in their lives, they punctuate their clotheslines with an orange sock.

Fall - by Tamar

This is a winter day, even though it's only October first on the calendar. Here I stand at the bus stop, wishing my fingerless gloves had fingers, and wondering where the hot flashes are when you really need them. The wind blows at my umbrella, the raindrops reroute themselves so they take a ballroom dip and sneak under it to kick me in the face, and I find myself once again complaining about the weather.
Yes, leaves are falling. Rain is falling. It's Fall. My favourite season, actually, although it's hard to appreciate the rich warm colours dressing the trees, when I'm shivering, hunkering, dancing almost, when my goose bumps have goose bumps and my warm jacket isn't quite warm enough.
And I remember this past summer, when the sun blazed its way through clear skies and it was hot enough to make your knuckles sweat, when a few hours walking around Stanley Park resulted in sunburned skin peeling from my shoulders like old paint from an abandoned boat, and I swore and complained and longed for cooler days.
Guess my prayers were answered. Now if only the lottery ones were next.