October 29th, 2011
This piece has also appeared on KQED’s Perspectives and the Berkeley Times.
“Nothing’s left,” my dad reported to my mom. He’d gone by himself to find their house, because he didn’t want my 74-year-old mom to see the devastation of what came to be called the Oakland-Berkeley Firestorm.
Later, my mom asked me to take her. As we approached Hiller Highlands, where they had lived for 11 years, my mom’s face turned ashen as she looked at the hills once covered with homes, including her own. The air was still heavy with smoke. All that remained were chimneys and black matchstick trees.
My parents’ ordeal began about 11:00 am that Sunday when my 78-year-old dad smelled smoke and frantically searched for it. He found nothing, until he opened the front door and got blasted by a gust of wind. Flames covered the hills and appeared headed his way. He grabbed my mom, and they fled in their car down Hiller Drive. They missed by minutes the gridlock that trapped and killed residents fleeing from Charing Cross. Continue… »
read more
September 15th, 2011
I remember sitting on a crowded bench in the Delhi train station dripping in 110 degree heat praying for it to cool down. I wondered how it could be so damn hot at 8 p.m. I remember looking at my daughter, Kate, who’d been living in India for two years and noticing how she looked like the other Indians around us who appeared hot, but not drenched like me. I remember feeling relieved that at least my other daughter, Annie, was sweating as much as me even though she was only 25.
I remember thinking age didn’t seem to mediate the heat. I remember wishing I didn’t stick out so much as a foreigner, but the combination of my white skin and wet clothes made that impossible.
I remember endlessly wiping my face with my new orange dupata and worrying I was going to wreck it. I remember Kate telling me not to worry, because the dupatas, Indian scarves, were used to protect against the elements; this included sweat. She told us that the women wore them to shield against sun and wind as well as over their heads for temple visits. Continue… »
read more
February 3rd, 2011
The Getaway
Jumping in a car, or more precisely, a pick-up truck has been my getaway fantasy for years.
In fact, when my girls were teenagers I used to talk with my friend, Carrie, at night and we’d trade stories about our days: our kids and grand kids, our work and anything else we needed to talk about. If a day was especially tough, one of us would call the other and say, “Hey Thelma, this is Louise. Get the truck. It’s time to get out of here.” That was the signal that one of us was on overload. Continue… »
read more
April 18th, 2010
“Well, here’s the biggest problem,” I continue as I get in line behind a woman at the local café. “He’s not sleeping with me anymore. That’s what’s really upsetting.”
I balance my cell phone between my ear and shoulder as I reach in my purse for my wallet. The barista nods to me for my order. “I’ll have a medium low-fat latte.”
“I know he’s old and lethargic, but he’s just not himself,” I tell Teresa who I talk to every morning on my way to work.
“How should I know where he’s sleeping? All I know is that he’s everywhere but with me.”
The woman in front of me suddenly turns and stares. What is her problem, I wonder. I glance down at my blouse and make sure I’ve buttoned it straight. I was rushed this morning. Make-up? Did I put any on today? I’ve been known to show up at work without it sometimes. My fly, did I zip my pants? Continue… »
read more
November 25th, 2009
I never expected my twenty-four year old daughter would pick up a man for me in a bar in a national park. So much for camping trips the way we used to have them back when she and her sister were kids and we sat around campfires roasting marshmallows.
“A girls’ road trip!” My daughter, Annie, boasted to her friends. “My mom and I are driving from Berkeley to Baltimore.”
‘In her Honda Fit no less,’ I thought. ‘It’ll be either great or terrible depending on whose music we’re listening to.’ Continue… »
read more
June 28th, 2009
I was waiting at the intersection for the signal to turn green. Suddenly, I heard sequels of laughter from the car next to me. I turned and saw a Volvo station wagon full of girls in soccer uniforms. They were about eleven or twelve chattering among themselves. The mom driving was oblivious to the noise coming from the back seat of her car.
At first I was relieved it wasn’t me behind that steering wheel. I couldn’t imagine driving one more carpool to one more soccer game. For years I drove my two girls and their teammates to games all over the San Francisco Bay Area. I spent many a weekend at tournaments, but one of the perks of endless hours of sitting through those games was comparing notes with the other moms about the whereabouts of our daughters.
As our girls entered their teen years and boys and drugs circled their lives, we grew closer as a community of moms. We began to rely on those weekend morning soccer games to review events from the night before.
Continue… »
read more
February 4th, 2009
I sort the clothes into piles of colored and white. I’m going to have to wash this stuff first before I pack it up. What was this girl thinking? That’s the point – she wasn’t thinking. I mean how many sweaters, pairs of pants and T-shirts can one girl have? She’s got more clothes than her sister and I put together.
I’m trying to make some order in my twenty-four year old daughter’s bedroom. I kick my way through the multi-colored array of shoes scattered around her floor. Really, how many pairs of heels does one need? Of course, I have only a couple of pairs myself.
“You could use some heels, Mom,” she once chided me. “Kind of update your look!”
Continue… »
read more
November 10th, 2008
I spent the first day of my writer’s residency settling into Jacqueline Mitchard’s home on Cape Cod. It was a beautiful fall day and I could see the leaves beginning to turn shades of red and orange from my bedroom window overlooking the garden.
I had ten days to write without distractions or responsibilities. My two adult daughters, ages twenty-three and twenty-four, were taking care of the house and cats. I no longer had to worry about underage drinking brawls if I was away from home. It seemed about as good as it gets.
For the first twenty-four hours everything I did was a “pinch me” moment: from writing at my desk in my cozy bedroom to walking down the streets of Brewster with my housemate, Sarah, an eighty-year old retired journalist from Wisconsin. This was her first experience, also with time alone to write. Before becoming a grandmother, she had been a working single mom like myself.
Continue… »
read more
July 15th, 2008
Recently, I went to see the film version of Sex and The City with a friend who, like myself, is a mom in her sixties. She said the movie is about sex. I said it’s about freedom.
A few years ago I sounded just like my friend, until I watched the HBO series with my daughters.
“Mom, you’re not going to like it,” my twenty-year old tells me.
Continue… »
read more
May 20th, 2008
“Happy Mother’s Day! Want a cup of tea?”
I awake to see my oldest daughter, Kate, standing in my bedroom doorway.
“Annie and I are making breakfast for you. Do you want to sit outside?”
“Kate, give me a minute! I’m not quite awake.” I can’t help but smile at her eagerness to get me up.
Continue… »
read more
I remember sitting on a crowded bench in the Delhi train station dripping in 110 degree heat praying for it to cool down. I wondered how it could be so damn hot at 8 p.m. I remember looking at my daughter, Kate, who’d been living in India for two years and noticing how she looked like the other Indians around us who appeared hot, but not drenched like me. I remember feeling relieved that at least my other daughter, Annie, was sweating as much as me even though she was only 25.
