Back in 1945 Again

It isn't much of a story. I got lost at the beach. If I'd never been found, like the Lindbergh baby,* that would be a story. But I was found. Glad I am of it.

For my mother it was a story and, as far as she knew for that hour or so, this story might end as the more famous one had ended. Her little blond girl, a four-year-old, lost among the thousands of people celebrating the 4th of July that year, 1945, at the Santa Monica beach.

For me, I guess it was a matter of dress hems and pant legs and which to hold on to, a matter of walking along and feeling happy. That's what we were doing, and that's what I was feeling, happy. I do remember discovering that the pant legs I was holding on to were not my dad's. I don't know how that happened, but it did. Still, I don't remember feeling very frightened. Maybe I just knew they would find me.

For Mama, it was retracing steps, looking into the faces of people, asking strangers, sending Daddy running to the water's edge, more than once. This part I know from my older sister.

If I had been the mother, I would have argued against going to the beach that day. So many people. Hard enough to manage five children, one a four-year-old and one in a baby carriage, let alone keep track of another family. But my dad's brother Clyde had come from Utah, brought his wife, Fauntella, and their six kids. They would have coaxed to go to the beach, and the West Los Angeles Brimley kids, their cousins, wouldn't need much coaxing.

I'm guessing that Mama extracted promises from my older brothers and sister to look out for Carol. Maybe they forgot.

But here I am, so many years later, telling about it. See, I told you. Not much of a story.

* The kidnapping that shook the world and frightened parents. Even though it happened in 1932, it was still talked about and was still used by parents--like my mother--to warn and, yes, frighten their children. I was told many times not to talk to strangers, never to get into a car with someone I didn't know. I could be kidnapped. It did scare me, but not that day at the beach.

WWII History At Ayres Avenue

What day, exactly,  I began hearing the booming of big guns offshore I do not know. We lived on Ayres Avenue, 10600, in West Los Angeles, and I was a child of four, that I do know. This means it was 1945.

No one had to tell me what the guns were. They were the war, and I thought it had come to California.

Before that I knew only bits and could make little sense of them.

• Gasoline and sugar rationed--not sure I understood what that meant, although I remember seeing the ration books in our home, and I now know that my mother and father worried they didn't have enough gas to get to the hospital in Santa Monica so that Lucile could be born.
• FDR. The adults I knew had no use for him.
• Japan, Germany=enemy.
• Sailors wore bell bottom trousers and P-Coats.
• My brother Sterling wanted a P-Coat, which probably meant I wanted one, too. I loved him so much.
• Peeling the tin foil from gum wrappers, saving it for the war. Really?

The guns were loud and they made sense. They might shoot at our house. Should I stay inside? "No," my mother told me. "The guns belong to our Navy [so did the sailors I saw so often]. They're practicing."

One day, on my birthday, in fact, my mother and my Aunt Allie sat in the kitchen nook celebrating. I think Allie had a newspaper. The war was over, they told me.

The guns must have stopped then.

It's about my mother

After a walk along the green belt, I went to Winco. It's a market, as my mother would say. Other folks call such places grocery stores, but I'll stick with market . . . because of my mother and because it's one word, easier to say than grocery store.

And, speaking of my mother, the drive home was all about her because of the music playing on my radio. It was Chopin's Fantaisie Impromptu, played by Garrick Ohlsson, an American pianist, a piano competition prize winner, who is known for his Chopin performances.

And, by the way, in 1917, the song I'm Always Chasing Rainbows was published. The melody is adapted--or, as I say, stolen--from Chopin's Fantaisie. All of which is neither here nor there.

Because it's my mother who comes to mind when I hear the Fantaisie Impromptu because she played it. I don't know how many times I heard it in our house. Not enough, I say now. I can see her at the piano. She had many students, you know, and it wasn't often that she sat down just to play.

How I'd love to hear her play that lovely Chopin piece again.  I will never separate it from my mother.

Garbage can update

Dead squirrel, pickled.

That's what I have now, or, I mean, that's what the garbage can smells of.

Believe me. Words cannot convey anything close to what this smells like. And you can be glad, I think, that they don't.

Nick is the guy who said to pour vinegar in there. He almost guaranteed the vinegar would take care of the smell. Wrong.

Look. I went out and bought more vinegar after I ran out of what was in my pantry. So I didn't skimp on the vinegar part.

But, while you can--or, one can--smell the vinegar, and it's plenty strong, one cannot escape the dead squirrel smell. Will it ever be gone?

I'm pretty sure this is enough about that.

Events at my house

The sparrows are okay now. Painters are gone, and the new stain on the spindles of the deck where the birds live is no longer a curiosity to them. I'm pretty sure I could see confusion on their faces.

Can birds frown and look puzzled? A bit fearful? I think so, and I believe they can smell, and the stain did have an  odor, one they haven't known here before..

But they're back in their birdhouse, and tussling with other sparrows who want their place. All familiar and comfortable.

*     *     *

Did I mention the dead squirrel?

Daniel, who came to work/paint last Saturday, found it under my deck stairs. I saw it then. Clearly it was dead, not on its back, legs up, but splayed out flat on its stomach. Not dead for very long.

No idea what killed it.

But what to do with it was the real issue now. Daniel wrapped it in his paper and drop plastic and put it in my garbage can. It waited there until the following Thursday to be collected. I had to move the can halfway down the block because of the smell. When the painters came and parked their vehicles near it, they got a good breath full of dead squirrel.

Yes, they mentioned it. Sorry guys.

Since Thursday, when the squirrel got dumped into the big, big truck, I have worked to get the smell out of the can. I want a new can, by the way. But I have poured the vinegar in several times and left the thing open out in the sun. I will not get in and scrub. I know someone who did that with her garbage can and somehow the thing got shut on her. I say no way am I ever going to do that.

Did you want to know all this?

Harder than Killing Spiders

Sitting in my car, preparing to go in to Winco for some groceries, I heard something drop. It was my credit card, and it fell down between the seat and the center console. Fortunately, I could see it. Unfortunately, I could not get my hand down there, not from where I sat, not by reaching from the front under the seat. Raising, lowering, moving the seat back or forward did not help. I was able to grasp and retrieve a very old shopping list, not quite pertinent for the day's purpose. And no credit card.

By now I was sweating. I got out of the car, sent the seat all the way forward, and began to reach from the floor of the back seat.

I pulled out two pairs of dark glasses, and that made me laugh. I pulled out a dime. I can always use a little change. By the way, I know there's at least another quarter down there somewhere.

But no. I could not reach the credit card.

My hands were scratched and greasy now, but, as you might know, I had to keep trying. It's the credit card I use a lot. Blah, blah, blah. And, of course, you have guessed by now that I finally retrieved it. Yes, I reached around from another direction and got it, holding on tight so as not to drop it.

Here's the thing. It was no easy task.

All this to underscore what I have believed for a long time, like since my husband died: if you have to do something, you can do it, even if it seems impossible for you. And there have been things harder than reaching that credit card. Much harder.

A valuable lesson for me. If I have to do something, really have to, I can do it.

Painting

Do all workers. Oh come on, just say it. Do all men underestimate the time a job will take? Do they not see what will be required? That's pretty much my experience.

Don't get me wrong, unless you really want to. I am happy with their work. They're painting my house. It looks good. (I picked the colors.) They are thorough and, I hope, have good eyes.

The house was supposed to be power washed Friday, then they would come and paint Monday and Tuesday. Period.

The guy came to wash on Thursday, without hoses. But nevermind. Two guys came Friday, Ed and Daniel. ED was here at 6:20 and Daniel about a half hour later. They worked hard until around 3. Daniel called Saturday and asked if he could come and work. Of course, said I. He worked until he ran out of paint, around 1. He wanted to come Sunday, but I said no.

Monday Ed and Tim and Toby came. They said they'd finish up today, Tuesday. That's today, as I said. We shall see.

I say again. I'm happy with their work, just wish it were all done. It's that I have no privacy.

And that the next door neighbor's dog wouldn't bark, by the way.