Sue Katz: Consenting Adult

How Shingrix supports National Napping Day

I had the old shingles shot (Zostavax) a decade or so ago. But for the last couple of years I’ve been urged to get the new shot, Shingrix. I would’ve done so immediately, but it is never available. Plus, it is hideously expensive, even on Medicare. It seems that insufficient amounts of this vaccine are produced in fits and starts and if you don’t happen to be aware that it is available, you have to hope that the next round might include you.

I had the first of two Shingrix shots, at last, on Tuesday. I thought my Dr’s office was going to administer it, but I got a call from my Rx insurance saying I had to have it at Walgreens, and yes, they cover it. It took my pharmacist two days to carve out time to vaccinate me and it cost me $185. I think my insurance kicked in a dozen dollars.

I was warned about the side effects: sore arm at the shot site (that more or less faded after 5 days); a rash (yeah, I got a small rash a few days ago which has faded away); and exhaustion.

Which brings me to today: National Napping Day. Since receiving the shot, I have found that my regular dozy afternoon slump has turned into a three-hour nap-of-the-dead. About 2:30 or 3:00 I crawl to my bedroom, fall onto the bed in all my clothes, and three hours later I come awake after a blacked-out sojourn in Never-Never-Land. This is happening day after day after day. Yesterday I was out of the house at an event so I didn’t get my nap and, damn it, I was wiped.

Why is this shot so important? Because shingles (a kind of reactivation, usually in elders, of chickenpox) SUCKS! I was traveling with my cousin when she got shingles around her torso, a thick band of weeping raw sores that were viciously painful and persistent. I will never forget how she heroically endured this gruesome condition.

So I’m not complaining about the naps which have become part of my day. In fact, I’m proud to fit in with the other celebrants of National Napping Day. I would continue with this post, but I feel a duvet calling my name.

PS: Here’s some additional info about the reason we’re being encouraged to take the new shot.

In the U.S., Zostavax and Shingrix are FDA-approved vaccines to help prevent the occurrence of shingles. In studies, compared with placebo, Shingrix significantly reduced the risk of developing shingles by 90 to 97% in subjects 50 years and older. Merck’s Zostavax, compared to placebo, significantly reduced the risk of developing zoster by 69.8% in those 50 to 59 years old, and by 51% in subjects 60 and older overall. However, in patients 80 years and older, Zostavax was only 18% effective while Shingrix was 89.1% effective in preventing shingles in this older, at-risk, age group. There are no head-to-head studies.

Women in Black against the Occupation of Palestine is Still Happening

Women in Black (Tel Aviv) was formed in my flat in 1988, shortly after the Jerusalem women started the first group. We in Tel Aviv had been demonstrating weekly as Women in White on the steps of Tel Aviv City Hall, opposing the incursion into Lebanon. When the First Intifada (resistance) broke out, we changed the colors of our clothes and adopted the structure of the Jerusalem women, demonstrating every Friday at a main intersection.

The photo is of a joint demo of Jerusalem and Tel Aviv in 1898. Can you find me?

I was in charge of security in Tel Aviv, because the initial reaction of the Israeli men was absolutely crazed. They drove their cars up onto the traffic island where we protested in an attempt to run us down; they jumped out of their cars to grab our signs; and at the slightest sign of resistance, they became physically violent. They called us “Arab fuckers” and they screamed that we should get home and prepare Shabbat dinner for our husbands.

In honor of International Women’s Day, 927mag.com compiled these photos of Women in Black who persist in representing our demand for an end of the Occupation of Palestine.

 

Book Review in 100 words: The Unlikely Pilgrimage of Harold Fry by Rachel Joyce

Harold receives a letter from Queenie Hennessy after 20 years of silence. He goes to mail a brief reply, but inexplicably keeps walking. A chance encounter with a random salesgirl propels him on; soon he is making a distant pilgrimage by foot, entirely unprepared – physically and emotionally. I was gripped by his journey, not the least his memories and regrets. Back home his wife Maureen traverses an inner expedition of her own. Despite years of secrets and lies between them, by the end we care deeply about whether or not their paths will merge again. I’ll read the sequel next.

Tears at the Dumpster

All my adult life I have feared that in my old age, when I couldn’t work, that I would be a "bag lady". I knew I would never have a husband or children to support me: that I was and would be on my own. Recently, I see the women with shopping carts piled with bottles and cans, and recall all my fears. However, I now realize that, in fact, I’m okay in my retirement. That I will be okay. It is hard to adjust to this idea: that I will be able to afford my rent for the next 15 years (or so?) that I have left.

I collect all my bottles and cans and keep them in bags in the back seat of my car. The other day I am coming out of my building’s garage and a slender figure is on tippy-toes using a tree branch to try – I suspect – to fish out cans from our dumpster.

I pull over at the end of the driveway and call to the person: “Are you looking for cans?” No reaction. After a couple of more tries I realize that they can’t hear me or perhaps understand me. So I jog to the dumpster and step into sight-line and see that yes, she is fishing for cans. She is wizened and dressed in piles of clothing and looks frozen. She is so emaciated that I cannot even guess at her age or race.

I run back and forth to my car four times. First, I get out a big plastic bag of bottles and cans; then I return for a paper bag full of cans that I had forgotten about. It isn’t enough. I run back to the car and get out some money and race back to give it to her. And then finally, I realize that she is wearing a kind of plastic fake-leather jacket and must be freezing, so I return to the car to get the lovely purple fleece that my friend Jaya bought for my birthday and which I keep in the car for the frequent times I’ve misjudged the weather, and I give it to her. She says, “Too much, too much.” She leaves the driveway and I get into my car. As I pull out, I see her going to the back of the building across the way to where they keep their dumpster.

I have solved nothing for her. I have solved nothing for the many women, men, and children out on the streets. I am choked up – even now days later as I write this – because I am only too aware that the only solution to social problems like poverty and homelessness are social solutions. Laws that protect us; institutions that serve us; safety nets that catch us – and the present regime is busy undoing all the shards of support that remain. We are all in for heart-breaks – some so much more than others.

I Wept At My First Bernie Rally

My protest partner Barry and I drove to Rindge, New Hampshire, where Bernie was speaking at Franklin Pierce University the day before the first Democratic primary. Because of an unanticipated light snowstorm, it took us two hours to get there. The campus was one big traffic jam, but the cops found us a convenient disability parking space. We were greeted by a young volunteer who, on seeing the button on my backpack that says “Ask me about my book,” asked me. She said she was an English Literature major and hoping to become a novelist. I said one of my books was a novel about a woman who at 84 falls in love with a dyke who is 79. Excitedly, the girl said, “I’m queer too!” What a sweet greeting.

Inside it was crammed with people, but the volunteers had put aside seats for elders and people with disabilities. We were two rows back from the podium. The first row was reserved for people enjoying the services of a sign language interpreter. There were swarms of press – microphones and cameras everywhere. C-Span broadcast it (you can catch Barry and me as they panned the crowd). Barry and I and an old guy sitting next to us were interviewed by Nightline . I explained why I think Bernie is the only candidate sure to beat tRump.

Later edit: A little part of the interview was broadcast on Nightline in the evening! Here it is. Bernie coverage starts at 2:00. 

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=npCS1FFTI6E&feature=youtu.be&t=149&fbclid=IwAR3gU0diSTTHO1FvcBmydloKXeE9pz7pi0Qh3dDNPDh_avvxhWPKUhWhSTc

Two women students were the first to speak. The first was herself hard of hearing from early childhood. She described the isolation she felt and how this campaign had embraced her and how life felt so much richer working for Bernie’s vision. She said that in 2016 she had been 19 and instead of using her first chance to vote, out of confusion she didn’t vote at all. She has spent her time since making up for that mistake.

The second student talked about growing up poor. She said her mother went to college at age 30 and was still paying off her student loans, just as this girl was accruing hers. She identified as LGBTQ.

Next was Nina Turner, a former Ohio State Senator and now a national co-chair of Bernie’s campaign. She is a remarkable speaker, skilled at call/response, and practiced in getting the crowd excited. Plus, she was rocking a fantastic animal-print floor-length dress. When she said that this may be the last chance in our lifetime to achieve the kind of country we want, I wept. It is certainly the last chance in my lifetime.

Nina was followed by the Sex in the City actor Cynthia Nixon, who also said she “identifies as LGBT.” She was quiet, even halting, as she explained her own journey. She said she voted for Hillary last time, not because she didn’t find Bernie’s policies exciting, but because people insisted that the middle-of-the-road was the path to beating tRump. When she said the name “Hillary,” the jubilant, animated crowd of students went dead silent. They didn’t boo or hiss. They were focused at the job in hand, and I found it quite moving. Cynthia introduced Bernie.

He came to the stage with his wife Jane who seems to stay on the campaign trail, but quickly leaves the limelight to him. He gave a speech I have seen on tv many times – but with such vigor and energy and conviction that one believes utterly in his sincerity and focus.

My takeaway from the day is that I am not doing enough and must do more. We cannot be lulled into paralysis by the fascistic wave overtaking our lives. We must fight the tendency to drown in a good novel – whether reading or writing one, or to overeat as we watch any of an infinite number of entertainments available on our every device. It’s now or never. Let’s kick each other into gear and stop this maniac by electing someone who is so consistent, so sure, so progressive that no mere bully can shake him from his beliefs. As Cynthia Nixon said, I’m all in for Bernie.

If You Don’t Ask, You Don’t Get: Appeal of a Traffic Accident

Herewith the story of my car accident, my punishment, my appeal, and the lesson to be learned.

I rear-ended another car some months ago. I was coming from a reading of my latest book, A Raisin in My Cleavage: short & shorter stories, to a large group of older lesbians in Roslindale. It’s not an area I know, so I went slowly around a hairpin turn from one street onto another, around a little urban park. Because it’s a blind U-turn, I couldn’t see that the car driving on the second street had stopped suddenly. The car only came into view as I came around the bend, so I steered hard to the left to avoid her. Although I was going under 10 miles per hour, my front bumper on the passenger side scraped the whole driver side of her car.

We pulled over, regretful but polite. First things first: we checked that each of us was okay. We took phone photos of all the relevant paperwork, the cars, the licenses. My car was more damaged than hers. We had pulled over in front of a barbershop and out came the owner. She was kind and helpful – said these accidents happen frequently in that place. We all agreed that situations like this were easiest when only women were involved.

I reported everything to my insurance and after a week or so they asked if there had been a witness. I googled until I found the barbershop and then rang up to find the owner. She was glad to call the insurance company for me. They judged me 100% guilty (as is generally the case in Massachusetts when someone rear-ends someone else) and when I went to see my agent, she said that I would lose points, lose my large discounts for years of good driving, and end up paying up to $800 more per year for my insurance.

There was an appeal process and I applied and I received a letter from the Massachusetts Division of Insurance, Board of Appeals giving me a hearing date for some months forward. I contacted the barber and she agreed to send me a witness statement. It was carefully handwritten and full of sincerity. Armed with that, a blown-up map showing the nature of the blind turn, and my own statement, I went to the appeal.

One woman served as judge. Another woman served as the representative of all the insurance companies. The judge was a total pro. She had a modulated voice that could calm a mosquito in heat. She was interested, patient, and gave each person time to say whatever they wanted to say. I watched as she adjudicated about 6 or 7 other appealers before me and was impressed indeed. For all of us, the stakes were high, but she maintained a reassuring transparent fairness.

When I had my turn, I told my story. After seeing the others, I realized that my own circumstances might not fit the criteria: it wasn’t night or bad weather. Once it was my turn, I answered her questions, giving her copies of the map with the impossible turn, the witness statement, and my own statement. When she asked if I had something to add, I said: “My father was a trucker for a while and took great pride in his driving record. He taught me how to drive in the 1960s and I have never had a moving violation or been at fault in an accident ever since. I would hate to betray my dad in a situation where, after going over it a million times in my head, I simply do not see what I could have done differently.”

A week later, I was driving on my least favorite highway at night in the rain when I was side-swiped by a pickup truck. That’s the bad news. The good news is that a state police car pulled up behind me when the other driver and I pulled to the side of the road to exchange paperwork. The other driver left, but I walked over to the state policeman to ask for a report – having seen the judge ask about such things while watching the appeals – and he gave me one indicating that the other driver was at fault. The bad news is that I got home rather bedraggled only to find the appeal results in the mailbox, but the good news is that I won the appeal.

If you don’t ask, you don’t get.

 

Words I Hate: Job Creator

Words I Hate: Job Creator

For years I have railed against particularly deceptive, misleading, euphemistic words and so I’m going to start an occasional series of blogs dealing with these words.

JOB CREATOR
Tom Steyer, the multi-billionaire vanity candidate for president who built his wealth as a hedge fund manager, has assaulted us with a barrage of TV and radio ads. He brags: “I started a tiny investment business and, over 27 years, grew it successfully to 36 billion dollars.” His argument is that he is a superior capitalist pig to tRump. With no governmental experience whatsoever, he brags that as a “job creator,” he is capable of running the world. His campaign has spent $17 million on ads so far.

What does it mean to be a job creator? McDonalds and Walmart and other minimum wage companies – they’re all job creators. They’re also union haters, do not pay a living wage to their employees, and in most cases offer no benefits. I don’t know how many or what type of jobs this Steyer “created” – these hedge funders usually just buy, ransack, and then sell companies. But what he really means is that he managed to exploit the labor of enough people to make him so rich that he can attempt to spend his way into the position of president of the USA. As a “job creator” he wants to create that one additional job – for himself.

Travelogue: Sedona, the Grand Canyon, and Surrounds in 9 days

ARRIVING
I begin to understand my experience of Arizona when I learn that only 17% of the state is in private hands. The rest either belongs to the Navajo Nation (about the size of 1/4 of Texas), or is designated National Parks, National Monuments, and National Recreation Areas. If you long for eye candy, if you want to immerse yourself in a cascade of pretty, welcome to Arizona, where the roads are in fine nick (no snow/ice/salt damage) and a car is a basic necessity.

I have eliminated the first several pages of this travelogue, cut out extensive sections of the first three days of this trip in order to spare you the saga of a car rental gone bad (shame on Alamo/Enterprise). I won’t burden you with the car that filled with toxic fumes, the one with the trunk that no one could open, the one with headlights that pointed straight to the ground, with the inappropriate or non-existent “swap-outs” we were or were not offered, and the countless hours on phone-hold leading to no rectification; but I will simply assure you that on the third day, my travel-mate and bestie, Barry, and I drove to another town to pick up an actual functioning little auto and set out to salvage the rest of the trip.

The drive back and forth to the Phoenix airport was a nightmare, with drivers who were apparently trained on Boston’s 128/95, only at much higher speed limits – the legal limit went as high as 75. But once away from that massive, crowded city, the trip to Sedona is a visual gift. The geology is constantly changing as we pass the magical desert scenery where the fields of saguaro cactus, tall pleated cacti, are unique and only found here. There are dry flatlands full of grass bleached a lovely pale yellow, and then increasingly impressive rock formations the further north we go.

We spontaneously take the exit to Black Rock, a little town of a few thousand, just to see what a little town looks like. My conclusion – it looks like the set from a 1950s Western movie. However, they actually have a tourist board shop (the guest book showed one visitor per day) and a thrift shop!!

Our main destination along the way, the heritage site Montezuma’s Castle, is a stunning 45-50 room pueblo apartment house built into the limestone cliffs over the Beaver Creek – an oasis in this desert environment – by the Sinagua people about a thousand years ago. The National Parks Service has constructed a 1/3 mile trail for viewing, which is precisely the maximum I can go on these sorry feet of mine. On another day we will visit Tuzigoot National Monument – a similar ancient Sinagua pueblo, where the visitor path is likewise 1/3 mile. We can say one thing about the Sinagua folks: they must've been Black Belts in the skill of ladder climbing.

As we approach Sedona, a large sign says Scenic Drive, and we turn off, only to discover that this new road is literally named “Scenic Drive” and there is nothing much scenic about the crowded new development of southwesternish McMansions that offers us Model Homes to view. Which we don’t. It is the only scam signage I’m to see my whole trip.

Once we settle into the Airbnb we have rented, we follow our host’s recommendation to eat at the nearby Cafe Jose – economical, cheerful, delicious, and swiftly served. It offers a classic breakfast all day, has a full menu of Southwestern entrees, and the service has won awards over many years. It becomes our go-to restaurant destination, not the least because I admire the unusual page of the menu that includes a list of small servings of comfort food for “Kids and Seniors.” I only hope this inclusive idea catches on.

SEDONA
Café Jose is located in what I would call a strip mall – a line of connected stores. The main drag of West Sedona – the tony section far from the tourist madness of downtown – is one long commercial road (89A), peppered with such strip malls, and in the same style as all of Sedona: adobe in earth colors with a splash of teal. Even the McDonalds had to forgo its otherwise universal golden arches in favor of teal arches. The houses are low-lying and fit in with the surrounding environment. Where there are mansions, they adhere to the color palette and square design.

Sedona was recently designated as an International Dark Sky Community – its starry night skies are highly promoted – so all exterior lights around buildings must meet rigorous standards. In fact, the city's Land Development Codes rule the built environment, which has an appealing unified sensibility – from fences to benches to beauty shops. Such harmony does not come cheap. Specialist architects must be raking it in.

The thrift shops abound: Twice Nice is especially wonderful (they support a women’s sanctuary) and has the best selection of used books ($1). The Goodwill is the cleanest, most systematic branch I’ve ever seen. I attribute that to the abundance of retired volunteers available in Sedona.

The average age in Sedona is 60; the average age of homeowners is 68. The number of children is shrinking. The 11,000 (mostly white) permanent residents absorb 3 million visitors each year! Most residents seem to have left lucrative corporate lives elsewhere and fled to Sedona. Nearly all service people – servers, tourist advisers, etc – wear name tags with their town of origin underneath. It’s a “thing” here – the assumption that you are from elsewhere.

Almost every dwelling has a gob-smacking view of red rocks – the geological phenomenon that marks this area with its unique towering splendor. We are staying at the foot of Thunder Mountain (aka Capitol Butte), which is the first thing I see in the morning. All day it morphs into varied textures as the sunlight and shadows change.

RED ROCKS
It is raining all day, sometimes as hard as a monsoon, sometime just dripping. Interestingly enough, we find this just adds to the intensity of the colors of Red Rock State Park. Although most people come to the area for the hiking, this is a road trip, because my feet aren’t wont to do much else. Luckily, the Arizona park system has established frequent pull-off viewing points that make perfect frames for the rock formations.

We spend several days exploring in all directions, soaking in the scenery, the sunsets, the sumptuousness of Southwest nature, but many times we are stopped along a road by gates and guards who prevent the peons from crossing into the fenced-off heavens of the bourgeoisie. Such golf resorts and housing developments are for the bloated – who claim for themselves the most exquisite of views. The Schnebly Hill Drive is perhaps the most imperfect combination of splendiferous views and exclusive 1%-only closures.

For a view of the famous Sedona sunset, we drive one evening to the Airport Mesa which involves a muddy climb up a lofty rock. I make it about 2/3 up the steep side, but when the stepping stones stop, so do I. My descent is on the arm of a West Virginia Eagle Scout, a sturdy bloke who saw me floundering on the way down and stopped to do a good deed, hopefully earning a new patch in the process.

One of the craziest spots – in an area full of vortexes (defined as “swirling centers of energy that are conducive to healing, meditation and self-exploration”) and ghosts – is the Roman Catholic Church of the Holy Cross, built right into the buttes (steep red rock hill with a plateau.) It was commissioned – perhaps in a fit of jealousy – by heiress Marguerite Brunswig Staude following her encounter with the new Empire State Building, and constructed on Coconino National Forest land, after the late Senator Barry Goldwater pulled some 1% strings.

It is raining and cold when we arrive and a scruffy employee in a golf cart offers to drive us way, way up to the Church and then fetch us a half hour later – and seems only to be looking for a $5.00 tip. It is the closest I am to get to these magnificent rocks and the highest view I’ll see.

JEROME
The unique town of Jerome is in total contrast to orderly, ordered Sedona. An historic copper mining town – with a reputation as “the wickedest town in the West” – way up Cleopatra Hill, Jerome was founded by miners living in tents. The rich copper find propelled it into the fourth largest city in Arizona, with the population peaking at around 15,000 in the 1920s. By the 1950s the demand for copper plunged, as did the population. The remaining 50 to 100 residents promoted Jerome as a Ghost Town.

Artists, freaks, bikers, and ghost lovers moved in and now Jerome is a serious tourist attraction. The 450 permanent residents sell arts and crafts, run restaurants and music venues, and live in rehabilitated old structures, precariously clinging to the Hill, that they have decorated with flair and fancy. There are art galleries, several parks, a couple of museums. Because it is built on a number of levels at the top of the Hill, I am limited in how much I can walk around. Jerome is fabulous fun, although it is best explored by the mobile.

GRAND CANYON
The smartest move we make is following the weather closely and changing our Pink Jeep Tour to the Grand Canyon from a day on which rain was predicted to a day with better weather. December is not a classic month for visiting this world wonder, and just a week earlier it had been closed due to snow.

Barry and I book seats on a 12-seat luxury van (Mercedes) for an all-day tour from Sedona to the Grand Canyon, lunch included. I’m a bit pushy at their office about getting front seats because I tend to puke when I’m riding in the back and looking out side windows. They seem remarkably confident that I can have whatever seat I want.

When we turn up with layers of clothes on this chilly day, we discover that we have our driver/guide Mark (formerly a corporate guy in Wisconsin) all to ourselves. He is knowledgeable, flexible, and tells us that when rich people want a private van trip to themselves, they pay $2,000. We have lucked out. We drive past Flagstaff (pop 100,000) and through the large sovereign Navajo Nation, about ¼ the size of Texas, but with a population of only 200,000. Beef cattle and tourism appear to be their main industries and we stop at a large multi-structure tourist magnet to peruse the goods and use the toilets. The huge main tourist center sells every sort of trinket, jewelry, and beaded belt imaginable, but another of the buildings holds stunning historical and contemporary artifacts for sale, including hand-made beaded moccasins and leggings from the 19th and early 20th Century costing many thousands of dollars. I am amused by the signs by the side of the road that say: “Do not stop by the side of the road to play in the snow.”

I will not attempt to repeat all that Mark explains to us about the geology along the way and in the Canyon, which you can look up. But I will mention that when we enter the Grand Canyon Park, the workers at the gate tell Mark that we are just the 3rd paying customers of the day.

As a result, Mark is as excited as we are for he is able to park freely at many spots he can’t approach during tourist season because of the crowds. Since the space is open, he brings what he calls “binoculars” – but which are really like twin telescopes mounted on a tripod. We look a mile down to the very bottom the Grand Canyon and see rafters in the river (which is always 47 degrees F)
and then at another spot a couple of miles across at a rescue team wearing red jackets. Mark takes photos of these long-distance images, impossible to see with the naked eye, on my iPhone through his giant binoculars.

Two buildings really catch my eye, both designed and built by the same woman: Mary Colter.. One of the few women architects of her time, Colter was one of the “Harvey Girls” – educated white women who worked for the Fred Harvey Company. Harvey was a Southwestern mogul, known for his railway restaurants and for his unusual hiring practices.

Colter’s four-story Desert View Watchtower (1932) was meant to be a kind of whimsy to draw people to one corner of the Canyon. The walls inside are decorated with Hopi art and from the top one has a panoramic view of the Grand Canyon. I make it to the balcony of the 2nd floor and admire how Colter fit it so perfectly into the environment. Around it are outbuildings that serve drinks or house toilets as well as benches for quiet viewing of the Canyon.

Later Mark drops us at the Village, the most built-up area of the Canyon, where we see Colter’s first building, the Hopi House. Outside and inside, the Hopi House is meant to reflect ancient native culture, including reproductions of wall art that have been destroyed.

The plethora of facts and figures Mark imparts serves to contextualize the unbelievable dimensions of one of the most visually exciting landscapes a human can see. The striations, the rusty red rocks, the dark volcanic basalt, the white limestone, the beige sandstone layer after layer and created by the river, the continental tectonic plates colliding, the volcanoes, earthquakes, and other cataclysms is truly a natural wonder. The many animals he points out to us are another treat – from the fearless ravens used to people to the lovely mule deer to the bighorn sheep.

On the trip home, Mark tells us that Pink Jeep Tours is the largest employer in Sedona, and the best one to work for. I heard from other tourists that there are coupons available – but there’s no senior discount.

THE VERDE CANYON RAILROAD
When I mentioned a trip to Sedona on Facebook, my first cousin Elissa contacted me to say that she and her husband and her eldest son would be in the area at the same time. Elissa, the eldest daughter of my mother’s brother, is the same age as me, but we hadn’t seen each other since 4th grade. We reconnected digitally on FB, but when she invited us to join them on the historic Verde Canyon train, it seemed like a great idea.

Since I’m unable to do much hiking, this train ride is a sensational way to get close to the rocks. The four-hour trip begins in Clarkdale, just a half-hour drive from Sedona, and tootles as far as the fascinating Perkinsville ghost ranch and back. Along the way, following the Verde River, we skim pass towering rock formations and ancient Indian ruins holding more cliff dwellings. We rattle over a rickety bridge and through a tunnel in which you’ve got to keep your arms inside, we learn via the delayed recorded guide tape several minutes after we’ve cleared the tunnel. Between each railroad car is a viewing platform where we spend most of our time with a (live) guide who tells tales and points out the sites. Known as the “other grand canyon,” it’s a rugged terrain full of all sorts of wildlife and a perfect setting to get to know my lovely cousin in her adult incarnation, comparing our childhood impressions and sharing secrets about our parents and other relatives.

On our last day before departure, we visit Cottonwood, as I’ve been anxious to see where the people live who provide the labor to keep Sedona running. They sure can’t afford Sedona. Cottonwood, founded in 1879 and named after a circle of 16 super-gorgeous cottonwood trees at the Verde River – the heart of the copper industry – is located in the Verde Valley, about 20 minutes from Sedona and at the bottom of the hill where Jerome is. It was a farming town which is now rebranding itself as a wine center. And it is much cheaper than Sedona and clearly with no rules restricting building colors and styles.

My last Arizona experience is a battle with the TSA officers at the Phoenix airport which I have written about in a separate posting in order to avoid a closure of this travelogue that belies the gorgeous time I had and my sense of truly being on vacation, off the grid and the political grind, but instead immersed in magnificent visual splendor.

New Credenza: It Takes a Village

I am actually decorating my living room – not a thing I’ve ever done before. I’ve always lived as if in a furniture shop, with lovely 2nd hand pieces lining every wall, things I was given or found on the street or bought on the cheap when I needed more stuff in which to stuff more stuff.

First I did a clear-out – what they now call de-cluttering – giving away many of those old pieces, even lovely art deco oak furniture (on left) that I brought with me from England but which have always been too imposing for my tiny apartment. I dispersed all my precious knick-knacks, picked up from places I traveled, or presents from… well, I hardly remember from whom. I even gave away four or five large cartons of books.

I have always lived in clutter and chaos, leading to my practice of going elsewhere to write for weeks at a time. But as I age, and as the airlines have become so dedicated to propagating misery, I’m less enthusiastic about cat-sitting in South London or Las Vegas in order to have a beautiful calm space in which to write my books. Besides, in thinking forward now that I’m in my 70s, there is not a person in the world who wants to be responsible for disposing of my copious possessions: it’s time to get a head start.

My new living room carpeting provided the excuse to do all of this. The carpet is a gorgeous grey that matches my newish little couch. In order to have it installed, I was required to pack up every single thing from every single piece of furniture and pile it all in my bedroom so that the furniture could be easily moved around as the carpet was changed. That made it easier to eliminate the heavy wooden furniture, leaving my possessions in a gazillion cartons. I had help moving those heavy boxes from Barry and Melsen and Bren and Mags over a couple of months. And on the day the carpet was replaced, Barry heroically unplugged every item that works on electricity, marking each wire, and then re-plugged them all afterwards. This was not a job I could have easily pulled off for myself.

For months and months, I have been searching for a long white credenza with simple lines and a lighter, modern look which will provide 80+ inches of storage and be soothing to look at from my desk. But I’ve found nothing to my taste. I enlisted the help of a long-time friend Debi Levine who roams online auction sites. Still nothing. Then my friend Bren, as we sat in front of my computer searching some more, suggested that I try looking for a color instead of white.

And then I finally came across a cabinet, just 48” – but I could easily fit in two – that came in slate blue. After consulting with Bren and Sandy and Jaya and Barry and Judy and Victoria and Sue O, and after seeing it on multiple sites for twice the price, I ordered two. However, it comes in a box and needs to be assembled, a task far from my own skill sets, which tend to congregate around words – spoken and written, dance steps, and my refrigerator.

Debi, however, has golden hands. Her mother calls her The Mastermind. She agrees to come and assemble them. I change my schedule so that I will be around on Wednesday for the promised delivery – intending to put up all sorts of signs in the building’s entrance to convince the delivery people to bring them up to my apartment for a hearty tip. But to my distress, the furniture arrives while I’m out at a Dr. appointment on Tuesday. They are propped up against the building’s wall of mail-boxes in the entryway, each cardboard container twice as wide as me and a foot or two taller, each weighing 99 pounds. Other tenants are buzzing my flat in fury at being unable to access their mail. I appeal to my landlady in the office and she rustles up two of her brothers – my landlords – and they somehow carry both of them up.

Debi offers to come on the Wednesday to whip them together – hoping to finish in an over-optimistic 90 minutes. However, it turns out that each cabinet has about a dozen planks of various sizes and a huge cache of hardware. Undaunted, Debi wrestles the slate blue participants into perfect order, crawling around the floor, bending over them when they resist, standing them up, screwing them tight, and lord knows what. My friend Judy comes over to offer moral support to The Mastermind, joins us for lunch, and helps me haul out the debris.

I have a chiropractic appointment I must leave for at 4:45. Debi has been working non-stop since 10:30 am, with a quick break for my tuna salad and cranberry sauce. The doors are the last piece to be assembled and they have, for both cabinets, been the hardest to subdue. The clock is ticking: 4:20. 4:30. And then, at 4:40, The Mastermind shuts those doors smoothly, helps me move the two cabinets side by side, as if they were one, gathers up her enigmatic tools, and we leave together – her exhausted by hours of demanding physical labor and shrewd problem-solving, and me dazzled by the brilliance of her competence and confidence.

It has taken a village but now my living room, for the first time in my life, looks like a grown-up lives in it. Now it is time to write those books that long to come alive.

 

Don’t Get Burned by Niagara Falls

Our road trip took the three of us from Pittsburgh to Niagara Falls in late October, stopping overnight in each direction at Lake Chautauqua. About 50 miles from Niagara, a service station advertised that it provided tourist information for Niagara Falls – and that it was the last stop before Buffalo, NY. Of course we stopped.

As Jaya, Sandy, and I came in the door, the booth was set up so that everyone had to pass it. It featured piles of maps and brochures and leaflets and a jolly guy who was happy to talk to us about Niagara. All three of us love to chatter with strangers and this friendly chap was our match. Eventually he asked about our plans for the Falls and confided that he could secure us tickets for the best tour ever. It would include all parking fees at the various sites, all entrance fees, and a ride to four of the best views – altogether eight attractions. We would have a chance to spend a half hour at each stop, photographing and incredible views. It would take four hours and only cost $108 each.

“What about a senior discount?”

“Included it already,” he smiled.

“We’ll talk to you after we use the bathroom,” I said and off we went. I reminded my friends that there was no way I was going to stand around on my dysfunctional feet for half-hours at a time – and certainly not on such an extremely windy and chilly day. “Sounds like torture, not fun.” So we didn’t grab this bargain.

We got to the Falls and parked for $10. We never had to move the car. We went up to the main observation point and got our first free views of the Falls. Then we went on the exhilarating, amazing “Maid of the Mist” boat ride around the foot of the falls, dressed like everyone else in the pink plastic rain capes (with breast cancer ribbon designs on the back). We had befriended a guy at the info desk and he had given us big plastic bags and rubber bands for our shoes – we were the only ones on the Maid whose feet stayed dry. The wind was insane – so the mist was seriously whipping people around. And that was kinda wonderful. It cost us $20 each.

Afterwards we went on the Trolley (jump on / jump off) provided by the Niagara Falls State Park. It goes to all those eight attractions mentioned by the tour guy who had tried to sell us the tour. But it turned out that several of the attractions were already closed for the season and others were inaccessible due to road works. But the Trolley and its informative driver were fabulous – we got out at the premiere spot for viewing and photographing and then got back on later. The tickets cost $3 each.

So that’s $10 for parking, $60 for three tickets to the boat, $9 for three tickets to the Trolley. In total $79, and it was a full and exhausting day. If we had gone on the painful standing-around tour, it would’ve cost us $324.

How infuriating that this for-profit tour company passes itself off as a “tourist info” spot, even advertising on the highway and being placed immediately as one comes in the door of the last service stop. My feeling was that Niagara Falls is a State Park and therefore looked after us in an affordable and safe way. Don’t get burned – just get to the Park itself, preferably not, as staff told us, on the windiest day of the year.