That person I help–my dementia friend (DF): I misplaced her when we were out together. It was maybe a minute though it seemed like days. I compare it, not unfairly IMO, to losing one of my kids at the store when they were little and hiding behind a mannequin or under a clothes rack. Only she wasn’t doing either. She left the store. Just walked away. Believe me; I ALWAYS say, “Wait for me right here. Do not leave.” She always agrees. And then, boom. She’s gone. 

She has an airtag on her keys. It’s necessary because she sometimes forgets her phone but never her keys. Her gerontologist suggested it, brilliant really. We’ve been fussing about how we could make sure she kept her phone with her. She swears that she always has her phone. If I had a dollar for every time she doesn’t have it, I’d have enough money for a pittie dog farm, big and fenced and shady so I could rescue all the pitties and keep them safe.

DF is going out with another friend this afternoon. We, the friend and I, chatted by text early today to make sure she’s prepared for the work involved, particularly when DF gets anxious, which is often. 

It’s the last days of Pride. The bagel place is ending its month-long run of bagels with sprinkles. I did not get one because I’m one of only about 10 people in the world who does not like the taste of sprinkles. Yeah, I know that’s weird. No, I don’t know why I don’t like sprinkles. But I don’t. And like most things, you can talk me to death about it without convincing me that I just haven’t tried the right kind of sprinkles. 

Two pretty young women just walked by in kitten heels. And now, they know why no one wears kitten heels for very long. Their outfits are charming–short shorts and matching midriff tops but DAMN their feets are a-hurtin.

A group of women parked near me this morning and puzzled over the solar parking meter, how to use it and how awesome the old days were. I have to agree that the old days were kind of awesome when it comes to parking. If you were lucky, you’d pull into a parking spot that still had time on the meter. That was a little like a lottery win, which is funny because parking cost like 10 cents an hour. For a time, we had these little parking receipts (?) to put on our dashboards and, again, if you were lucky, someone would hand you their unexpired receipt to put on your dash. 

Once they paid for parking, the group of women–five in total–started walking down the street but worried that they wouldn’t be able to find their car again. One of them took a picture of the intersection, in case they couldn’t remember. If you ever visit this neighborhood, you’ll know why it’s basically impossible to lose your car. They were so sweetly excited to be here, in this tiny, one-street, shopping district.

My eldest and I are going to the Netherlands in about a month. I’ve been shopping for some place to stay and having a delightful time. I can remember getting hotel rooms in the pre-internet days and I’d never go back to that. Travel agents were basically a necessity if you were leaving the country. Now, I can find out with a few clicks that our prospective hotel has a mandatory no swimsuit rule in their pool. I was thinking a pool would be a good idea given the extreme temperatures Europe has been experiencing. I’ve decided, however, that my puritan roots will not allow me to get into the same pool–naked–as my adult, also naked, son. Lol We’ve found a great place and are super excited about our travel agenda. It has no pool but is about 30 minutes from the beach.

Don’t worry. I’m going to share obnoxiously. Did you know, for example, that NL has TWO different cheese markets during the summer?! I have no idea what I’m going to do with all the cheese I’m going to buy, particularly since I’m lactose intolerant, won’t have a kitchen, and can’t possibly bring it back to the US. (Can you imagine the smell of my luggage?!)

A young man in a maroon shirt just walked by with a pastry box that he threw in the garbage can before licking his fingers. I don’t know what he had but he really liked it. It’s Monday; the bakery across the street is closed. The coffee shop doesn’t provide pastry boxes. Maybe Paris Baguette, down the street? I worry sometimes about it, a chain, pushing out the local stores here but at least it’s locally owned. Does that make it better?

Those pretty girls in their short shorts and midriff tops just walked by again. They’ve changed into flipflops. They still look cute and their feet no longer hurt. I call that a win for unfashion.

Growing up, our house was miles from the nearest library. There was a bus stop about a mile away, though, with a corresponding stop at a shopping plaza where the library was located. I’d walk across a huge field by the nearby school, red brick, one story, with a playground in the back, worrying that the bus would arrive and leave before I was close enough to catch it. It never did, though I recall clearly seeing it arrive early at the stop one time. I ran all the way there, just in case the driver decided to leave.

There was no bench, just the wide-open field for sitting. One time, I waited near a former friend, J. We stopped being friends when she got into some trouble, along with her brothers. They sold; she used. I was afraid to get too close, as though drug addiction is contagious. She was friendly, tried to have a conversation with me; I didn’t know how to be normal around her. I can still picture her, sitting on the ground, criss-cross applesauce, in jean shorts and a red striped tee, long hair loose around her shoulders, big, dark glasses covering most of her face. She overdosed a few years later. Unrelated to J’s death, her brothers served some time for selling. The family moved away but I heard that J’s momma never recovered, her heart broken beyond repair by multiple losses.

The bus ride always seemed long to a pre-teen/teenager. I worried about missing my stop, which adult me realizes is ridiculous. The same man drove the route every single time I rode the bus. I’m sure he was watching out for me. I, on the other hand, was alone, feeling very adult, of course, and very centered in a universe that actually is far too large to even notice a young girl riding the bus. 

The library had a literal storefront because it was, in fact, located in a strip mall with boutique clothing stores and a Hornes department store. I’d go in, drop off all my borrows and spend the hour before the return bus picking out the next week’s reads–Trixie Belden, Cherry Ames, Nancy Drew, Flowers In the Attic, Gone With the Wind, Fahrenheit 451, Dandelion Wine, and every Harlequin romance written, I think. lol 

Sometimes the librarians (and my teachers) would ask if I was allowed to read the “more adult” books. Of course, I’d say yes but I’m pretty confident that my parents never checked on my reading preferences. This was the 1970s, the time when parents had to be reminded to check whether their children were even in the house. 

The only thing that changed after I learned to drive was that I’d also visit the library’s main branch, which was much larger. When there was a library book sale, oooohhhh my, I would go crazy. I still have books I purchased at those sales, their “withdrawn” stamps faded now, the spines worn, treasures, all of them. Weeding, it’s called, as Rachel Maddon discovered at the ALA conference recently.

The ambulance pulled up next door after midnight. The neighbors are in their 90s, vibrant and busy but nonetheless elderly. I watch over them unobtrusively, making sure their routines continue, that the garbage cans go out to the curb and return to the side of the house, that he goes grocery shopping (the same day every week, clockwork), that they put out their usual decorations for each holiday. When I saw the EMTs, I did not rush across the yard to their house, of course, but I did text the next day to check in. 

She fell down the stairs. My 90+ neighbor fell down the stairs. She broke a finger, her clavicle, her ankle, and bones in her back. The daughter gave me permission to visit. Just being honest here; this is one of the things that overflows the cauldron of grief. 

The coffee shop is busy today, the overhead door open to the warm, sometimes hot, breeze, the sky a muddled blue, like someone mostly mixed in a spot of gray and then added a bunch of fluffy white with gray to cloud the edges of the canvas. It wasn’t the “art guy” who sits near me with a big bag of pastels. He’d be more likely to draw the sky as a piece of modern art and we’d stand under it, our heads tilted, as we try to absorb his vision.

There was an estate sale just down the street, less than a block away. When I saw the picture of the house, I knew that it belonged to the elderly lady who used to walk her Great Pyrenees, Maestro, in the neighborhood every day. She would invite people to “Come, drink wine with me on my purple porch.” (The porch is, in fact, a deep, lovely purple.) She was tiny with fine, long, white hair and at one time, she was famous, traveling the world with her harp, performing with all the major symphonies. She also painted, embroidered, made tapestries. Her house, which is falling apart, is bright with high ceilings, furnished with beautiful Victorian settees and inlaid mahogany tables. I hope her son took Maestro to live with him in California. 

I went to an author talk recently, Penny Reid in conversation with her sister. I’m not sure what I expected. She often talks about how awkward she is but, in fact, she was delightful–funny, engaging, and charismatic. The event was in Chesapeake, Virginia, quite a drive for me, but I turned it into an adventure, ate at a great restaurant, soaked in a pool, chatted with some strangers, laughed.

Next was a talk in Bedford, New York, with Annabel Monaghan. This time, I ordered my dinner at the bar. The bartender gave me a free drink, which, since I’m sober, was a cranberry juice (with a lime!). He was a no-nonsense guy from Brooklyn, the accent gave him away, who did NOT like the guy who came to stand next to my bar seat. I didn’t like him either. That might be what got me the free drink. I ate in my room, having spent just a little too much time outside my comfort zone.  

I’m doing that difficult thing, finding the person I am after the person I was. 

Much love.