Date by Telegram? Nincompooptitude

Dear Sillies,
    What happened to the long lost art of...talk? Seriously, men my age (50 plus) -- you grew up with the coil wrapped around your fingers as you chatted on the phone -- did you not? Men of all ages: Congratulations! You can write "hey"! That's good for nothing. Hint: The "hey" that's for horses has an "a" not "e" in it.
   Yeah, I'm frustrated. I've had some fun* with male prospects in the past months. But when it comes to follow through, their girthy ineptitude shows.   *=kissy-kissy, no nookie-nookie.
                    ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
   We'll call this man Paul Revere. Paul and I had fun* at a Halloween party. Paul put my number in his smart phone. He even tossed out a possible New Year's date, so I'm pretty sure he was interested. He seemed to be a nice, nerdy type. 
   But there was no next-day phone-call.
   Two days later, this FB correspondence ensued:
  
   "I tried to text you. Bad signal. I don't think you got it."
   "Drats. No worries. It was fun to meet you. I hope to see you again soon."
   "Are you free this weekend?"
   "Not Friday. Saturday, yes."
   No message until Sunday from Paul.
   "Sorry to keep you hanging. I couldn't make it. Brunch now to talk about the logistics of a proper date?"
   "Right now? No, I can't, catching up on lots of things. Thanks."
   "How about Wed?" You want to marry me? You can't even talk to me! He sends me a blurb about a music event on Wednesday.
   "Well, I've other things planned that night, but maybe we can meet afterwards, since I'll be a few doors down from the show."
   "Sounds great. Here's my land line 28675309. Other phone is 18675309. Land line#" (again for emphasis).
   "Okay. You have my number."
   "If you can't reach me, Western Union telegraph works in a pinch."

   "Ha! I'll send smoke signals."
   After I wrote this, I realized that perhaps he wasn't trying for humor. I googled the telegram/telegraph. Guess what, my dears? It still exists!
  Furthermore, the shortest telegraphic exchange is attributed to Oscar Wilde. Living in Paris, he is supposed to have cabled his publisher in London to see how how his new book was doing. The telegram simply read “?” to which the reply cabled back was "!" 

I wrote to Revere again:
   "I thought you were kidding about Western Union. I'm not up for that. This is taking too much work. Best of luck to you."

   Sigh. One if by land, two if by sea, three if I shalt ne'er see you again, Mr. Revere. 
             ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Be well, safe, and good to you!
Love.

L.A. Stories

Dear Sillies,
   You know that teacher who left a positive, lasting impression? I was fortunate enough to have a handful of them. It's not a private, charter, or well-known school, but Kentwood Elementary (in Westchester, Los Angeles) was a sanctuary for me and many. The teachers cared so much that they still do - decades later. We're still their "kids." They follow our progress and dips. They cheer for and support us. They express their pride and concern, to this day.
   Several years ago, I reconnected on Facebook with my former third grade Teacher. She suggested a reunion when I next visit LA. I kept saying "yes, I'll plan something." But I kept not following through until I decided it was time. We need to appreciate people while they're still with us, after-all.
   We made a date and agreed that even if it would only be the two of us, it'd be great. Look what happened! Party of 40!

 

   My wonderful third grade teacher 45 years ago, sits at the head of the table. Two people to her left, my former sixth grade teacher. (I'm halfway down the row to the right. My brother's between my former sixth grade teacher and the woman in the orange shirt. My sis is two people to the right of me). 
   It's very fulfilling to honor people who played an instrumental role in my becoming the person I am. The chatter, re-connections, new connections, and love that filled the room has helped keep me afloat ever since. 

   As I'm going more personal than usual, remember my little cutie-pie nephew? He's the chocolate-faced love-bug on my right sidebar. Yeah, not so little anymore. He's a pre-teen -- a wicked smart, beautiful, multi-talented sweetheart who NEVER brags about having gotten taller than his Auntie in the past few years. I appreciate that about him most of all.

 

   After a scary car drive home from LA to Chico (with "!" light on for a bulk of the journey, proceeding my having been stranded in Lost Hills with an overheated engine), it was time to breakup with Luna. She'd taken me all over for 15 years, 191,000 miles worth of rides. Our final trek having been what it was, though, compelled me trade her for a younger, prettier model.
   Meet Charm (my third car). She's a toddler. It wasn't love at first site, but I'm falling quickly. We've been together for 4 days now.

    Charm's a Ford CMax Hybrid. I love that she's so environmentally concerned. She even tells me "Thank you for driving a hybrid" whenever I let her sleep. How thoughtful.

   All in all, it's been a very good, busy, love infused past month or so.

   Til next time, my Dears.

   Be safe, warm, and well.

The Camp Fire, One Year Later and Joey

My Dears,
   I now bring you the finale to my story, Good Lies. It started here, with part 2 here. Onto part 3. I've altered it slightly and left out episodes before I met Joseph. If anyone would like the full 5-page story, feel free to message me here or at Rawknrobyn@aol.com. I'll be happy to forward. 

   Please be good to yourselves, and stay safe. 
   In case of emergency: Keep faith and a stash of chocolate.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

   I studied my laptop screen, finding and recording numbers for the few local emergency rooms. My tears moved faster than the rest of me. Damnit, Joseph. I was supposed to save you. I can’t do that if you went and dropped dead on me. 

 

   Four nervous hours passed before my phone rang.
   Phew. His number. “Joseph?”
   “Yeah, it’s me, Robyn. It wasn’t a heart attack. They said it was just anxiety.”
   “Oh thank goodness, Joseph.”
   “Yeah. Hey, you can call me Joey, by the way.”
   “I was so worried about you, Joey.”
   “Yeah I’m sorry.”
   “No, don’t be sorry. I’m just so glad you’re okay. Where are you now?”
   We proceeded to make plans for the next day.
   
   I don’t remember our discourse as much as I do the sense of full-fledged genuine humanness. There were no layers of complication, no unspoken agendas, no shyness or bravado, no artificial pretenses or power-plays – just two human beings, being human together.
   Practically speaking, I didn’t help much at all. In fact, Joey spoke competently to FEMA and DMV representatives. He could’ve gotten there on his own or with someone else. He’d still have to wait weeks for a new license plus word from FEMA.
   “Someday, I’ve gotta write my story,” he shared en route back.
   “That’s great. Writing’s my thing, Joey. I’ll help you with that.”
   “Heck yeah. You can publish it for me.”
   “I will.” I nodded. “I’m gonna publish your story.” (Note: If you’re reading this, I told the truth. If you’re not reading this, we’re both liars.)
   “Perfect,” he grinned.
   Back at the Fairgrounds, we stepped out of the car.
   “Come over here so I can give you a hug,” he told me.
   Joey and I exchanged a warm, grateful hug. “You keep fighting Robyn. I’ll never forget you.”
   “Much better days are ahead, Joey. You’re very strong and brave. I’ll be cheering for you all the way.”
   He nodded. “We’ll stay in touch.”
   At that, Joey imparted a military style salute.

--

  One year since the Camp Fire, sadness and trauma feel as fresh and surreal as ever.
   I didn’t save lives.
   I’ve luxuriated in safety and security. My path’s been cushioned in ways that I’ve routinely taken for granted.
   Still, I did hold the world within view for one man who couldn’t see a thing. How I did that, I don’t know. I was simply a good enough person, who told some good enough lies.