Reviving the birthday spirit

Marcie loved birthdays. If it was her own, she had a mixed view, loving the attention and the opportunity to celebrate but loathing the passage of years (despite her defiance of age). But in others', she took a great and pure joy.

Marcie was invigorated by the celebration of the birth of people she loved so much that I simply had to ask directly. She was humming to herself as she decorated a cake for her friend Kathleen at work.

"Honey?" I asked. "Can I ask you a question?"

She turned and looked at me with her half-open-mouth smile and wide eyes lit in the kitchen's indirect sunlight.

"Are you going to ask me what I put in the icing?" she asked excitedly.

Whether a work fellow, a close friend or a family member, Marcie could be counted on for a cake. Marcie did not make just any cake, though. Her recipes created cakes of unparalleled moistness, flavor and density.

She also improvised to suit particular preferences among her favored recipients, carefully considering the balance of flavors before assembling them. She was truly a maestro of tasteful baking and great confection-making.

I knew her question meant, "Ask what I want to answer first then I will answer what you want to ask." I complied.

"Oooh, yes," I said. "What did you put in Kathleen's cake?"

"Well," she said, turning to the counter and putting one hand on her hip. She enunciated each word. "Let me just tell you."

She held up the wreckage of a Scharffen Berger "Cacao Bittersweet" slab for me to inspect. "This is in the cake itself," she said. "Some I melted and added coconut."

She turned her nose up smugly and spun to the counter again, grabbing a container of half and half. "This you can use for your coffee, because I used it to replace the milk in the recipe."

She turned again and showed me some almonds, crushed in a small bowl. "These will be sprinkled on top of the frosting after I am done."

She smiled and I juggled the three to hold all at once. She turned and helpd up a little bag of Dove dark chocolate hearts.

"These will go around the outside of the cake and one in the middle," she said. "On top of the coconut and almonds."

"Wow," I said. "That is pretty deluxe."

I set the items aside and asked. "So you just love making birthday cakes, don't you?"

She wrinkled her nose. "Sometimes," she said. "Especially if it's for someone who I enjoy talking to. I like even more if they let me do what I want and make something of my own for them, or if it's something new."

"So what kind of cake is that?" I queried, nodding at it with my own half-smile.

"It's a deluxe dark chocolate cake with coconut and almonds that I used espresso for," she said. "It's delicious."

I nodded. She handed me a small bit from the center of the cake she had removed to make the final product sit flat. I took a bite.

I tasted the very moist cake first, then some bittersweet chocolate with a tinge of cocount. With no icing, it was already wonderful. The espresso was invisible in it.

"Wow," I said. "That is riiich!"

"I know," Marcie said. "Kathleen is going to love it. I made it to reflect what I think of her and her antics."

"So what you are saying is, 'Kathleen, you are a nutty, hyperactive woman with a sweet front, chunky middle and smooth exterior who goes down well with milk?" I watched her as she began her silent laugh.

She stop laughing as her breath came back, "Yes," she squeaked. "And I don't mind helping you get fatter, so have... a... cake..."

She took her breath in in deep, gasping breaths between chortles and cackles. she gave me a hug. "She totally lvoes my cakes and refuses to share them, which I completely understand."

"So you give her a cake you know she will eat all by herself?" I asked.

"No," Marcie said. "Oh, no no no. I give her a cake big enough to eat with [people at work and still have half left, which she tells everyone is for her family."

I nodded and she started cracking up. "Then she hides it and eats it all by herself until it's gone."

She took a few seconds then added,"Frank, I love her but she will eat ALL of it. I don't know how she can stand it, but she looooves my cake."

"So that is why you like her birthday so much?" I asked.

Marcie looked more pensive for a second. "I think I like to celebrate birthdays for people that have that lust for living. I like people whose appetites are as large as their personalities."

"I understand," I said.

"Kathleen can be annoying, but she's her own persona and I love that about her," she said. "So a cake for that kind of endless entertainment is nothing, let me tell you, honey."

She gave me a hug and looked up in my eyes. "Do you remember your first birthday with me? How you told me not to celebrate it?"

I certainly did.

Annoying Spell-Check

So Google's spell-check allows non-agreeing clauses and when enabled to do auto-correct, inserts whatever is closest. Grrr... this, coupled with my light typing style, ends up embarrassing me. I hate how my words get mangled by technology.

I am working on a post about birthdays and our girl but have been frustrated by the technology and have therefore delayed it. It will be up soon.

Changes afoot... some thank-yous

Friday was the last day I worked as Editorial Assistant with the San Diego Unified School District. Yes, school cuts got me. This is no big surprise and it plays into my plans, so I am far from stressed. My job officially ended on June 30.

I first pursued the job when Marcie's illness became so acute that I had to both increase my income and find more suitable benefits with no preexisting condition limitations.

It was a good fit for the purpose and with a government agency and regular hours to count on. Surprisingly, I was able to flex my journalistic and communications muscles, too. And I got to work with some great folks. Speaking of which...

Here's a big thank you to Elizabeth, Mary, Art, Bill, Josefina, Adel, Jim, Gordon, William, Gamy, the crews in Mandated Costs and Pupil Accounting, and all the rest of you folks who were so kind.

I am leaving a ton of you out who deserve a mention by name, but hey... it's just an update post. On to the update.

I will be looking for new work in a more lucrative market. I will visit San Francisco and the Bay Area in the next month for interviews. Simultaneously, I will hunt for housing. In both areas, I have done some homework :)

I will also be working at San Diego Unified in a whole new capacity on a two-month contract. Yep, I am slated to be a professional expert fixing up the district's elementary school pages as they convert to a more readable and accessible format.

It carries higher pay than Editorial Assistant. Oddly, this will be my third raise this year, and will show a progression of skills and compensation as I seek out work. I am sure that this, in San Diego, is a fluke.

No matter what, when the position ends, I hope to help SDUSD when called on and I may bid on contracts as they come up. But the bottom line is that I will be working a lot of casual, freelance and contract work while I prepare for a Ph.D. program.

I'll keep you up to date as I move on with these plans, folks. Until then...

F.

Otto Van Otterson (Conclusion)

We never found out Otto's real name. Marcie didn't need to, having sufficiently filled in the blanks herself.

When Marcie went with me to Humboldt County, she commented that she would miss a lot of people, but, jokingly, she asked, "Well, I wonder what will happen to Otto?"

He was still there when we came back, and now he was living in our new neighborhood, University Heights. We watched him one evening on Adams, pushing his cart to the fence along thew canyon by Trolley Barn Park.

"He's so slow now, honey," Marcie said. "He's too old to be out here."

And it was true. Every time I saw him afterward, there was a little less pep in his step. He was slowing down.

Soon he had no cart, just bore a plastic grocery bag and boarded the bus stooped and weary each time I saw him. There were no sweeping gestures or warbling treatises. He looked around furtively, not proudly and theatrically.

I told Marcie when I saw him and I always said that he looked okay, even though didn't usually. I did not tell her when I saw him being loaded onto an ambulance at Trolley Barn Park as I rode the 11 past.

The last time I laid eyes on Otto was during the summer Marcie received her diagnosis. He was sleeping, sitting, with his bag next to him on the bench by the fence at Trolley Barn Park.

He was snoring as I walked past, and his beard was combed, his flatware was in place, his suit was clean-looking and his pocket also sported a white folded napkin. His pin had changed, however and was now an RAF "bullseye" pin.

I couldn't help but notice his multiple hospital admission wristbands. I began to get close, to read them and know his name, but I stopped and walked away.

His name was Otto, and that's who he had to be.

Birthdays like mine

It's my birthday today. Marcie was not only a huge fan of birthdays in general, but someone who reintroduced me to celebrating them for myself. She was also my biggest fan, and therefore my most ebullient celebrant. I miss that.

I am going to try and enjoy my time today, but I will share more about my birthdays and Marcie in later posts. This week, I mean.

Have a good weekend, folks.

Tough to watch

The most innocuous things can knock me down and send me back into grief. Television shows do that instantly.

I rid myself of television a few months ago. The only viewing I can do is through the web, and I avoid it. Most shows I watched before Marcie died were because of her and wanting to spend time with her.

Some I simply did not like except to see her enthusiasm for them, such as the Amazing Race, Survivor, and other reality shows. These appealed to Marcie's voyeuristic side.

"I know it is like, total trash, but I love seeing these people just make fools out of themselves," she said.

Some others were not so bad. We watched Weeds on Showtime at the suggestion of Tanya, caught Lost together once in a while, and watched Animal Planet. I refrained from her Desperate Housewives, Dancing with the Stars and American Idol. Ugh.

But I did enjoy watching The Office with her. She filled me in on the little details, kept me informed when reporting took away from my viewing time, and laughed constantly while she watched it.

Last night, because I remember how much she loved it, I tried watching a few episodes on the web. While the laughs were still there, I found myself in tears afterward.

I needed the Marcie touch, the little guffaws, the happy banter, the commercial runs to the bathroom or kitchen and her joy at watching.

All I could think was how much she would have loved each scene with her favorite characters. But who would have thought a television show would carry such emotional weight?

Maybe I'll watch Lost, too. Ugh.

Characters: "Otto Van Otterson" (pt.6)

We searched in mostly silence, using the long foray into Hillcrest as much to exercise as to sate Marcie's curiosity. Marcie and I were out of breath as we trudged up and down hills with no real destination. Finally, she stopped to rest.

We had wandered over to the bus stop bench in front of a Union Bank. Across the street lay one of Marcie's favorite places.

"We need to go there and get chicken pie some night," she said, pointing at the Original Chicken Pie Shop.

All I knew of chicken pot pies was Stouffer's, a dinner we sometimes had at my father's in my childhood. I hated them, but I was willing to try a new source once.

"Sure," I said. "So tell me. How did Otto come to be the ambassador for the river people?"

She was tiring after an hour of wandering, and she smiled and rolled her head back, her red hair catching the sunlight just so as I looked over at her. She looked at me sidelong, smiling.

"Well, I don't really think he's the ambassador by any appointment," she said. "He's just really gregarious and friendly in his own quirky way, and he always smiles."

"So he is more of a goodwill ambassador?" I asked. "Kind of a San Diego Chicken for the Mission Valley Homeless?"

She looked at me and rolled her eyes, tugging on the straps of her backpack, which I slid off her shoulders.

"Thanks," she said. "And Otto is a diplomat, honey, not a mascot. Why do you have to trivialize everything?"

She almost pulled it off, but she guffawed as I went silent, into her hands. "Okay, okay," she said, snorting a little.

"The first time I saw him, I was on the 25 and we were pulling into Fashion Valley," she detailed. "He was standing at the corner behind the Town and Country and waving."

I had seen him do this once, at the entrance to 163 from Hillcrest. I at 6th and University by City Deli and watched. People honked or waved back. He made incoherent sounds at the passing vehicles, waving especially at people who yelled at him.

I had instantly respected him, his suit and beard well-groomed, if one was layered over others and the latter long and in need of a trim. His life was not easy, but he was enjoying it, and his possessions sat at his feet as he took time to hearily hail.

"Hmm," I said.

"Then he showed up at CVS, " she said. "Then one day, I saw him with another homeless guy who had shoplifted from us over by the bus stop at the freeway entrance, by Texas street. The police were arresting the young guy."

I looked at her as we crossed and passed the Hillcrest Stationary store, and she took my hand and swung it as she continued. I remember her smiling.

"The police kept telling him to stay over by the bus bench, and he kept going back and mumbling in his language, then he would smile and pretend to sneak up on them," she said. "Then he would be standing nect to them..."

She stopped and cracked up, so I shook her hand a little and waited. "Well?" I asked.

"He would... huh! He was imitating one of the police, standing behind them with his hands on his hips and pointing at the younger guy, then when he would start warbling how he did, they would make him go back," she said.

"So he was harrassing the police?" I asked, incredulous.

"No, no," she said. "I overheard them asking the guy why he hit Otto before I got on the bus. I saw them let the guy go when I transferred."

I nodded, "Because Otto didn';t press charges?"

She shrugged. "I decided that Otto had convinced them to let him go, and since i knew the other guy lived at the river, and I knew Otto sometimes sat with other river people, that he must be their representative, looking out for them."

"Huh," I said. "Who knows?"

She squeezed my hand. "Oh, I know," she said, a twinkle of mischief in her eye. "I totally know, honey. Otto is the ambassador. He has lived here most of his life and he is the king of the urchins."

"The king?" I asked.

"Well, you know what I mean," she said. "He is dignified and he has pride and character, and he kind of sets an example and does his own thing."

And she looked around, turning her head and yanking my arm downward, turning me.

And there he was, lowering a bag gently into his Mayfair cart as he jabbered at the wind. He pulled a small, feather-bearing fedora cap, a bit stained with sweat, onto his head and laughed, the sound echoing across the street.

As he turned around and scanned the street, Marcie tucker her head in my chest and whispered happily, "Oh my god, don't look, honey, don't look."

Of course I knew I would need to provide a full report and should therefore not look away.

But I did, and he waved and then pushed on, muttering in a language all his own, master of a worl we simply visited from time to time. One very specifically and beautifully drawn by my future wife.

She peered up at me with her wide smile and her mischievous wide-eyed look. "Is he gone?" she asked.

I nodded and she pulled me down and smooched me, the salt of her sweat and sweetness of her ever-present gloss refreshing and wonderful. "Okay, let's go get a chicken pie."

We did, and I didn't like it. But we walked all the way down Washington to Gelato Vero, and that I did indeed enjoy. And there was still more to Otto to know, though not much and more a note than a story.

Characters: "Otto Van Otterson" (pt.5)

Marcie, her interest piqued, simply had to see Otto for herself. The description I drunkenly relayed carried the double disadvantage to her of being both intriguing and less than reliable, given my state.

Of course, it wasn't really unreliable, but Marcie had her issues early on with any drinking of any kind, due in large part to alcoholism in her own family and her awareness of it in mine.

"Honey, you were so drunk, it could have been some random homeless person that you decided looked like Otto," she said. "I just want to go up to Hillcrest and see if he's there."

This was, of course, a mini-adventure, and she would have it with or without me. With sounded safer, not because of Otto, but simply because there was such a profusion of shady characters invading the Hillcrest homeless scene in 1995.

"Okay, we'll go on an Otto safari," I said. "Let me pack a bag with some water and get my wallet."

I packed some water, Marcie's puffed Cheetos, some fruit and a sweater for Marcie in my backpack. Then, while Marcie waited and watched, I also packed a transit map of downtown, a compass, binoculars, my camera, and her survival knife.

"We go to track the almost impossible to find Otterson," I said, effecting a British accent and the breathless excitement of the stereotypical upper-crust documentarian. "This is an ambitious endeavour, and not without its perils."

Marcie started doing her silent laugh as she slipped her own backpack on. We walked down to the stop for the 11 bus and waited, but soon Marcie was antsy.

"You know, I have seen his crew up on 6th by the park lately," she said. "Maybe he has moved there, too. Can we walk up and check the west end out?"

I nodded, and I followed her up the hill a ways, then relieved the silence of the trek. "So where is he from?"

Marcie turned around, eyes wide and biting her lip. "I don't know," she said, voice a little high. "But I used to tell the girls at CVS he was abandoned as a child by the river."

"So he was like Moses?" I asked, smiling.

"No, don't be silly," she admonished. Marcie rolled her eyes and continued walking, the clapping began as she hunched forward and the story poured forth.

"I think his parents were vacationers from Hungary or Austria, and one day, they decided to go home," she said. "They decided that Otto should stay, so they went down to the river and waited until he was playing in the water, then slipped away."

I listened and smiled, but I interjected, "Oh, poor Otto was abandoned!" I said.

"Mmm HM!" Marcie murmured, continuing. "An urchin, lost in a land where nobody spoke his language. All they left him was a paper napkin and some flatware, because they wanted him to not eat with his fingers, which he had never learned to do properly."

I noted the nice summation of the origin of the flatware in the coat pocket, but wondered what food he had. "How did he eat?"

"He spent his early years working the farms in Mission Valley, doing hard labor for money to buy food with," she said. "He also bought a watch from time to time. He never learned to wind them, so he replaced them when they stopped ticking, keeping the old ones."

We both laughed. Marcie looked back with her gentle, doting smile, head cocked a bit. She appreciated our interaction and the attention to her story. I was enjoying it and I stopped her and kissed her, then took her hand.

"How did he know what to do?" I asked as we walked, arms swinging, hands clasped. "Farm work is labor, but there are some basics you need to know, especially with a language barrier."

She smiled and a little laugh escaped her. "His parents were goat farmers in the old country," she said, turning to me and smiling again as I laughed. I shook my head.

"Well, that's what I like to think!" she said. "They were goat farmers who decided to leave Otto behind in the land of opportunity. Unfortunately, he never had one."

I nodded as the story obviously prepared for a dark turn with her voice changing.

"When he was noticed by a police officer one day, wandering round talking to himself, he was taken away," she said sadly. "He lost his little knickerbockers, now way too small for him anyways, his silverware, and his watches."

"Aww," I said.

"They kept him for years and years in a mental hospital, then when Ronald Reagan closed all the hospitals, he was let loose," she said. "He promptly wandered back to Mission Valley."

I nodded and scanned the last bit of Balboa Park's west side for homeless. There were a few, but the weekend volleyball games at "Gay Beach" had likely chased off most of them.

"Everything was different," she said in a mournful tone. "There were few farms and the valley now had a big freeway in it. Otto had only the plastic ware he left the hospital with, a set of pajamas and some moccasins he sewed himself in occupational therapy at the hospital."

I started cracking up, but she grabbed my arm a little higher up and tried to calm my guffawing as she continued, suppressing her own chuckles.

"But in a stroke of luck, he found a suitcase dropped on the side of the road, perhaps fallen off a station wagon, with just what he needed," she said. "Soon, he was in a new woolen suit, sporting not one, not two, but three watches, and with a set of silver utensils."

She stopped as we prepared to cross west toward Banker's Hill. "And what made it fancy," she said. "What made it fancy was the CLOTH napkin, actually a handkerchief, which he found inside the suitcase."

"So he was all set?" I asked.

"Yes, he was all set," she said, clapping her hands as we walked northward. "But he needed work, and for that, he turned to the river, where his destiny awaited."

I began to ask, but she stopped me. "Honey, let's go see if we can find him in Mission hills. I don't think he usually wanders this far. He's not very mobile."

I nodded and we walked on in silence for a while. When we passed Jimmy Carter's, I prompted her. "So was his destiny to be ambassador of the river people?"

She fell forward a little, acting silly. She looked up at me. "Oh, so you're enjoying Otto's story?" she asked.

I nodded and she took my hand and squeezed it. "Well, I'll share more later."

Update issues

The photos are overdue. I'll get to them, but it's still hard to look at them and see her face so many times and keep it together. I'll probably end up posting the last two chapters on Otto
first. I have been home today from work, and not at the top of my game, so no update today.

The blouse

I remember what you said that night
in a dim-lit coffee house.
Your cigarette cherry glowed red light
and smoke rolled up your blouse

"I hope you'll take it slow with me,
I've been in quite a state.
I'll give it time and then we'll see,
If we still want to date."

You puffed again and I drank a bit
and nodded, acted cool.
The cherry glowed, your face was lit
I stared, a happy fool.

"That's fine with me, I'll take my time,
and learn what makes you tick.
And after all, we're in our prime.
We need not be so quick."

You rolled your eyes and took a drink
as night slipped over day.
You looked at me and paused to think,
I wondered what you'd say.

"But don't dare drag your feet with me,
I have my pick of men.
I've many places I must see,
And some to see again."

I smiled and took your cigarette.
I puffed and blew a ring.
I smiled and said, "On that I'd bet,
the men and everything."

You took it back and pulled a drag,
then turned and put it down.
You took my hand, picked up your bag,
Smiling behind a frown.

"I'm serious you know," you said.
"You may not have a chance."
"So if you want then go ahead,
and show me some romance."

For seven years we wined and dined,
and loved and laughed and fought.
To wed me you were "not inclined."
"Never," or so you thought.

Then after one more coffee cup
that morning in the fall,
You gave your one-time "never" up,
and said we'd change it all.

For seven more we lived a life
as one made out of two,
For me, you were a loving wife,
and I, a mate for you.

I remember what you said that day,
the glow of dusk's last light.
You took your time, as was your way,
and spoke into the night.

"I'm glad you took it slow with me,
I've been in quite a state.
And soon my soul will have to flee,
I'm sorry, it can't wait."

"So many places I did see
and some I saw again.
You didn't drag your feet with me,
said, 'Now,' when I asked, 'When?"

"I'm meant it back then when I said
you may not have a chance.
But I'm so glad you went ahead.
It was such sweet romance."

The night you left I saw your face
inside the coffee house.
Your smile behind a knowing frown,
above your pretty blouse.

Stories...

We'll continue with Otto tomorrow. I will also return to Marcie's maternal instincts and her caring side as well. I am sure you see that it all shines through in her way of relating to her "urchins."

Marcie's cast will expand into her less-developed characters after Otto, all of whom she wove memorable biographies around. Tomorrow, however, I will be posting a poem and some pictures to look at. I hope you enjoy them both.

I will be working intensively over the next week and attempting to finish off the grant work I have at the district before moving on. Then, the big scouting trip to San Francisco begins. So that's where I am at.

Email with questions if you have any. We return to our regular programming Sunday or Monday.