A Call to Breakfast

Some of my friends know that I have been on a diet of sorts. Mostly I am simply eating healthier and running, but I have definitely kicked in some calorie counting. Today, I was reminded to occasionally cut loose and enjoy a good hearty meal.

It almost didn't happen. I almost did an all-fruit smoothie. Tragedy.

I arose and ran 7.3 miles, according to Google Maps, and then got home and started making my list of things to do for the day. Since one was shopping, I started chekign my refrigerator.

I found a disc of some sort in the freezer. I drew a blank. Wrapped in a Glad Freezer bag, I turned it over and saw her writing: "Ham Steak, Fully Cooked, August 12."

Her writing always stops me dead in my tracks. I could see her hand on the Sharpie as she labeled the freezer bag and tucked it away. I gulped down a lump in my throat.

I decided that, despite being off pork for some time, I would make a breakfast.

I cooked the ham steak her way, slowly, in a pool of water, preparing the rest of my breakfast as it simmered.

I laid out tomato slices and spinach, and a mix of herbal and green teas. I chopped onions, some leftover home-roasted red bell pepper and a bit of (sweet) banana pepper.

In the refrigerator, I took out the last of some Italian mixed cheese we used for our last Trader Joe's pizzas together. It was still good and not a spot was to be found after 9 months. More lumps to swallow.

I beat some eggs and, after the ham finished, tossed the vegetables into the pan to absorb the taste, as I know she would have liked. I waited until everything was a little wilted, having added a bit of olive oil, and slid the egg over the veggies.

I knew it would stick and just dealt with it, flipping the whole omelet and adding the cheese inside. After I had lightly browned the edges of it, I plated it.

It looked very authentic, except Marcie would have insisted on toast or added her potatoes. A picture:


I sat and ate the plate and felt a little closer to her again, having enjoyed a little bit of her Sunday Breakfast tradition, albeit imperfectly. Someday I'll do the whole thing for a friend or six.

We'll have to have waffles, then.

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 one 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.

Characters: "Otto Van Otterson" (pt.4)

Otto had been underground for a while when I finally spotted him again. He was nowhere near his native riverine environs. Otto had moved up in the world.

Otto was living behind The Lamplighter, a karaoke bar in San Diego's Mission Hills. I may not have noticed him in my drunken state as I wandered out and enjoyed a cigarette after way too many drinks. Who knew "The Chauffer" by Duran Duran had so many fans?

Regardless, there I was, staring at a homeless person across the street who worked around the green-handled Mayfair shopping cart, his back hunched, turned to me. Then, with the successful attachment of a piece of wire to his junk-festooned carriage, the man turned.

Otto smiled and raised his hands in a grandiose expectation of applause. I could hear him above the din of the bar as he chuckled then warbled out a celebratory-sounding, "Rumanumanumanuma SKOP!"

He took the handle and, with some untranslable and nearly inaudible utterance, rolled out of sight. It was as if he knew he needed to be seen, my drunken mind told me.

I immediately called Marcie, who met my invitation to join me in a raucous night of debauchery and drink and song with derision earlier that night.

"Hello?" she asked, sounding annoyed.

"Hi, honey," I said. "I have good news!"

"What good news? That you're not nearly as drunk as you sound?" she asked. "Or that you will actually save your last buck and take the bus, not walk home at 2 and skip class tomorrow?"

Well, there was precedent. I had walked home several times to allow one more dirnk or a cup of coffee. It was a bad habit only because she worried.

"Mmmm BETTER news!" I shouted into the phone.

"Oh, dooo tell," she said, softening and now preparing, I assumed, to mock me in my drunken state.

"Guess who I just saw," I demanded, smiling as I did. "It's someone important!"

"One of your many cousins?" she asked.

"No, no," I said. "Important to you."

I steadfastly refused to tell her, despite her demands, but also told her she would regret not trying anyways. She relented.

Jane? No. Chrissy? No. Chip? No. My (her) parents, brother or my father? No, no and um, no way. She threatened to hang up.

"I found Otto!" I exclaimed.

"Otto van Otterson!" she said, laughing. "Where is he? You didn't try to talk to him, did you?"

I relayed the whole incident and she peppered me with questions. Was he wearing his suit? Yes, but it was a new suit, it appeared, and only one of each kind of clothes. How did he look? Healthy, but his hair was really long and his beard was, too.

"So was he wearing his silverware still?" she asked.

And there was the question I had hoped she would ask. He had, indeed. but there was something new and classy to relay.

"He had what appeared to be actual silver flatware," I said. "He also had a can opener next to his new knife."

I had spied the change from across the street, clearly seeing the utensil heads and heir dull sheen, the triangular head of the opener drawing the eye in a stark display against the other new element in his dress.

"He had a black handkerchief or maybe a fancy napkin in his pocke," I said.

Marcie cackled into the phone. "He was wearing his formal dinnerware," she said, cracking up. "He was, he was... he was probably headed to Saint Vincent De Paul for an important address at the General Asembly of the United Urchins!"

She gasped in ragged breaths and I stayed quiet after a chuckle, listening to her laugh and then, "Oooh, that's good, honey," she said. "Thank you for telling me. You're very thoughtful."

"I'm glad your friend is okay, honey," I said.

"So am I," she said. "Have fun tonight, and try not to overdo it."

I let that hang in the air a bit. It had already been overdone. But her happiness was very clea, as was her relief. I was in awe of her compassion, despite her teasing and mocking tone. She doted on Otto in her own way. That mothering again, I guessed.

"I love you honey," she said. "I'll see you later."

"Okay, baby," I said. "See you then."

And though she was relieved, she simply had to lay eyes on him herself. And while we stalked the ambassador, Herr Otto Van Otterson, Marcie would amaze me with her idea of what lay behind Otto's life.

Characters: "Otto Van Otterson" (pt.3)

Though he would come to be a familiar sight to us, we did not see Otto again immediately. In fact Marcie expressed her concern for him a month or so later, noting his absence from the environs surrounding CVS.

"Honey, remember my little friend Otto?" she asked, her lower lip out a bit. She looked sad.

I nodded as I prepared for tennis class. "Yes, I do... is he okay?"

"I don't know," she said, her hands going from palms up as she looked to the ceiling a moment, dropping against her thighs. The release of bottled-up tension was always like this for her. She was obviously a little upset.

I gave her a hug and tucked her head in my neck, getting a little kiss there for my efforts. She sighed.

"He's just so old and so nice, even if he is a little crazy, so he's vulnerable" she said. "I get worried because I never see him with a group, he's always alone. Now he's gone missing."

I sat her down and held her hands. "He's going to be fine," I said. "He has been there this long, he'll be there again when he wants to. Has he disappeared before?"

"Yes," she said, her voice higher. "But he usually just goes away for a month and it has been like three now."

"If he has been on the street this long, what makes you think he is vulnerable?" I asked.

"Well, I don't know," she said. "But he's a gentleman. I kind of look at him as the ambassador of the people wearing the crazy pants. He is dignified but different."

I guffawed and looked at her, giving her my "tell me more" wide-eyed, fascinated, eyebrow-arched look. She bit her lip and looked off into the corner and then back at me, holding and shaking both my hands at once, then letting go to gesticulate.

"Okay, so he always has a handkerchief in his breast pocket under his jacket," she said. "And he never says anything I can understand or the girl can, but it always sounds the same when he greets us as he walks in."

I nodded and lowered my head, mouth open, prompting a little. Marcie leaned in.

"It's like 'Gooda Morgadanga' which sounds like good morning, but he say it at any time of day," she said, her hands lazily circling as she dished a bit. "And he always adds this stuff to it, like 'jergamergagubbelmub," or some other gibberish. You heard him!"

I nodded. "So he's like the ambassador from the country of Pantalonia Loca? Where the river people wear their traditional crazy pants, multiple vests and watches for all of the possible time zones they could be in at any time? And they speak something Germanish, with extra babble?"

She smiled and her beautiful, more delicate cackle, more of a bubbling, lilting laugh, rolled out. She was reassured and happy again. "You forgot his official ambassadorial plasticware and napkin," she said.

"Well, what's that for?" I asked. "Is it something everyone in Pantalonia has?"

"Well, actually, I call his little country Riverland," she said. "And the plastic utensils are in case a meal breaks out and he has to think fast."

"Like an emergency diplomatic meal?" I asked, chuckling.

She fell forward again, laughing and doing her in-laugh. "Yes!" she gasped out. "Or in case he needs to bring his own utensils for a state dinner... at the... at the mission!"

She started regaining her composure.

"He has had the same golden plastic utensils forever, or he had a good supply of them," she said. "I saw him eat a whole McDonald's Happy Meal with them when I went to lunch with Amy once.'

She looked at me and sighed. "He was very careful to clean them all and place them in order, inside to outside, spoon, fork, knife, and to replace his napkin and put the little fold in it to make it all official."

I nodded and held her hands again. She kissed me on the cheek. I was going to be late.

"So you will tell me if you see him, right?" she asked.

"Oh, sweety, of course I will," I said. "I promise to keep an eye out for him."

And as luck would have it, Otto was not far away at all. If anything, he was closer then ever, if in a new venue.

Characters: "Otto Van Otterson" (pt.2)

The random appearance of Otto on the bus Marcie used was a considerable diversion for her as we roamed the aisles at Ralph's loading our cart with goods. She was spilling over the whole time.

"Otto is one of our store urchins," she said. "I love that word. It totally conveys a sense of wretchedness, of abandonment."

"Isn't an urchin just an orphan or poor kid?" I asked.

Marcie bit her lip and rolled her eyes, pleased that she was about to impart some telling bit of knowledge on me. "It means poor and mischievous child," she said, touching my arm and then grabbing me to pull me close. "Or hedgehog!"

She made her "tongue slips out of her gaping mouth as her eyes open wide" before biting her lip, prompting me for the correct response.

"So Otto is like a mischievous urchin with a prickly side?" I asked.

"Yes!" she said. "He is toooootally mischievous and you have to be nice or he gets extremely offended."

I nodded and she turned, pushing the cart as she scanned apple sauce and explained. She was obviously relaying long-established lore, as she rattled off the tale without much focus.

"Otto, which is what everyone at work calls him, thanks to me, is full of the devil," she said. "He comes in, he goes up and down every aisle, he gets one of almost everything, then he comes up to buy it."

She started chuckling silently, suppressing her laughter in her chest. She turned to me and stopped the cart and let out one of her delighted guffaws. She looked off to the side and clapped her hands together, bouncing at her knees as she relayed the story.

"Okay, okay," she said. "So Otto brings up like an entire cart full of things to the counter EVERY time he comes in."

She continued, still bouncing and clapping, smiling.

"He wanders the whole store, and he makes a big production out of it all," she said. "Every thing he wants, he takes off the shelf, he inspects it with his glasses, which are different every time we see him and usually don't have lenses, then he holds it up high and drops it in the cart."

She demonstrated with a small box of granola bars, holding them up with her thumb and forefinger, then dropping them into our own cart, smiling smugly with her free hand on her hip, nonchalant.

"He smiles like this, like he has struck gold every time, and he looks at whoever is watching him or nearby," she said. "It's a crackup."

I nodded. "So he's proud of what he is buying? What does he buy?"

She leaned way back and then forward, smiling and bouncing again, clapping.

"Everything," she said. "It is so random. One time, he took every bottle of lens cleaner and rewetting drops off the shelf and loaded them onto his cart, then he piled a bunch of stuffed animals and every kind of candy we hadon top. Another time it was our cheap granny bras and trash bags with some soda and an empty battery display."

She was trying to hold in the big secret, so I prodded. "So that is a lot of money. How much did it cost to get all that?"

"It didn't matter," she said. "He'd pile it all into his cart, roll up to the counter and smile, then slowly have us check everything, saying nothing and just grinning from ear to ear with his little coin purse and wallet in his hand."

I nodded, wondering if it didn't matter because he was a well-to-do senior or because he seemed to have vast reserves of cash. It turned out that such a boring twist was not in the offing.

"It could be radios and walkmen and batteries and gum by the box or a ton of baseball cards or whatever, he just picked anything," she said. "When his cart was full, he would come up, smile and watch you put in all the prices. He watched you do it, then waited."

She stopped bouncing and clapping and looked at me, biting her lip a little sideways. She shook her head, "I learned my first day. I thought I was doing so well, and I kept asking if he wanted things behind the counter and he would nod or gesture. he had like $300 in stuff."

I nodded and her hands went to her hips as she tilted her head sideways.

"And wouldn't you know it? He only had two dollars," she said, smiling, then laughing. "It's funny now, but I was mad. Then he took like ten minutes to choose a pack of gum, a box of cookies and a mini Kleenex pack."

She tilted her head back a little and smiled, then let her eyes close. "I was... sooo... mad. I could have screamed. I could have just screamed. It took me an hour to put everything back. The girls thought it was a big joke."

I was chuckling with her. "So what did you do after that? Kick him out of the store?"

"Oh, no," she said. "I would let him wander around and if he came up to me, I just looked in his cart, tapped on the register and said, 'Okay that will be a million dollars, sir!' and he would give me his money, then I would tell him how much stuff to pick for his budget."

"Well, that was nice of you," I said. "Was it always kleenex and gum?"

"No," she said, clapping and bouncing again, looking off then at me. "I usually had him get a watch, some candy and a random hygiene item. Then he was out of money and had to go. I would have one of the girls put his things back. They hated him."

"So how did you end up naming him?"

"I noticed him and I knew I wanted to keep an eye out for him, because he was just this totally fascinating character," she said. "So I gave him a name."

"Why Otto?" I asked.

"Because he speaks his own little language and it sounds like German, but it's nonsense and he only speaks to himself usually," she said. "You heard it on the bus."

Indeed I had. "So why is he named Otto van Otterson?" I asked.

Marcie looked at me and leaned in close. "Because he is like one of the river people" she whispered conspiratorially. "And I can imagine him floating on his back, speaking his language and backstroking down the San Diego River."

Her eyes went wide, and she looked at me as if she had just let me in on a huge secret. I appreciated the little story with a chuckle and added, "I guess I could see that."

It was quite the image, but Marcie had even more to relay. Otto was more than an urchin to her.

Otto had his own mythos, and every time we saw him, she told me more. Soon, it seemed, we saw him everywhere we went.

Characters: "Otto Van Otterson" (pt.1)

The Route 1 bus lurched to a squealing halt and the air in the hydraulics fired off as the door opened and the bus lowered. Marcie stared at the bus stop.

A laughing and rustling sound of paper bags slipped lazily into the cabin and the driver rolled her eyes, looking into the mirror bored.

"Oh my god, honey, don't look, don't look..." Marcie whisperes, grabbing my arm with one hand, hiding her face behind her ever-ready People magazine with the other and looking at me behind it wide-eyed, smiling and obviously keyed up.

Of course, this usually meant I had to look. Marcie would likely be asking me questions about the experience she told me to avoid. I looked and Marcie ducked her head completely into her lap, her magazine over the top and back.

"Heeee hee, ohmigod, stop, ohmigod," she squealed under her breath.

There would definitely be a quiz later. I paid close attention.

An elderly and scruffy gentleman clambered onto the bus, each foot stopping on each step, side by side one step at a time. He stared down as if to watch closely for any danger at his feet, then stomped as he reached the top, nodding to the driver.

"Muhuh?" he laughed, gesturing around at the bus and scanning me and my fellow riders as if asking a question. "Muzzum Muzzum Muzzum."

He was dressed in a brown, pinstriped suit, a derby hat and tie, all somewhat grimy. Beneath his buttoned jacket one could discern several different shirts, all button up, all enclosed by a tie, their collars stacked and close on his throat.

"You have your fare, sir?" the driver asked, her impatient face obviously familiar to the point of some tired contempt. She bit her lip and glared in the mirror.

"Muzzum, Muzzum," he said, clearly affirmatively, then pulled two crumpled bills from his pocket and raising them high over his head, his free hand now sweeping toward the back of the bus as he glanced around again.

I understood the gesture and offered him applause. He bowed and then deosited the bills into the farebox. The bus driver glared at me now.

"You need to not encourage him or we are never getting out of here," she said.

Marcie grabbed my arm, still hiding her face, but obviously laughing under the magazine, and pulled me onto the bench.

"Eh heh shesh mechuzzum muh," the odd man said, smiling at the driver with his hand out, another cocked on his hip. He looked away smugly, waggling his head a bit.

"You want a transfer?" the driver asked, snatching one of her pad and slapping it into his hand.

He snapped it into his palm, crumpling it and shoving it into his pocket in a smooth and practiced way, then picked up his half dozen grocery bags. Their contents were a mystery, but I inspected him discreetly as he strutted past in his own little world.

He was a hodgepodge of accoutrement. In place of a handkerchief in his pocket, he had donned a fresh paper napkin and, quite carefully placed, a spoon, fork and knife set against it. He wore a watch on each wrist, and several bits of string, plastic binding and even a white plastic grocery bag on them as well. He bore a lapel pin. It was Underdog.

His personal hygiene was a mixed bag. When he passed by, a strange mix of Old Spice, stale water and roting feet wafted past. He had a gray and white beard that was not well-trimmed but appeared impeccably combed. His fingernails were clean but his hands were filthy. He was a walking contradiction.

He looked around at each person as he walked by, and Marcie stayed down, squeezing my arm as she saw his broken, stained white Keds shuffle past. He sat in the back of the bus and immediately set his face against the window, flattening his cheek as he arranged his bags without looking.

"Ohhh, that is one of our regulars," Marcie said as he passed. "He is a total character. He is like, my favorite CVS urchin ever, but I don't want him to see me when I am not in the store. He stares at me a lot."

I nodded, suddenly imagining something more sinister than eccentric. "Does he bother you? Do you want me to talk to him?"

She looked at me and gave me her, "Are you THAT stupid?" look.

"Honey, he doesn't do it because he's menacing, he's harmless," she said. "God."

She was quiet for a minute as we rolled through Banker's Hill. In a sudden moment of inspiration, she grabbed my hand again and turned to me, whispering. "Did you see his shirts? I think he just layers them on when they get dirty!"

I nodded, and added, "And I think he just ties things to his wrists or puts whatever he finds on like a bracelet. He was also wearing two watches."

"Oh, Oh my god," she said, slapping my thigh with her other hand excitedly as she bit her lip then whispered, extra quietly. "He looks at watches every time he comes into CVS. He has like three watches on chains, one for each vest."

I shook my head and as we hopped of the bus outside of "Gay Ralph's" in Hillcrest, Marcie was holding my hand, obviously pleased to have seen the CVS regular in our area.

She stopped me as the bus pulled off, and said, "Okay, let's wave to Otto!"

And so I did, as his faced, plastered to the bus window, rolled by. He waved back.

"Otto?" I asked.

"Yes," she said. "Otto Van Otterson. That is what I call him. I don't know his real name, actually. I can't ask him because I don't think he ever really talks."

There was much to know about Otto, as I would find out. But there was even more to enjoy in what Marcie filled in the gaps in her knowledge of him with.

A little more notice

I received an email from someone who argued that there was some kind of sour grapes involved in what I have written in some places on this blog. There are not.

Marcie loved the people in her life, despite a lot of pain she faced. To show the strength of that love, it is important that the reader have an inkling of the obstacles she faced in maintaining it.

I certainly do not feel comfortable with some of the stories I relay here. Many of them lay bare some of my own faults, some of which I have since, with Marcie's help, buried and moved on from. But they cannot be hidden without obscuring the real story.

Marcie was silent and often asked me to hold my tongue. I won't do that, since every time I didn't, she seemed to benefit.

Why would I change that now?

Thanks for reading onward, thanks for writing in. More to come.

Notice

Since a family member requested it, I have pulled three posts for now. I originally intended to back-side publish them but they went live instead of into my drafts. At this point, however, I am going to lay a few things out:

-Someone called a family member and alarmed them.

If you have an issue with the blog, write to me. I will deal with permissions and issues like this on my own.

-The family member mentioned posts including Marcie's and my intimacy

I am writing abook about Marcie that Marcie would want to read even if it was about someone else. It will be honest, occasionally very direct and it will be adult when it is appropriate and true.

-Issues of privacy and Marcie being a "private person."

I do not consider this a valid concern. Marcie put up with a lot and it was admirable. I will not cut back on the full details except perhaps to mask an identity slightly that is otherwise innocent. Maybe.

My editorial outlook and truth are all that will control what is in the book. I have 183 separate posts not published on the active, visible blog and reserved for the book. When I decide to start publishing items, there will be short narratives first.

If it is true, I will do my best to protect feelings. I will not, however, lie, or paint an incomplete picture for the comfort of everyone who might see it. This blog is my property and I will judge retractions on a case by case basis.

The posts will be replaced with something that tells the tale with less identifying data.

To the person who called the family member: please write me an email or call me at my number and let's talk. One way or another, you need to speak your peace, too.

That is it for now, folks. But there is more coming, and we may be going invite-only. But this much is for sure: if I know you and you have something to say, be direct.

As for the truth and Marcie's life, it is fair game for publishing and only my choice to respect the wishes of others rules in regards to the truthful description of events and people in it.

Before the Quirks

As I reflected on the aspects of Marcie that made her so unique, I realized that I would not be giving a whole or complete view of her without extolling some of the things I admired about her.

Quirks and unique eccentricities and creative things are all things we enjoyed. But what we sometimes overlook are those aspects of people which define their person.

Marcie was a mother. She did not have children, nor did she want them. But understanding her meant knowing what she did, and what she did was take care of people.

Marcie provided everyone she cared for with love. It was not always the unconditional acceptance they wanted from her, but it was love nonetheless. She underwent much for family and friends, put herself out when necessary and generally wrapped us all in blanket of her beneficence.

Marcie transformed the way I thought of mothers and the function of mothering itself. In my own experience, there were few positive models to build a view of mothers. Those I had were flawed in ways that had somehow harmed me or caused disdain.

My own had left when I was turning nine to essentially run around with criminals. I knew many "can't wait until they are 18" types who smacked me as more inconvenienced than happy about their motherhood.

In foster care, I met single mothers, some of whom became welfare mothers, some of whom would desperately cling to the nearest man who would look at them. Divorce and inconstancy of heart was everywhere and broken children the norm for me.

Foster mothers? We won't even go there. Suffice to say that in the 1980s, there was a shortage of them and the business end of it all was good, and they knew it.

Mothers weren't doing too well in my book.

Marcie and I had a very good relationship on a lot of levels. But what swayed me, so very opposed early on to marriage, to decide I could marry her was that she took care of me as much like a mother as she did a lover.

Don't get me wrong here. She was not my mother by any measure. But she illustrated a better and more motherly aspect in her relationships, including ours, than most women I had known in lie.

She had a lot of practice at it, and I am making a list of the weight she carried in her life, as mother to all, even her own.

I will post that in detail, then something closer to her and me afterward before we explore her quirks, starting with her characters.

The Quirks of Queen Marcie - Characters

Among Marcie's most endearing quirks was her curiosity about people and their lives. This came, of course, from her innate voyeuristic tendencies and intellectual curiosity, but it also beautifully stimulated one of her most wonderful qualities, her creative side.

Marcie was not content to simply people-watch, but her usually reserved nature meant that she never asked the questions of people she most wondered about. She simply wondered and imagined the answers for herself.

Usually, the answers were, when combined with her detailed observations, hilarious.

As the first of her quirks I will explore, I wanted to nail down what she called "characters." This label was based on their actions and qualities, but with fanciful embellishments, they became characters in the literary sense, fully fleshed and realized in Marcie's mind.

It was a privilege to hear her stories, true, imagined, or mixed gleefully for her own internal amusement, and I hope you enjoy them. Our cast includes:

"Otto Van Otterson," "RiverMannonite," "MumbletyPeggy," and "The Shaker." These are people about whom Marcie thought her most fanciful things and convulted, unfounded but amusing stories.

I hope that, over the next week or so, you enjoy exploring this foremost among Marcie's quirks, her ability to amuse herself by filling in the details she does not have with those she would most enjoy.

Marcie's quirks

Marcie had some quirks, as we all do. For me, they were endearing little aberrations which led me to her more strongly. I think I will reflect on these before they are lost over the next few days, as they are just as important a part of her as all the things that were conventionally good.

The Big Scrap

I will be building a big gallery of Marcie's pictures, both from her albums and from the boxes of loose pictures she left behind. This will be a long-term project. I intend to make it a social project so that people can help classify and label the photos.

I will sen more information as the project develops. This will not be easy for me. I have avoided flipping through pictures and albums with people because I get overwhelmed. Just be patient...

Thanks, folks.

Just a simple sharing post

Marcie was worried that I would be too overwhelmed to function when she left me behind. We spent sad days preparing and making sure I knew where to find materials, checkbooks, bills, records and all manner of household business items.

I have had occasion to change my insurance and add new documents to the pile I keep in the Elantra. But I never took apart the whole bundle when I did, I discovered another one of Marcie's little notes, guiding me on what she thought I might not understand.

It doesn't matter that I may not have needed it. It was her way of nesting a note somewhere I would find it months later. I still hope to find more.

Affirmation: Another Note

I have always wondered if these dreams constitute any connection between Marcie and I, or if they are just the workings of my mind, weaving tapestries to occupy my thoughts and soothe me.

I have explained how I feel about the intertwining of phenomena and perception, especially as it regards the potential for life and ego survival beyond death. But a path to acceptance of life after death does not a proof make.

Regardless, the merest of coincidences can do so much for me as I face Marcie's absence. She seemed to have wanted me to run into her in my daily life long after she was gone. Her presence, as was the case before her death, is one of assistance and a deep understanding of me.

I have found another note. This note clarified a part of our lives and a function I have to assume that Marcie previously handled for us. I will share it tomorrow, when I have had time to fully formulate a context that relays the depth the simple missive otherwise hides from the reader.

Have a good Sunday, folks. F.

A Mistrust of Praise (Conclusion)

"You are so beautiful," I said, holding her hand and kissing her forehead.

She looked at me dubiously and croaked, "You don't have to say that."

Her voice was a hoarse, breathless whisper. I heard it as much with my heart as with my ears. I had waited two days to hear it again, and I was in tears that I had my chance.

"You are so beautiful," I said. "You inspire me, you make me a better man and a better person. I am in love and have been for 14 years. You teach me, you love me, you take care of me and you have grown up with me."

She looked, her eyes uneven, one pupil larger than the other. She could not see me well, I knew. But her hearing would be the last thing, and she needed to hear it all. Spasm or not, she squeezed my hand. Her eyes closed. I squeezed back.

"You are and have always been the most loyal, sweet, smart, kind, thoughtful, generous, adventurous, glamorous, sexy and loving woman I have ever met," I said.

She gulped and I kissed her cheek.

"You are the greatest honor I have ever been given, and I say given because do not know that I have ever earned or deserved you or even had a hope of really being worthy," I said.

Tears slid out of her eyes and she mouthed "You have," then eked out, "You are, honey."

I felt the hot trail of my tears burn down my cheeks as I continued to recall my list of things to say. "I didn't always praise you at the beginning. I was afraid that you would take me for granted or maybe you would take advantage, I was insecure," I said "I'm sorry."

She nodded at it all and I kissed her nose, letting a tear mix with hers before I gently wiped her cheeks and rasped "I am glad I got over it, and I always meant what I told you about how good you are."

She opened her eyes and the strength of her voice startled me. "I am glad too, honey," she said, then, her voice fading again, she added "You always said what you felt."

I knew she was tired and I leaned down. "I love you, beautiful," I said.

She looked up at me with her eyes slit and mouthed, "I know." A rueful half-smile almost formed and she was out again. It was a gentle joke to lighten the moment. I kissed her again and her breathing was the slow, familiar rhythm it had become.

I knew she accepted at least my own praise, and that I had offered her as much as she could handle in a moment of wakefulness. She accepted not my praise of her baking or cooking, which she could dismiss as a recipe and secretly enjoy, but of her.

To get that acceptance and see her lightly revel in my attention was an honor in its own right.

A Mistrust of Praise (2)

I was never more crushed by Marcie's condition than when she used it as a rational to undermine anything good that came her way. She was terrible at it. Everything and anything that could be chalked up to the disease immediately was.

Marcie hated being singled out in any case. Her acute dislike for such recognition became much more pronounced as the cancer progressed or as she reached milestones.

So loathsome was the idea of being associated with the disease to Marcie that she went so far as to hate everything about the phenomenon of breast cancer. Foremost and most hated among her pop culture targets was the Pink Ribbon campaign.


"Oh my god, why is veveryone buying me pink?" she asked me one day as she rummaged through a care package from a well-meaning friend. "God, I fucking hate Susan Komen and her stupidass campaign."

She had obviously had enough. She tossed the good back in the bag and looked up at me, exasperated.

"And the ribbons?! Oh my God, please don't hate me, Frank, but if one more person comes over to me at work with a pin or a ribbon or a little doodad with a ribbon or a sticker, I am going to stick it right in their face," she said, flopping back.

She laughed and crawled into my lap with a huff. "I don't want to be the cancer woman," she said. "I want to go back to being the homemade cakes and cookie chick."

But of course, she was much more than that. Marcie was a miracle worker and a business generator. She did not slow down or falter and always kept up the pace. Unfortunately, no one had ever given her the recognition she deserved.

That changed. When her disease finally resulted in the treatments that took her away from work, she was selected as Employee of the Year. I congratulated her.

"Honey, that is so wonderful," I said. "Are you going to make it to the ceremony? I know you feel better, and I would love to take you out to your awards ceremony."

She looked at me as if I had bitten the head off of a monkey or committed some other bewildering atrocity. She then gave me the followup look, the tilt of the head as if to ask, "Are you that stupid?"

"FRANK! It's a fucking pity award," she said. "They did not award this to me because of what I did, they are giving this to me because of the fucking cancer. Just get out of here and leave me alone."

She began to sob, and then she was wracked and her hands covered her face. "It's so humiliating," she moaned. "I worked so hard all these years, and I know they only gave it to me because I am sick and they think I am going to die."

I did my best to console her at first. "No, no, no... they just realize how important you are now that you are at home," I said. "They miss you and you carried that place, honey."

I just held her and she sniffed into my chest, "Really? Do you really think that?"

Yes, I certainly did. Scumbag salesmen would drop multimedia projects on her desk and she would get them done, though it was not her job. Managers would assign her report generation well outside her department.

Marcie handled well her duties with Jim Drummond, her boss, and did raw coding and design for her projects, usually a duty for the content and web folks. She was in business development, but everyone else seemed to think that meant, "load her ass up when her manager is not in."

Jim, as much as she loved him, was almost never in. When he was, he walked around in thought. At any rate, Marcie never complained, and would have had scant cover if she had. So everyone leaned on her, and she did it all, saving her complaints for me, at home.

So when she accepted that she deserved it, she made it clear that it came with a caveat.

"I know I earned it," she said. "But they only gave it to me because now they would feel guilty if they cheated me again."

And if that was not complete acceptance, it was better than the cancer winning it, and I felt much better, as I know she did. But she was still not completely pleased.

"I just know whatever salesperson they were going to give this to is sitting there thinking that I wouldn't have won if it wasn't for the cancer," she said.

"I hope," I said. "If that is the case, that they win a lot of awards to make up for it, and for the exact same reason, whoever they might be."

She looked up and was angry at first, but she smiled at me and kissed my cheek, the metallic bitterness of chemotherapy on her breath and lips. She curled into me tightly.

"Yeah, those fuckers," she said. "They can have my award if they take the cancer with it."

A Mistrust of Praise (1)

Marcie was proud. She was proud of her independence and her grit, her will and her self-supported status. She was proud of her red hair and beautiful skin, her near-unflappable happiness and her indomitability. She was strong and she knew her own worth.

But she was internally driven, and the outside world’s positive attention was not always comforting to her. In fact, quite to the contrary, it often made her uneasy to receive praise outside the context of our relationship and our families.

Despite her pride and occasional vanity, Marcie was always hard on herself. What self-praise she allowed for in her life was always tempered by internal doubt, much of it due to an esteem-punishing childhood.

Marcie overcame receiving less recognition for her successes and wonderful qualities than she deserved while she was with me, and soon she was letting my compliments in, becoming quite fond of hearing them. But she was still suspicious of any doting treatises anyone else might offer.

The day she turned that corner with me I remember quite well. It was several months into our relationship. Heretofore, any plaudits or approbations had been met with rolling eyes or a narrow-eyed, wary countenance and a knowing nod, dismissed as blandishments and blarney.

“Suuuuure,” I remember her saying one day as I showered her with my adoration. “We’ll see how long that lasts.”

But her tune changed abruptly one Sunday morning after a hearty breakfast and a very, very rare bottle of Moët Chandon doled out over several mnimosas.

“Oooph,” I said, smiling down at her as she lay in my lap and looked at the ceiling with her mouth open, licking her lips. She set her flute of mimosa down and grabbed my hand and held it in both of hers, putting it between her breasts and squeezing, wringing it.

“Tell me again,” she said, her eyes wide but still locked on the ceiling, waiting with a smile, her mouth a little open. “Why do you love me so much?”

I chuckled and she looked up in a very stern way, and then pretended she was going to bite my hand, looking wild-eyed at me, tipsy and playful. I got the picture.

“Okay, okay!” I said, leaning down and kissing her lips. “I like you…”

She squealed a little. “Hee heeeeee…”

I proceeded to detail her virtues and delicious vices from her toes to her top, her mind to her mien, her muff to her mop, and everything in between. She listened, sometimes covering her face and kicking her legs, laughing her silent laugh and only meeting my eyes when I paused. I could have continued, but she suddenly stopped me.

“Okay, mister. That’s enough for now,” she said, shutting my mouth with a big, wet kiss. ”I need to get ready for my parents, and you need to get out of the house.”

I may have won the right to shower her with love and sweet nothings, but Marcie was not completely open to glory. When she received little bits and trickles of external appreciation, she became uncomfortable. She never quite accepted public adulation.

When her work environment decided to chime in, lauding her for years of wonderful work and service beyond the call of her position, it could not have come at a worse time.

Memorial Day

"Hey, honey," she said, kissing me on the cheek and looking in my eyes. "I am going to the movies, then I will be at the grocery store. I'll see you tonight, okay?"

I smiled and nodded, held her hand and closed my Anchor book. Memorial Day was usually a day to reflect, and she generally stayed out of my way for it. She kissed me again.

"I love you," she said. "Relax and I'll bring you home a little treat."

I nodded and watched her go, then turned back to my boot camp book, flipping through the pages and recalling one memory per face, one memory per frame, sometimes more. I lingered over a few.

This was their day. Car accidents, combat, misadventure, the grind of life after the service and the callous turned backs of the people they served, these didn't matter. That they served and then died did. My company had only a few over the years, but for my father, or my great-uncle Jerry or for any world war two vet, it was more a case of very few left to remember them and more of them to reflect on.

But this was the day for that, and Marcie knew I set it aside for that, and that is what I did. When she came home, we ate and drank wine, and the toast was always the same.

"To all the friends and comrades who would have like to meet you," I said, each year we were together, every Memorial Day.

Her toast was always the same, too. "To you, a true friend to heroes."

And dinner was usually silent afterward, but warm.

Marcie and Rainy Days (2) (R rating)

We were lulled to sleep by the steady little drumbeat of rain on our window and the street outside. Marcie curled tightly into me and was lightly snoring long before I stopped stroking her, turned out the light and fell into dreams myself.

I woke to delicious smells after several "attempted awakenings."

The scent of cinnamon and butter filled the bedroom. I looked groggily at the clock. It was only 7 a.m., but we had fallen asleep at 9, so I had been knocked out for 10 hours. I noted the blinds were down and the curtains were drawn, making the room a dark, cozy cocoon.

Then I noticed it. There was a plate on a tray next to the bed on Marcie's old wicker chest. On it sat two steaming cinnamon rolls, two cups of coffee, two grapefruit halves and a slab of ham, some of it cut up.

Marcie came in with a pitcher of orange juice and set it down, then jumped on the bed, sliding up and getting my hands in hers, kissing me down. My hand went by instinct to her ass, and she broke the kiss.

"Ah ah ah, noooo," she said. "You're going to sit up and have breakfast with me, then we are going for a walk. Then, maybe we will have some fun. And you need to brush your teeth like, right after breakfast. It's nasty."

She crawled to the end of the bed and sat, using the chest as a table of sorts, the raised tray just right on it, height-wise. We munched in contented silence.

"Thank you for breakfast in bed," I said, kissing her cheek. "That was very nice of you. God, I slept a long time."

She nodded and mopped some crusted cinnamon and icing off her plate with a bit of ham, something I could never do. I kissed a little halo of the spices and sweets off her lips in gratitude.

"You needed your sleep," she said. "You've been studying hard and you have been working a lot."

The happy silence was near-perfect. Something was amiss.

"Where's the bubbin?" I asked, referring to Seamus by a very early nickname.

"I trapped Seamus in the kitchen so we can eat in peace," she said.

As if on cue, a clatter of wooden dowels and the clap of a child gate hitting linoleum resounded from the kitchen.

"Oh, great, now we get a side order of fur with our breakfast," she said, laughing. "Speak of the devil..."

Seamus sauntered in casually, not really looking at us, then meowed as he slowly turned to face the food and peer at us over the edge of the service. I chuckled. We locked him in the room and ate in the front room instead.

We took our walk, up sixth to Balboa Park and through a place we both called "Squirrel Canyon," feeding the little beasties a very solid meal of peanuts and dried apricots. We languished on a bench that no longer exists there, kissing and groping, then made our way home.

We stomped every puddle we came to into oblivion gleefully.

We had just gotten in the door when Marcie turned to me and kissed me. "Let's go get some movies from Ken Video," she said.

I smiled and nodded, and the rain, as if on cue, began to pour outside. She grabbed an umbrella and, bundled in her big, down-stuffed parka, pulled me into a wintry, plush kiss under it.

We journeyed to First and Beech to catch the 11. Locals drove by, nervous and clumsy in the unfamiliar wetness around them. We walked the mid-day streets alone.

No transplants dared brave our storm, lest their vapid delusions of permanent sun be dashed.
The act of ownership of an umbrella was tantamount to sacrilege, it being the first sacrifice paid to the Sun God, San Diego. Owed on arrival, it was paid in haste and regretted in time.

The bus was abandoned and no passengers waited for it until well into Hillcrest. We sat in the back, her in my lap whispering her week's conversations and tidbits we forgot to cover the Friday night before, me staring happily and dazedly at the streetscape as it scrolled by.

We only made it to University and Richmond. Marcie simply pulled the cord and said "Let's go."

"I held her hand as we crossed over to the Ralph's lot. "What's up?" I asked, a little annoyed.

"We're going to get a movie at the Wherehouse and some groceries instead, is that okay?" she asked, looking at me very faux-angrily.

"Okay, baby," I said.

"Good, now shut up and follow me like a good puppy," she said, tugging me along by my hand. I slapped her ass and she cackled. I chased her into the Wherehouse. She rented "Tacones Lejanos" (High Heels), an Almodóvar film with Victoria Abril.

At Ralph's She bought three different cheeses, a block of feta, crackers, tomatoes and olives, tapenade and spinach greens, grapes, croutons and a number of seemingly random items, then two bottles of wine. We checked out and off we went.

I played grab-ass with my free hand and chased her out to wait for the bus, which pulled up just as the sky opened. She curled up in my lap and actually napped a little, then it was time to get off.

We packed everything away in the house and let Seamus out when the rain lulled a bit, watching him deal with the unfamiliar sensation of soggy ground, his paws shaking as he sniffed the alien smells of a less dusty neighborhood.

We were driven inside when a thunderclap scared Seamus back into the house at top speed and the rain came down in giant spattering blobs of water. We dried him and he parked himself in front of the heater.

We showered and warmed ourselves, but Marcie cut off any thought of play beyond the bathing and caressing.

"Go get the VCR set up when you get out. I'm going to start cooking and making our hors d'oeuvre," she said, slipping out of my grip and the shower.

"Moooovies and Caaaaaandlessssss!" I hooted in my falsetto.

She squealed, "You're so crazy, I love when you are like this," she said.

I peeked out from the shower at her as she dressed, holding myself and biting my lower lip, catching her eye and licking my lips, pretending to hide.

"You're a dirty man," she said, playfully. "Filthy pervert!"

I snaked a hand out and groped her as tried to slide her bra up. She squealed and left.

When I had dried off, I set up the VCR, carefully disassembling the rabbit ears and connecting the adapter. I checked everything and it looked good. The tape was rewound.

Marcie came out, hanging up her pink phone as smells began to waft from the kitchen. "Go to Kashou's and get some Amaretto Disaronno, okay? I want coffee drinks with dessert."

I did, wandering in the rain and returning after a 15-minute discussion of Middle Eastern politics. Marcie was upset. "Ah, I told him to keep you there for a while," she said.

"What?" I asked. "You told Mr. Kashou to spring a conversation on me? I thought I was late..."

"It's okay. Do you smell the stuff?" she asked, her smile belying that she knew I was salivating over her work already. "I wanted it all to be ready when you came home."

"Yes, but I have no idea what you made," I said. "I can't wait."

We feasted on baguette with tapenade and bruschetta and a topping of melted Parmesan, innumerable crackers and olives and cheeses, glass after glass of wine, a wonderful array of stuffed mushrooms and a Greek salad with feta tomatoes,a few red onion slivers, and spinach.

The movie was crazy. We both loved it and took turn stuffing grapes into each others' mouths when we laughed or chortled at the action on the screen.

By the time I had made Marcie a decaf Amaretto latte and myself a Crown Royal-Amaretto cream, she had baked a plate of cookies and set them out. It was well past 10 o'clock.

"Choc-o-late chiiiip!" I coyoted. "Cooooo-kieeees!"

"Ha HA! Hah!" she laughed, stuffing one in my mouth, which I ate messily as I stood there, letting chunks fall out onto the floor like a wild man.

I handed her the drink and set my own down. She sipped it as she giggled at me.

"Li-quor and seeeeex!" I howled, making her spew latte from her nose.

I helped her clean up, but her memory was jogged.

"I was so embarrassed yesterday," she said, coughing as she recovered. "The mailman totally heard us."

I sipped my coffee and shrugged. "He heard everything," I said. "That means he sat outside for a good few minutes listening."

"I gathered that, uh- huh," she said. She moved close, looking at me in her Harriet the Spy way, whispering, "Do you think he's a pervert?"

I kissed her and whispered, "Only if he stayed after he dropped off the package."

We finished the drinks, blew out the candles, put away the cookies, rewound the movie, and left the uneaten to Seamus's not-so-tender mercies, then went to the bedroom and finished the list of rainy day to-dos in fine form.

Marcie and Rainy Days (1)

A rainy day and some time for lunch reminds me of Marcie's love of murky, stormy weather and the patter of rain on a roof. I shared that passion with her, and it made for some wonderful moments. But ours was a lively love of the weather. There was no melancholy about it.

A gray day looking out from the corner offices-something Marcie would have loved!

Marcie was big on atmosphere, and even bigger on weather. San Diego's constant stream of sunny, warm, with the occasional cloud and a light breeze, 70s, was a rut to her. The same went for me. Rainy days? Now those were special.

I remember the first time we had a rainy day together. Marcie was smiling as she looked out at a darkening sky one evening from our abode on Cortez Hill.

"Honeeeeey," she said, not so much calling as calling my attention.

"Yes, baby?" I asked, looking at her as she looked out our window, checking in all directions, delighted obviously by the impending storm.

She turned and looked at me, wide-eyed. "It's going to rain!" she whispered in her odd, excited low voice. She read the Union-Tribune's weather forecast. "It might rain all weekend. OOooooh! This is perfect! We're staying in tomorrow."

I nodded and watched as she went from window to window and stepped out on our patio, then hopped in and grabbed my shirt. "Cookies!"

"You want me to get cookies?" I asked.

"Noooooooo!" she stretched it out, then fired off her correction in a single word, a pile of giddy syllables lolling about in her gleeful mouth. "WhatkinddoyouwantIwanttobakesome?"

She stood and bit her lower lip, bouncing at her knees and clapping her hands together as she waited. It was incredibly cute, and she was acting like such a little kid...

"Choc-o-late chip!" I exclaimed, crowing it in a falsetto that sounded like a human coyote cry. I rolled my head back and around. "Chocolate chip coooooookieeeeees!"

"Ha Haaaaaah!" she cackled, grabbing me around the waist and kissing me. "Extra chips!"

"Extrrrra chiiiiips!" I chimed in.

"Extra vanilla!?" she asked, her eyes popping incredibly wider at the quesion we both knew was more of a proclamation.

"Exxxxxtra Vaniiiiilla!" I sang back.

"Okay..." she said, letting go and stepping back, thinking...

"Cinnamon rolls for breakfast and breakfast for dinner?" she asked.

"Mooooorning all day!" I said, which made her slide back over and hop, pulling my hands until I hopped, too.

The floor was a trampoline. Seamus stared with a paw raised, pointing in confusion as he mewed ineefectively, unable to penetrate our cloud of inclement celebration.

"Candles and movies?" she asked, swinging my arms.

"Moooovies and caaaandles!" I bellowed, tickling her sides until she cackled.

She stopped me and leaned in close. "Wine and nookie?" she asked, breathing in my ear, lowering her voice and nuzzling a bit.

I nipped her jawline gently, then leaned back, howling at the top of my lungs, "Liiiiquor and sex!"

There was a knock at the door. Marcie turned beet red and went to our room, embarrassed. I opened it. There stood the mail man, smiling his oddly uneven Asian grin. He handed me a little box. I smiled and thanked him, signing the slip.

"Thanks," I said, noting the box was from Gevalia. Coffee! Just in time.

"Enjoy the cookies, Mr. Pruett," he said.

I did not have any idea how much I would. Marcie, red-faced, came out and took my hand after I closed the door. We retired to the bed and the weekend began.

Little Memorial Acts

I am, of course, planning the larger memorial. But as I do, I find solace in doing small things from time to time in memory or honor of Marcie's spirit and to fill the emptiness she left, not just with me but the rest of the world. I try to do things she did so they continue to be done.

Marcie loved the spring greening of San Diego, and loved to walk and wander in places that were lush, no matter how fleetingly. A canyon I found for her she never did get to explore, so I went looking for what she would notice. The following is a Marcie's eye view of what would have caught her fancy there:



More tomorrow, and more substance with it. Good night, folks.

The Weight of Years

It is difficult to live here,
In this house on this street.
Where every little thing is a reminder,
and every little reminder is so precious,
but heavy on my heart.
I want to flee from this,
so I cling to it all.

Marcie's love of sidewalk markers

Marcie loved to read sidewalk markers. She loved to know how old where she lived was. She had favorites from 1912, 1903, McKindle & CO, Gearson Public Works, and any number of companies who would place a brand on the end of a strip of laid concrete with a date the path was formed.

Today, the apartment owners next door repaved part of the sidewalk. I knew what I had to do. Thanks go to neighbor Rob Wheatley for taking a shot of me next to the work afterward. Good on you, man. Another everyday memorial act.

Maybe someone will wonder who she was. Maybe they will know.
A few hours later.
The vandal.

She also loved the other kinds of marks, from kitty, dog and kid silhouettes with names and simple slogans like "NH rules" to pop culture reference like "Kilroy was here" and even "Redrum," oddly scratched in in front of a convent on Hawthorn, they all lit her imagination afire.

I hope they don't scratch it out. We'll see!

The Down Side to Nostalgia

As much as I love the music I have collected, much of it carries the memory of Marcie and events in my life with her so strongly that I cannot bear to listen to it at times. In other moments, I am simply comforted. I am currently on a ten-minute break from work, wondering if there is "More Than This" than to be "Back on the Chain Gang" and remembering Marcie as one "Few and Far Between."

I miss our "Glory Days."

Marcie's favorite foods: Stuffed Treats

Marcie loved stuffed foods. Be it a chicken breast stuffed with feta cheese and sun-dried tomato with a bit of oil or white wine to cut it, or a mushroom cap filled with alouette and baked with a bit of red bell pepper chopped in the bottom, a tamale or an empanada, Marcie loved her stuffed foods. Some favorites:

1. Twice-baked potato topped lightly with with cheddar, bacon and chives, sour cream on the side or mixed into the stuffing before the second baking (halves or deep skins)
2. Twice-baked potato with Parmesan shavings atop, garlic, green onion and Italian herbs in the stuffing (halves) Served aside an Aioli-parsley covered steak and cold salad.
3. Stuffed RED bell peppers (made by me) with Spanish or yellow rice soaked in a tomato puree with tomato diced with green onions, cilantro and chives in a red wine, garlic and cayenne or paprika reduction. Topped with crushed flax, almonds and bread crumbs before baking...
4. The same as 3, but containing sauteed tiny bits of seed-removed Serrano peppers and red onions, stacked on chopped rare-cooked steak in the vertical middle of the pepper and covered with more rice and then soaked in the tomato base (it all finishes in the baking). She decided she liked this hotter variant after getting one of mine she initially was grossed out over. 5. Stuffed mushrooms of ANY sort, any size, and almost any stuffing, especially featuring roasted peppers.
6. Stuffed chicken breasts: (a) black olive tapenade, fresh tomato and alouette with a lemon-garlic-sherry-pepper sauce on the plate. Asparagus side. (b) feta, green olive tapenade processed with basil and capers, baked covered and then finished with a quick broil after being rubbed with a lemon on both sides and spiced to taste. Served cut into slices over a simple olive oil-tossed, basil-and-pasta, mixed-vegetable plate. (c) the above wine-based selection.
7. ANY empanada will do. ANY empanada, from the standard beef to the chicken and the pork.
8. Tamales, including dessert tamales such as the pineapple, cinnamon and apple, and other sweet variants.
9. Stuffed chicken in too many variants to list here, but especially with pine nuts and garlic, bread crumbs and a mix of white wine and broth. She loved those ingredients passionately
10. Stuffed pork chops with crushed rosemary and apple pieces, and a creamy sauce that included sage and peppercorns.

There are more, but I am hungry... I'll do this again tomorrow.