The First Time I Went to Charlie's Home

The first time I went to Charlie’s home it was early dusk, almost completely dark,

but still with a little light.  I drove up the steep hill on the narrow, winding street in

the heart of town, wondering why they had no sidewalks and instead had steep,

rock-studded concrete ditches on both sides of the road with no shoulders, and how

people who lived here had to drive this crazy street every day, and why did

they make it so hard? 

I was looking for his address.  He had told me the cross-street to look for and

other landmarks, and there it was, tucked into a corner of sorts, with a very tall,

pine tree next to the driveway.  It had a Biden-Harris sign nailed way up high–

how could anyone reach that high to put it up?

 

The driveway itself was a strip of narrow asphalt sharply curved around a large

mound covered in jade plants and a wild array of succulents.  I saw his silver

Nissan Leaf parked between some trees on a dirt off-shoot. The front yard was

a profusion of trees and plants, hard to see distinctly in the dark, but lush and wild.  

It was a house I had noticed before and never knew quite what to make of.  It was mostly hidden and not showy like a lot of the houses in the neighborhood.  All you could really see was the front wall–a huge multi-paned window–and a bit of the side of the house.  It was the old Del Mar style of board-and-batten construction, a style I’d never seen before I moved to Southern California, but ubiquitous here.

As I pulled into the driveway, all I could think was, “how will I ever back out of here?”  I would be backing out into a curve on a dark street, a short distance from an intersection.  In the dark!  To do it once was one thing, but who would purposely live with this kind of driveway and do this everyday?  That’s what I was thinking.  “And just what did this dinner invitation mean anyway?  What were his intentions?  How did he see me?” It was all a mystery to me.  But exciting.  At last something intriguing was happening.  I was full of wonder.

I pulled in, not quite sure how far to pull in–I could see a lot more driveway ahead.  The house had small round lights all around the roof, and there was a light from the patio and a room with french doors.  And there was Charlie!  He was peeking over a tall picket fence between the patio and the driveway gate–his curly white hair gleaming in the light and a huge smile on his face.  He’d been watching me. All my worries and thoughts about the driveway, the street, the dark, what I was doing there, and his intentions were completely gone.  He welcomed me with such warmth and enthusiasm, I felt like I was home.  He welcomed me home.  

He told me to pull up further into the driveway–meaning it would be even harder to get out!  “Let’s go around front,” he said, showing me the way.  We walked on a narrow brick path through the flower bed against the house and the bushes and trees and gardens in the yard, and up some wooden steps and through a glass-paned door into an old world-style kitchen and the wonderland of Charlie.  The kitchen looked like ones I’d seen in the Handmade Houses book my friend Michael had given me years ago.  Lots of wood cabinets and open shelves.  Small but efficient, just the way my mother always said a kitchen should be laid out so that everything was close at hand.  I felt like I had walked into a hippie’s house in the 70s, and I actually had, and I loved it.  

He had made soup.  In those days, he was getting most of his meals from a Jewish food service for older people.  I’d been told by our friend Carol, who introduced us, that he wasn’t much interested in food, and I was surprised that he had invited me over for dinner and offered to cook and didn’t want me to bring anything, but he had, and here I was, and he was proudly describing what he’d done to the soup to make it better, and it really was good.  He had also made a good salad.  And there was dessert. He was putting on quite a show.

It was a cool, fall night, like tonight, sometime in late October or early November, before Thanksgiving.  It was a soup night.  He had a fire going in the fireplace in the living room–a round brick fireplace surrounding a cast-iron stove.  We sat at his antique round oak table, where he’d already laid out the dinner settings.  

The lights were muted, the air was soft and cool, and he smiled and talked to me the way I’d always wanted someone to smile and talk to me.  Sitting under a floor lamp, his curly white hair glowing, he read to me in a quiet, strong, melliflous voice–a beautiful story from House of Rain by Claude Childs about crawling into a cave and discovering an almost perfectly preserved ancient Native American dwelling. When he finished the story, we sat quietly together in awe, without speaking for awhile, just taking it all in.  “Here, you take the book,” he said, “Read it to your students tomorrow.”

On the hour, a ship’s bell rang, startling me. He pointed out the brass ship’s clock on his wall, from his father’s days in the Navy.  At other points, his cell phone rang with a loud “aooogah,” from his days on submarines.  Our whole conversation punctuated by ship bells and aoogahs, we talked and talked, about our marriages, our moves, pivotal moments and people. We discovered books we’d both read, like Robert Johnson’s We.  He told me he had met Robert Johnson, who helped him when his first marriage ended.

I looked around the kitchen and living room, taking it all in.  “What’s this?” I asked about a little wooden bear hanging by cords on the wall by the stove. He shrugged, “I think it’s a toy of Anna’s from her childhood?”  “That’s really cool,” I replied, “I can’t quite figure out how to make it work–maybe it’s supposed to slide up and down the cords?” He wasn’t sure, “Maybe it doesn’t work anymore.”  “Well, I like it,” I smiled, “and it’s cool that you have it after all these years.”  

The house was full of memories and unexpected treasures–an archaeological trove. He gave me a tour, talking about each room and his life. We looked at all the family pictures on the walls and his son D’avid’s paintings of Native Americans and angels. It was all dark and all extraordinary and looked like the magic kingdom to me.  

We talked about Thanksgiving, and neither of us had plans, so I invited him over, and he said he’d come and would bring mashed potatoes.  And the next night we’d see each other at Carol’s, just like we did every night.

When it was time to go, I told him I was concerned about backing out of the driveway.

He laughed, “Don’t worry.  I’ll guide you.  It’s easy.  Just pick a side, and only look at that side. I’ll watch the street for you.  Pick a side!”

I did just what he said, and he guided me out, and it was easy.

I drove home in wonder, still not having any idea what that was all about.  I couldn’t read him at all.  But I was happy and knew we were friends and that I would be back and get to know him better and that it would be magical.

That night I dreamed that I was welcomed onto the property by a woman with long white hair and ushered into the backyard to an open hut where Charlie was seated next to a dark-haired woman, and they all 3 motioned for me to come sit by him.

This memory is with me all the time, and I feel it especially every night at dusk in the fall.

Visiting Old Faithful with My Dad

In July this year, I went on a bus tour with my dad, stepmother, part of my family, and some wonderful people from South Louisiana.  We left Zachary, Louisiana, on July 1st, and drove through the midwest to West Yellowstone, Montana, passing through the Badlands, and driving down through the Grand Tetons and the Rocky Mountains, all the way to Dallas, Texas, where I left the group to fly home to San Diego on July 10th. We saw eagles and bison, coyotes and elk, and beauty beyond words.  

When we arrived at Old Faithful, the geyser was due to shoot up into the air in about 90 minutes, and we were all milling about close by the site.  I passed by my father, step-mother, and niece, and they said, "We're going for a walk.  You want to come?"  

"Sure," I said. "Where are we going?"

"There's a spot your father wants to take us to see."

"Okay, let's go."

A few minutes in, my niece and step-mother say they've changed their minds and are going to go back to the lodge.  

"Okay," I shrug, and my father and I walk on.

It's midday, and hot, very sunny, not many clouds, bright blue sky.  I have on a hat and half a cup or so of water in a bottle, and a torn achilles tendon, plantar fasciitis, and heel spurs, but okay, my father wants to see something and he just turned 89 and he's giving me this trip, and I've been sitting in a bus a lot for the past few days, so let's go!

"Where are we going?" I ask.

"Oh, it's just up the way here.  It's called "Morning Glory," and it's the most beautiful spot around here.  I always go whenever I come here."  

My father has been to Yellowstone many, many times leading tours.  I want to see what he considers the most beautiful spot, and I love morning glories--they're one of my favorite flowers.

We walk and walk.  It's hot, really hot.  I start sipping my water at longer intervals to make it last.  Surely, there will be a concession stand, the New Yorker in me thinks--ha!  No, no water bottles for sale, no water fountains anywhere.  Well, it can't be that far.  

We walk and walk and walk some more.  The crowds fade away.  We're passing fewer and fewer people.  We are on a semi-paved trail, and there are occasional maps that show the Morning Glory pool up the way, but none of them indicate distances.

Blazing sun, and no trees, no shade.  My dad is not wearing a hat, and he's turning beet red.  He's also wearing hard-soled dress shoes.  I'm wearing hiking boots with orthotics.  My injured foot does hurt, but not too bad, and if he can do it, I can do it.

He looks at me and smiles, "You know most people don't make it this far.  I usually can't get anyone to go with me."

Awright, well, I've gone this far.  I'm just afraid it's going to kill him.  I keep offering him water, but no, he says.  My hat? No. Okay.

At some point, he takes the water.  At another point, he accepts my hat, and I pull my shirt over my head.  

He says to me, "You might not think it's worth it by the time we get there."

"I'm here for the journey," I say.  "It'll be worth it."

"You might not like it that much. Maybe it won't be as good as I remember it."

"I'm sure it'll be worth it."

"It's a very beautiful place, the most beautiful place here."

It's a very long walk.  But we make it.  And here we are.

When we returned, we were informed that we'd been gone 2 hours.  We missed Old Faithful, but no, not really, when you think about it.

And my foot recovered just fine.  Still healing, but better.  

Towards the end of our walk, my father said, "Well, I might not do this walk again."  After the trip, I told him, "Next time we do that walk, let's each have a hat and bring more water."  We both laughed.

In Memoriam: Lacy Strohschein Doss, February 24, 1930, to February 26, 2022

Here is a picture of the first kindergarten class at First Baptist Church, Zachary, Louisiana.  I'm on the front row, the only girl surrounded by boys.  Susie Strohschein is on the second row with her head turned to look at Billy Kirkwood, or maybe her mother, who is in the back right-hand corner, wearing a plaid dress.  That's Mrs. Strohschein, my kindergarten teacher, second mother, and lifelong supporter and friend.

She was instrumental to starting the kindergarten program, along with Mrs. Creel, in the left-hand corner.  Mrs. Creel yodeled, and was also a great favorite.  But she moved when I was a kid, and Mrs. Strohschein stayed.  And stayed.  I have a hard time believing she is gone physically, and I know she will always be in my heart.  She helped form it!

She was a rock, a constant and secure presence in my life, from the moment my family and I landed on the shores of Zachary, Louisiana, when I was 3 years old.  For one thing, she was the church secretary when my dad arrived as a very young minister, and she helped him succeed and our whole family settle in and become part of the community.  She was devoted, loving, and loyal to my family, her family, the church, and always present.  

To me, she was Zachary, and she was the church.

As a young girl, what most stood out to me was her kindness and attentiveness and strength.  She was present with me in ways that many adults were not.  She paid attention, and she affirmed my interests. 

For example, pansies.

She had a beautiful patch of pansies in her front yard by the driveway.  One day when I was feeling particularly sad from childhood pressures, I stood gazing at the pansies, dreaming and self-soothing.  She came over and joined me and chatted with me about the wonders of pansies, how they looked like children's faces and came in such beautiful colors and how I could grow some myself if I wanted.  The moment became a touchstone of kindness for me that has guided me through the years.  I hope that I have carried the lesson forward and helped others like she helped me.

She also had a great swing set in her back yard, and a bench on her carport, where I spent many happy moments, chatting gaily with whoever was around.  I learned in these moments how to relax and enjoy one another's company, with no particular object in mind.  It was like the coffee breaks I remember watching her and other church secretaries and assistants take when I was a child, a way to just be.

She also had a strong, sharp presence and wit.  She didn't suffer fools, as they say, although she definitely nurtured children.  She was a beautiful, hard-headed woman, in the best way.

When I was going through my troubled twenties and moving away from Zachary, I always went to see Mrs. Strohschein.  Being in her presence grounded me.  Plus, she also fed me.

I see her in every one of her children, all of whom are beautiful and unique, strong people.  I see her in my family who she helped through challenging times.  And I will always see her teaching me to tie my shoes and build structures with blocks and write my numbers and the alphabet and calm myself and take naps and eat cookies in moderation and take a load off and sit and relax for awhile and kick off my shoes and enjoy life wherever I am.

Thank you, Mrs. Strohschein.  May your light shine always.

Obituary for Lacy Strohschein Doss

Sunday Morning on the Coast

Early Sunday morning walking along the coast and down to the beach between Torrey Pines and Del Mar, California...

In a small patch of land between the coast road and the edge of the cliff, I heard a bird sing, perched on a reed, so loud and clear that all other sounds ceased.  

I listened and made my way down the cliff, across a stream, across railroad tracks that shouldn't be there, and down to the beach.  A few people dotted the beach, here and there, setting up for the day.  A young couple was sitting and unpacking their food, the girl carefully unwrapping the yellow paper around her sandwich.  Just as she was starting to take a bite, a seagull swooped in across the surf and snatched up the whole sandwich right out of the wrapper, leaving her frozen in place, wide-eyed, and holding an empty wrapper.  The gull took the feast a few feet away to eat, fought off another gull, as we all watched in wonder and laughed, our eyes meeting, our words lost in the sound of the waves.

As I continued on my way, I saw a young father with his daughter coming down to surf.  He was wearing a black wetsuit and holding a short board.  She was small, maybe 3 or 4 years old, and wearing a tiny blue wetsuit with floaters on her arms.  He took her up onto his back, with her legs around his waist, her arms around his neck, walked out into the surf, put the board in the water, lay down on his belly with her on his back, and paddled out.  The waves were high and active.  Good waves.  Lots of surfers.  And there they were, paddling out into the middle of it all.  He caught a wave quickly, and they rode it all the way in, with her squealing with delight and holding on tight.  They came to shore and went right back out to do it again. Flying across the waves, squealing with delight. Over and over.

A perfect Sunday morning.

Thank you, Gerald Cohen, and May You Rest in Peace.

 Gerald Cohen made it possible for me to move to New York.  I am eternally grateful.  

Gerry was the co-founder and CEO of Information Builders.  He gave me a job as a marketing writer, paid for me to move to New York City, and put me up in the company’s apartment at 34th Street and 1st Avenue.  Other people paved the way for me to make the big leap, but it was Gerry who made it real.  And welcoming.  But not easy.  I had to work for it, and there were obstacles, but I had a good salary, work that suited me, and friendly colleagues.  I met my future husband the first day on the job.

I had only been to the city twice before, three times if you count the time I flew through JFK to Tel Aviv.  I didn’t know anyone there.  I had no idea what I was doing or where I was going, but I was ready, and on July 3, 1998, I packed up a month’s worth of clothes and my cat Brownie, rented a car, and drove in a heatwave from St. Louis to my new home high in the sky on the 21st floor of the Rivergate apartments on the East River.  On July 6, I walked into the offices on the 27th floor of 2 Penn Plaza, and I had arrived.

The fact that Information Builders--Gerry--hired me at all has always amazed me, and it amazes me even more now than it did then.  I had a Ph.D. in English and 2 years’ experience in corporate writing, and had written letters to Gerry and other leaders in the company explaining that I wanted them to hire me full-time and move me to New York.  Surprisingly, they did.

Ever since I heard of Gerry’s death, I’ve been wondering why, and I think part of the reason was that what was a big salary to me was nothing to him, and he could afford to give me a shot.  I clearly wanted the job and was enthusiastic and skilled, so why not?  But I also think that Gerry liked people, not just me, but people who put themselves out there.  Plus his company was growing and at an inflection point, and I brought an outside perspective and had a lot of energy.  Mostly, though, it was just Gerry being Gerry. He was brilliant, funny, unpredictable, unconventional, and unique. Idiosyncratic.  Stubborn.  He had his own way of doing things, and would let others play around the edges, but kept his stamp on everything.  I’ve come to appreciate those qualities more over time.  He was both creative and practical and loved the software, the company, the people who worked there, and the customers and what they did with the software. 

Gerry and his partners built a company that was a family.  I worked there from July 1998 to October 2002, and I still feel like I work there--in the way that you can move far away from your family, but they are always family.

My favorite memory of him was going to see Rocky Horror Picture Show on Broadway with Terry Cosentino from ibi and Gerry and his wife Pam, and watching the looks of delight on their faces.  Working at ibi was fun, and the fun started at the top.

Thank you, Gerry, for opening New York City to me, for creating a company like Information Builders, and for all you have done for so many people.  Your legacy continues in all of us.  

https://www.legacy.com/obituaries/nytimes/obituary.aspx?n=gerald-cohen&pid=197257686

https://www.ibi.com/blog/frank-vella/gerald-d-cohen-1935-2020/

Nobiya's Story

On February 19, 2011, Jordane, who worked with City Critters in New York City,

brought Nobiya to the home I shared with Wayne Mareci in midtown Manhattan.
We were going to foster him, not adopt him.

Jordane said he was the sweetest cat in the world. He had been living with a Korean family

who had to go back to Korea and couldn't take him. He was currently living at a vet's office,

because he might have some urinary issues and they had been watching him and assured
her he was healthy and fine, just needed a special diet. They guessed he was about
4 years old.

She dropped him off while I was out, and when I came home about an hour later,
she and Wayne were sitting on the floor talking with Nobiya right beside them,
apparently listening to every word.

Nobiya immediately got up and greeted me at the door and started purring and
rubbing up against me. I squatted down and started petting him, ears, head, chin,
back, feet--ouch! razor sharp claws--let's fix that--and within 5 minutes of meeting
each other for the first time, he let me trim his claws. Snip, snip, just like that,
they're done, no struggle, like he was offering them up to me.
 

I announced, “I’m keeping him.  Not fostering.  Adopting.”

I googled his name “Nobiya” and found that there was a Japanese manga
character with a similar name, and a Japanese artist by the name, and that it
also meant “sweetheart.” I figured the Korean family had children who loved
manga and named him after a cartoon character they liked, and that image
pleased me.  When I arrived in California and said his name, people laughed. 
It turns out there’s a Spanish and Tagalog version of his name that
means “girlfriend.”  Either way, he’s a sweetheart. 

In Manhattan, he lived on the 15th floor in a sunny apartment with lots of windows.

He was a happy indoor cat.

When I moved to California, the airlines required that he be on a leash inside a carrier.
I lived in California for 3 months without him, and during that time, Wayne taught him to
accept the leash and carrier. He took to it right away.

For the flight to California, all I gave him was a homeopathic remedy called Animal
Rescue that I had discovered during the previous foster fail. No sedatives. The trip
turned out to take 10 hours, with long delays, but he was quiet the whole way. He
made 2 little peeps at one point during the flight, and he didn't want to eat anything,
and his eyes were wide open the whole time, but he was taking it all in.

We arrived late at night.  The next morning I thought, “I should show him where he lives

now, let him smell the air, the ground, the plants, let him get his bearings.  He seems
okay on his leash.  Let’s try it!”

I put his leash on with ease, and opened the door, and he trotted down the hall like
it was the most natural thing in the world.  I opened the hall door to the outside stairs,
and off he went.

I thought it would be a one-time experience, but the next day, he was at the door
meowing, and it became our morning ritual.

After about a year, he had to have some teeth removed, and the vet told me I
should brush his teeth.  

I decided the only way I could make myself do it was to make it part of our ritual. 
Brush my teeth, brush his teeth, put on his leash, and out we go.  He accepted it.

Some mornings, he even jumped up on the bathroom counter, watched me brush
my teeth, and waited for me to brush his.  He would curl his lip up on the right side,
and let me brush, then move to the left.  He was never as good with the left side,
and resisted a bit, but still let me brush.

Then he would go into the entryway, jump up on the bench and wait for me to put
his leash on.

Over the years, we’ve varied the routine a bit depending on circumstances, but it’s
been essentially the same for 7 years, and we’ve only missed a few days.


I call him "King Nobi." He seems to have accepted that the tooth-brushing and walking
is what I do as his loyal servant, in addition, of course, to the chores ordinary cats have
their people do (feeding and litter box maintenance).

He is a wonderful companion, and we have had many happy adventures together. 

Sightings at the Edge of the Universe: Rainbows and Snails for 2020

I ventured out onto the cliffs of Del Mar this morning after another night of rain.   The sky was full of clouds, rain in the distance, spots of blue, and a quiet, wet hush all around.  The ground was soft and moist.  The cliffs were covered with the lush green vegetation that only comes with rain.  Tall green stalks with what look like geranium leaves that grow higher than my head.  Bush after bush of bright purple flowers in tight clusters--the kinds I used to only see in flower arrangements as filler, but now see covering the cliffs year-round, drying up and becoming pale in the summer and coming back to life in the winter and spring.  Long, thick swaths of  tall bright yellow flowers that look like some kind of daisy with white buttons in the center.  And white ones with yellow buttons.  Ah, spring!

Then I saw the rainbow--or part of it.  It  was a thick and vibrant pillar of fluorescent pinks, yellows, greens, and blues, out over the western edge of the ocean and leaning at an angle toward the north, ending in the rain clouds.  I walked toward it, watching it fade, then brighten, back and forth, depending on the angle.

And then I saw another one:  a pale, pale, barely discernible pillar over the northern edge of the ocean towards the coast and pointing west, as if  the two pillars were falling into one another, but not quite at the correct angle for them to meet.  One far out to the west over the ocean, the other closer to the northern shore.

They were facing one another.  The red edges of each column facing the center, and fading into purple, pink, yellow, green, blue, and indigo on the outer edges.

Maybe at other points along the coast they would actually look like one column, and maybe at others form an arc.  Who knows what a different perspective would show?

As I continued each column brightened, grew, and faded, until I could only see them because I knew they were there.

In the center of the trail, a big fat snail sprawled out horizontally across the mid-line.  Usually snails stay to the periphery, but here it was front and center.  A rather dangerous place to be, but fortunately I saw it and stepped right over and went on my way, and I hope the snail did too.

Returning home, I walked past a small palm, fronds bobbing in the breeze, and there was a snail at head level riding on the frond, bouncing up and down, having a ride.

Happy Monday!  May we all soak up the light, gain perspective, take our time, sprawl as necessary, and ride with ease in the breeze.