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From my corner office window, one can see a lovely stretch of lagoon where animal and bird life abound. Squirrels romp across fence tops and up the trunks of pine trees. Occasional opossums and raccoons make nocturnal visits under the arching Alder trees.

But its the bird life on the lagoon that never ceases to enthrall and even amuse me. One day as June was drawing to a close, I was distracted by loud noises outside. What made me look up from my work and out the window was the raucous honking and screeching of a flotilla of iridescent blue-green-feathered geese, white ducks and dark gray mudhens all frantically paddling in the same direction.

I walked out to a balcony to see what all the fuss was about. Up stream and across the lagoon, a father and daughter were seated on a dock, their dangling legs reflected in the sparkling water, throwing food to their bird audience.

Clouds of gray-white seagulls swooped through the air catching bits of food in their beaks while the geese, ducks and mudhens paddled in the water in pursuit of the bits of food floating on the water, bumping into each other and scolding furiously.

The approaching bird flotilla from down stream appeared around the bend, honking and screeching loudly to announce its arrival as if to demand "save some for me".

In the late afternoon sun dozens of tiny bird wakes spread across the lagoon as birds neared the dinner spot. Fortunately, there was enough food for the late comers to join in the feast.

I've always wondered how the birds at one end of the lagoon know that someone, out of sight several hundred yards in the other direction, is providing a feast?

However they do it, one handful of birdseed can truly draw a standing room only crowd on the beautiful lagoon.

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Old Hands
By BumbleBeeBoogie

When I was young, my fingers showed the blows from baseball and volleyball games; My blistered hands were always recovering from
swinging on playground rings and hanging from monkey bars.

As a young woman with beautiful hands and long, elegant nails kept shaped and polished; a wedding ring was the only adornment I wore. I had no yen for gold jewelry. My money went for mortgages, cars, food, clothing, and children's education.

Now my hands are old and wrinkled, knuckles swollen with arthritis. Blisters form on fingers at the slightest abuse. Fragile nails struggle against splitting and breaking. Now I can indulge in gold rings and gem stones. But somehow they've lost their glamour on fingers no longer slim and elegant.

I look down at a broken nail, a bandaged finger, a thumbnail black from being caught in a drawer.

How strange and vain we humans are.

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Diamonds In the Sky
by BumbleBeeBoogie - May 15, 1995



A curious child cradled her chin in the palm her hand and gazed out the bedroom window of her family's home in the Albany flatlands. She spent late afternoons entranced by the fiery copper reflection of the setting sun in the windows of homes perched on the steep Berkeley hillsides. The colors faded as the sun's last light dipped into San Francisco Bay.

Her favorite time was after ten at night, with only a sliver of moon piercing the star-studded blackness of the sky. She stared at the distant Berkeley hills long after a six year-old was supposed to be asleep in her bed, unable to separate the house lights from the stars dancing over the tops of the hills.

The headlights of cars twinkled brightly between the black Pine and Eucalyptus trees as drivers wound their way up the hillside streets. The diamonds turned into ruby taillights as the cars turned corners on the twisting roads.

She followed their headlights, never looking away, for fear she would lose them as they reached the hilltop and merged with the stars. Then she could go to sleep, sometimes leaning against her magic window.

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A CLASSIC GREEK DINNER
(A spoof of the babblegab of artistic producers and art critics)
By BumbleBeeBoogie - January 1994

She was always slightly out-of-sync,
not quite in the main stream.
While everyone else echoed the obvious,
she seemed attracted to subtle nuances.
That's how she became the film critic
for Bon Appetite Magazine.

Her first film assignment was
"My Dinner With Andre".
She viewed the film at a neighborhood theater
with one of its two projectors broken,
creating five-minute breaks between the reels.

The film's dialogue was brisk and sparkling,
with Andre's charisma and raconteurial talent
vibrating from the screen.
She empathized with his dinner companion,
the introverted Wally, the extrovert's classic foil,
in the style of Abbot and Costello or Laurel and Hardy.
During the reel reloading breaks,
when the houselights came up,
she began to write her Bon Appetite review:

"Andre's eyes followed the candle smoke
curling and dancing through the dust beams,
shimmering through the rays of the candle flame.
It swirled and drifted down to the table
where the golden champagne's dying bubbles
clung to the sides of the crystal glass
as if they were swimmers grasping at life buoys.
Their struggle splashed beads of opalescent light
across the table to the china plate
where the congealed blood from once-juicy,
but now cold slices of roast beef puddled;
their dried edges starting to split and curl."

"Wally sniffed, trying to resuscitate the savory aroma.
A glutinous mound of mashed potatoes still held its shape.
But the mountain of dun-colored gravy
surrendered its hold on the gritty peaks
laying defeated in its valleys
among the foothills of wilted pale green peas.
Unable to keep pace with Andre's flights of vision,
Wally picked at the rose petals that had withered
and fallen on the snowy linen.
He lifted a heavy silver spoon, tested its weight
and examined his distorted image in it's gleaming bowl.
Wally leaned forward. His breath whooooshed
out the flames of the platoon of candles,
standing like sentinels in silver boots guarding the roses,
as if he needed to shield himself from the
penetrating glow of Andre's life light."

"Embarrassed, his mouth twisted in a pained smile,
Wally muttered something about his family responsibilities.
He picked at the little beads of candle wax
that had spilled from the silver holder,
and rolled them into a ball between his fingers.
He turned to look at his image reflected in the window
lighted by the glowing candle, nervously toying with his food."

What is this verbal game that Andre and Wally are
playing with each other, she wondered?
From somewhere, in that off-center recess of her mind,
she sensed a glimmer of an ancient nuance
pulsing in the right side of her brain.

It must be a dialogue between Plato and Aristotle;
there's no other explanation.
That's why she can't concentrate on the food.
What brain cells stored memory of the Plato and Aristotle dialogues?
She'd never read the ancient texts.
It must be from that other out-of-sync mind, Robert Persig,
in his "Zen and the Art of Motorcycle Maintenance";
the book he wrote with the left side of his brain
before he killed himself with the right hemisphere.

Then she understood her uncertainty.
The mechanics of life were meant to be out-of-sync,
the subtleties discovered, the nuances noticed.

Casting human relevance aside,
she recorded her final comments about the food,
noting the dinner ended with Jamacian Blue Mountain coffee
and a crystal snifter of swirling amber cognac,
and closed her notebook.

On her way home from the theater,
she stopped for a Big Mac, large fries,
and a medium diet cola.

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DEPRESSION ERA DESSERT
By BumbleBeeBoogie
(Based on a true story of the rituals and games people play to maintain their own and other people's dignity)

Marconi's was comfortable old-country, a family place, where parents brought their young children to practice their table manners. It was not like the mirrored walls, chromium furniture, and black linoleum sophistication that was all the rage in the City of Queen's former speakeasies. In 1934, in the depths of the Depression, Marconi's was struggling to keep its former status, or at least its illusion of gentility.

A young couple opened the restaurant's worn oak door, its panel of bellflower-etched leaded glass reflected their image under the light cast by an overhead brass lamp. They moved through the soft lights and the aromas from the kettles of the Italian kitchen.

Ernesto walked toward them, dressed in the waiter's traditional black suit, white shirt and black bow tie, with his worn, but clean linen towel over one arm. As he moved closer, he recognized his young friends and greeted them with a warm smile.

Snowy white hair crowned Ernesto's head. The immaculate collar and cuffs of his shirt showed fragments of the stiffening along the folds where mending could no longer hide the frayed edges.

He pushed the silver wire-rimmed glasses up on his nose as he led the young couple to a table by the room's only window. Small panes of leaded glass admitted the rosy glow of the sun's last rays. From this spot they could watch the other diners, many of them regulars of all ages, like themselves, living in no-cooking apartments.

They unfolded their napkins as Ernesto handed them the yellowed menus, their edges torn and bent from years of handling. Over the last four years, the prices had been lowered so often there was no more room to line them out. Finally, the price changes were written on bits of adhesive tape that covered the original amounts.

Ernesto hovered over the table, lighting the candle that had dripped years of wax down the ancient green wine bottle. He recited the dishes that had made Marconi's famous during the pre-depression years.

The couple ordered their usual spaghetti; at fifty cents it was all they could afford. Ernesto congratulated them on their excellent choice as he gathered up the menus and returned to the kitchen. Moments later he returned and placed steaming plates of spaghetti on the table with a "Buon Gusto, my friends!"

The couple coiled the slippery strands of spaghetti around their forks, dipping them into the thin tomato sauce and wiping the dribbles from their chins. They soaked up the last of the sauce with hard-crusted bread, and raised their glasses of water in a toast to each other and to their good fortune for one luxurious hot dinner each week.

From across the room a chorus of voices rang out as a family sang Happy Birthday to the grandmother of the brood. The young couple waved their good wishes and raised their glasses in a toast.

The young man signaled Ernesto to ask, since it was a special evening, "What glorious creation has the chef prepared as they would like to order a memorable dessert."

"Tonight!" cried Ernesto in his most stentoriian tone," you are fortunate, because the chef is inspired. Not only do we have your favorite vanilla gelato with caramel sauce, but he prepared a biscuit tortoni and a zabaglione to please the gods!"

The discussion of which dessert to order was difficult, as it always was. Finally, after much indecision and urging by Ernesto to try this or that, the woman ordered the Zabaglione and the man ordered the Vanilla gelato with caramel sauce.

Ernesto returned. With a flourish he presented a silver tray containing two cups of steaming coffee and two plates, each containing two small vanilla cookies.

After the couple ate the cookies and drained the coffee cups, Ernesto returned to accept the celebrant's congratulations for the fine dinner and their special compliments to the chef for the lovely desserts. The young man laid two half dollars and a nickel tip on the table.

With old-country dignity, the kindly waiter accompanied the couple to the door. As they walked outside, he straightened his stooped shoulders, grasped their hands and bade them "Goodnight my young friends, until next week."

Ernesto closed the door. He resumed his role with the other guests, hovering over them to ask if he could bring them anything special. Did they want dessert, more coffee, an after dinner drink, a cognac perhaps?

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THE VIEW FROM MY WINDOW
By BumbleBeeBoogie

From my second-story sitting room window on a warm Fourth of July afternoon, I first noticed him while brushing my porcelain doll's blonde tresses and arranging her blue satin gown. He climbed down from the touring car, with its oiled black top and isinglass windows, all splotched and milky from the sun's unrelenting rays. He sat next to his father in the grassy field watching the baseball game, hollering and pounding his little fist into his mitt, just like the big boys in the game.

Years passed. A new grocery store now occupied one corner of the former sandlot baseball field. I was in my sitting room, admiring my new bobbed hairdo and crimson nail polish. The Model T's backfire rattled the glass in my window and brought me running in time to see him jump down from the rumble seat, cheered on by his friends. He'd changed since I last saw him, all muscular angles and long legs, much taller than I imagined he'd be.

In time a pharmacy and hardware store were erected next to the enlarged and remodeled grocery store. The town was growing as the young men returned after the war. I thought I saw him again with a young blond woman clutching his arm. But I couldn't be sure because his face had changed, no doubt ravaged by memories of Bastogne and Auschwitz.

Stately old oak trees were wrenched from the ground and replaced by a large asphalt parking lot when the old buildings were razed. A new supermarket complex changed the familiar view from my window. The sound of honking horns and gasoline fumes replaced the beauty and perfume of field wildflowers.

When next I saw them they were three. His son rode high on his broad shoulders, batting the blue awning above the windows as they entered the store. His eyes looked less haunted, I thought. He's recovered now, at peace, and content with his life.

Several years passed before I saw him again, alone, as he left his Volkswagen van in the parking lot. He entered the new video rental store that had taken over the space formerly occupied by my favorite bookseller. I put on my glasses to be sure it was him because the view from my window grows more blurred day by day. His face was framed by graying sideburns. Blue bell-bottom jeans rode low on his still slim hips. His stride wasn't so long or so strong, but, no doubt about it, it was him.

They suddenly appeared later that year driving up to the pharmacy in a sleek silver Honda Accord. She was so thin and frail, her steps seemed uncertain. He held her arm tightly as they walked across the lot. I'd just bought new glasses with thick heavy lens to clear away the blurs clouding my view of the world so I could continue to crochet tiny sweaters and booties for new grandbabies. But even through my old eyes, his worried look was clear.

I was shocked when next I saw him, still driving his silver Accord. He sat for several minutes, gathering strength before leaving the car. Then cautiously, with the help of a cane, he stood up on his feet, but they wouldn't move. No matter how hard he tried, no matter how many messages his brain sent to his feet, they only made little stabbing tap tap taps, an inch at a time, like a stutterer unable to speak. Cars whizzed around him, children raced by on their bikes. No one seemed to notice the old man inching his way across the parking lot. I screamed silently, please God, won't someone take away his car keys and help him safely along his way home?

It's getting harder for me to see my window's world through milky cataract eyes where I can no longer go. I hear the pulsing sound of a marching band and firecrackers exploding nearby. It must be another Independence Day. It's odd he's never looked up at my window, not once in all these long years. He doesn't know I've been watching him passing in and out of my view.

Has anyone out there noticed me? Does anyone out there care?

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Designer Cat
(For my two Himalayans, Madeline and Eloise)
By BumbleBeeBoogie

If I designed a cat from scratch
she'd be agile enough to catch
a sniffing, twitching, shy gray mouse
hiding anywhere around the house.

My feline would be much too smart
to scale a fence with pounding heart,
only to find she can't get back
to home sweet home for her evening snack.
Hairballs my kitty would not barf
on the carpet by my hearth.
Her long hair would not cling
to chairs, clothes, and everything.

My sweet puss would not have fleas,
her poop would smell like pink Sweet Peas.
Fishy breath she would not burp
while daintily dining without a slurp.

In the evening by dimming light
my warm tabby would purr goodnight,
dreaming of acres of catnip green
and lots of crackers and fresh sweet cream.

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SEARCHING FOR MEMORIES
(The true story of my first year of life)
by BumbleBeeBoogie

I've no memory at all of the tall young man
with twinkling blue eyes and straight brown hair,
wrenched from this world in the seventh month of my life,
leaving an aching, sobbing, unfillable void.
No memory at all of the feel of your arms
or the curve of your shoulder against my soft downy head.
I loved you, clung to you, but no matter,
death still stole my sweet papa away.

Three months older, wiser, but still yearning,
death found its way back down the road to our house
and stole another memory from this mourning child.
How sad the hungry babe,
reaching for the breast no longer there.
My mouth twitched in silent, useless suckles
as I groped with tiny fingers for long brown hair
no longer dangling there.

MAMA!......Mama.
Without warning, you, too, were suddenly gone,
snatched from my screaming, frantic grasp,
leaving no memories of your laughing eyes.
I can't quite remember your kisses
on the warm folds of my neck
as I giggled and shrieked with delight.

Only one-dimensional treasures are stored in my memory bank.
Photographs of two lovers on their wedding day.
Disheveled rompers at the beach in funny, baggy wool swimsuits,
with their toes buried in the warm golden sand.
A laughing, waving babe held close by loving arms
in front of a Berkeley house on a shade-dappled street.

A thin, yellowed scrap of a worn obituary column,
creased from opening and refolding, as if in disbelief.
A sapphire wedding ring, a tiny size 4,
wrapped in ivory tissue in a small red silk box.
A gold pocket watch with a long thin chain,
given to a grandson unknown to its owner.

But you left me a two-dimensional memory after all, Mama,
in your wonderful, treasured diary,
of what it's like to be sixteen and in love.
For three summer months you filled the pink pages,
in your precise slanting, slightly faded blue script,
with your feelings about papa and the secrets you shared.
I can remember you both vividly now,
because you left your lonely graves to enter my heart.
My own three-dimensional creations are now safe,
forever protected by your diary's silvery clasp.

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HIGH SCHOOL REUNION
By BumbleBeeBoogie
(A true story)

A telephone call came from out of the blue---
we're getting together and we need you
to help us organize a reunion of peers
after an amazing span of fifty years.

As I drove to the restaurant in a suburban town
childhood memories, long forgotten, were found.
At our '57 ten-year reunion I'd seen classmates last
and eventually lost track of them and my past.

As I entered the meeting room, I gasped with surprise
at white-haired people with bifocal-covered eyes
and stiff joints and waists no longer thin,
bald pates where thick brown hair had been.

I looked into their faces for signs of their youth
as I struggled with the unwelcome astonishing truth.
What were all these old, OLD people doin'
at my high school class' fiftieth reunion?


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