Interrupted

A stippling of sunlight filtered down through the towering redwoods, their pungent scent saturating the intimate campus confines as a warm breeze stirred what was left of my recently shorn locks that early September morn. Seems my new college had a dress code, and long hair was forbidden...as was most everything else commonly enjoyed by those of my generation.

But, that’s another story.

I was already late for class—a reality that would, sadly haunt me throughout my collegiate career. College for me was, well, an interruption. I had things to do if I was going to achieve my goal of being a famous recording artist. And I wasn’t about to let something as trivial as education stand in the way of that!

With a student population of only seven hundred, I had already met many of my new classmates through the orientation process and waved or called out friendly greetings as I jogged past the student center. It seemed only proper to demonstrate a modicum of concern regarding my tardiness even though it was pure pretense.

Nearing the library, located just across from the administration building—which also housed the women’s dorm in its upper floors—my forward motion was suddenly arrested by a sight I will never forget. The term, “came to a screeching halt,” overused and hackneyed as it is, is the only way to truly describe what happened to me. For there, not ten feet away, stood the most beautiful creature my poor, tired eyes had ever seen.

Shoulder-length blonde hair; eyes of cerulean blue set above high cheekbones and made even more stunning by the golden tan dusting her face—a smile that seemed to light up everything around her. I might as well confess that with one glance all thoughts of attending class were waylaid, for I was, in a word...smitten!

I realized, to my horror that I had been staring, my face taking on an expression that fell somewhere in between deranged lunatic and simpleton. This alarming fact was brought to my attention by my brutally honest roommate who had the occasion to be passing by just at that moment—being, as a general rule even more tardy than I—thus, witnessing the entire incident.

Thanking my helpful, if tactless, friend I composed myself and...stood rooted in place! Paralyzed! Immobilized! In the grip of stunned stupefaction! In the meantime, this vision of loveliness was walking away. In the direction of...my class. Could that be?

I finally managed to regain forward mobility and proceeded to stalk her across the campus realizing in the process that she was, indeed, heading directly toward the arts and sciences building which my first period “introduction to philosophy” classroom.

I decided to close the gap so as not to lose sight of her once inside just in case it was not my class that was her final destination. When I say, “close the gap,” I’m talking about sprinting thirty yards to take up a position that was within arm’s reach of her quite lovely back.

I never said I was subtle!

Trailing her into the classroom, I mumbled greetings to a couple of students I knew, stopped by the professor’s desk and found my name on the seating chart, sensing myself nearing cardiac arrest as I realized that we were, as fate would have it, paired at the same table.

Given the perspective afforded by hindsight, I now recall the incident with a mixture of embarrassment and profound sense of awe at my good fortune. I mean, there I was seated right next to the prettiest girl in school. And I didn’t do anything to bring it about.

I was just on my way...to class? Certainly. But in a larger sense, I was on my way to the rest of my life when gracious providence beautifully, blissfully interrupted my progress, knowing that life, as planned, would be incomplete.

That pretty girl became my wife, and we have had many, many adventures over these long years. Her smile can still stop me in my tracks, cause my heart to flutter and render me speechless...no small feat, as my children and close friends will readily attest.

Happy Birthday, baby...my beloved, my bride, my lovely one; owner of my heart; sweetener of my days; wellspring of my joy...I love you today.

You Have To Dig For It

Ocean Beach, in the Point Loma area of San Diego, California, is a sleepy little bohemian community that by all appearances has been forgotten by time.

Either that or it exists in an alternate universe accessible from Interstate 8 and Sunset Cliffs Blvd.

Which, come to think of it, may not be far from the truth.

Underneath the towering Mexican Fan Palms that march in stately procession down Newport Avenue toward the shoreline, you’ll see an odd collection of street musicians, Deadheads, antique stores, political activists, and artists. There are also tattoo/piercing parlors, beach themed bars, head shops and an International youth hostel whose residents are often indistinguishable from the pervasive homeless population.

What else would you expect from a place that was once known as the Haight-Ashbury of San Diego, right?

Dogs are a big deal in OB.

They even have their own beach.

No, really, they do.

Most summer mornings find the narrow streets and pre-WW II bungalows enveloped in a mantle of fog, which the locals insist on calling a “marine layer.”

I’m not sure why.

Even when I lived there I never knew why.

I mean fog is fog...why not just call it that?

And the “coastal eddy?”

It’s fog, people!

Anyway...

One recent late summer’s morn, my beloved and I left our hotel...well, the owners call it a “hotel,” but dogs are allowed in the rooms on the first floor off the courtyard.

Not exactly what one would expect to see in a “hotel.”

But, we like it.

Hoodies snugly in place, we walked two blocks to our favorite St. Arbuck’s.       

The regulars who frequent this particular St. Arbuck’s are about as diverse a clientele as I’ve ever seen.

Businessmen; surfers just in from a sunrise session; golfers stopping in for a cuppa’ Joe before hitting the links; young mothers with toddlers in strollers; street people hoping to get a “refill” in the cup they’d just dug out of the trash somewhere; and rounding out the crowd a smattering of tourists.

There they were...standing in line together and displaying a surprising collegiality for those of such dissimilar social and economic backgrounds.

While my beloved went in search of a table, I joined the queue, sandwiched between a woman in her late fifties (if appearances are to be believed) and a stylishly dressed fellow conducting important business on his cell phone.

The woman was dressed in a white tie-dyed, full length peasant skirt topped by a teal cotton pullover, her long, gray hair hanging down her back in an intricate braid reaching nearly to her waist.

She seemed, well, cranky.

I say this because when it was her turn to order, she spat instructions at the unfortunate barista as if she were an underling.

“I want my coffee EXACTLY 140º! Not one degree more and not one degree less. And I want it fresh. You can give the dregs to these other people in line.” And here she gestured dismissively in our general direction. “And leave the lid off. I want to make sure my instructions have been followed because if they haven’t, I’m not paying for it! Are we clear, missy?”

One of the other baristas screwed up her face and mouthed, “Missy?”

To her credit, the barista taking the order replied evenly, “No problem, ma’am. Will that be all?”

Sadly, it wasn’t.

“No, that won’t be all! I would also like one of your ridiculously overpriced pastries...not that I enjoy them, I just need something on my stomach before I drink the coffee.”

“No problem. What kind would you like?” said the barista sweetly.

“Oh, it doesn't matter. Just pick one and give it to me!”

The barista moved over to the pastry display, picked up the tongs and reached for a cinnamon roll only to have the woman shout, “No! Not that one! Give me that other one. That one. That one right...oh, for Pete’s sake!” At this point she brushed rudely past me and began stabbing her finger against the window of the display case saying, “That one! That...whatever it is right there!”

The barista calmly, patiently placed the banana nut coffee cake into a paper sack and carried it back to the register.

“Anything else, ma’am?”

The woman sampled the coffee, pronounced it to be “adequate,” paid for her order and moved starchily off toward the condiment table.

I raised my brows and said, “Wow!” before asking for a medium coffee with room for cream. “Oh,” I added. “And make sure to include the dregs,” which drew a laugh from the Barista.

As I approached the condiment table I could hear the woman muttering.

She turned purposefully and stalked toward the counter nearly colliding with me in the process and offering no apology.

Apparently the source of her displeasure centered on the fact that there wasn’t any raw sugar and that their coffee was, “Simply undrinkable without raw sugar!”

I dipped my hand into the deep stainless steel container that housed the sugar and felt a layer of packets at the very bottom.

The same barista, with the woman hot on her heels, came over to check out the situation.

I held up three packets and said, “You know, sometimes if you want the sugar...you have to dig for it.”

The Barista stared at me.

I stared back at her.

She said, “Whoa! Just like life.”

I smiled and nodded.

The woman seemed completely baffled. “What?”

The barista looked at her. “It’s like life. Sometimes if you want the sugar...you have to dig for it. Get it?”

The woman stared at us as if we’d just sprouted horns and cleft tongues.

And stared.

And then stared a bit more.

Finally, her fierce countenance softened a little and a small, embarrassed smile fought its way into place.

“It’s been a long time since anyone found any ‘sugar’ in me. A very, very long time. You see, I...well...there’s no excuse for me.” She sighed deeply. “I apologize for my behavior, young lady.”

“Apology accepted.” After a brief pause she continued in an exaggerated whisper, “And you’re right...the pastries are overpriced.”

This brought a genuine laugh from the woman.

It was a great laugh.

I left them talking and made my way over to where my beloved sat.

She looked up from the morning paper, saw me grinning and said, “What?”

“Amazing what you can learn at St. Arbuck’s,” I replied.

“That being...”

“Sometimes if you want the sugar, you have to dig for it.”

She pondered for a few seconds before saying, “Huh. Isn’t that the truth. You just come up with that?”

“Yeah, but I had some help.”