Interdependence Day (From Snapshots At St. Arbuck's Vol 3 ©2014 R.G. Ryan)

6:24 AM.

86 degrees on its way to 104.

There's a 13 mph breeze blowing out of the Southwest.

Independence Day and St. Arbuck's is surprisingly busy yet missing the typical morning demographic of overly stressed and harried individuals on their way to someplace more important than here.

Today the clientele is mainly comprised of families getting an early and leisurely start on a day at the lake, the park or a day trip out of town in search of more moderate climes. 

I, on the other hand, am content to just sit, sip and ponder.

I have been thinking about this whole "independence" thing.

Our local paper, the Review-Journal, printed the entire text of the Declaration Of Independence on its Op-Ed page today.

So I read it.

All of it.

I can't remember the last time I had done so.

It triggered a thread of thought, and when presented with such a distraction I will, in typical fashion, commence tugging for the simple curiosity of needing to know what will unravel...what is at the other end. 

I gave that thread a little tug.

Dependence is when you can't live without the support of someone or something else.

Doesn't sound that great...I pulled some more.

Co-Dependence describes a relationship where one party is physically or psychologically addicted, and the other is psychologically dependent on the first. 

Scary.

A few additional strands of thread unraveled.

Independence is when you are free from the control, influence, support or aid of another.

For some reason, that's not sounding all that great to me either, so I yanked a bit more.

Now, "Interdependence" (according to RG's paraphrase) is a reciprocal relationship between two or more individuals (or groups) wherein it is mutually agreed that life is better together. 

I'm not sure how this plays out in your world, but as for me...I have tumbled down the days to arrive at the stark realization that I need people. 

Plain and simple.

And...there are people who need me.

Wouldn't it be something if all of us, regardless of race, religion, political ideology or social status, somehow became...interdependent?

The conclusion of the matter is this: if you want to celebrate something today, celebrate Interdependence for it is the very means by which our country came into being, by which our "independence" is possible.

From Snapshots At St. Arbuck's Vol 3 ©2014 R.G. Ryan

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.”

Barkley

“Barkley, no! No! Come here right this second!”

The woman’s strident voice cut through the ambient sound of passing cars, reaching our ears as we sat on the patio of St. Arbuck’s.

It was one of those rare Las Vegas spring mornings about which you’ve heard me speak several times before: Temperature...a balmy seventy degrees; wind...non-existent.

We only get a handful of those mornings each year so my wife and I have dedicated ourselves to a fierce pursuit of enjoying the heck out of each one that comes along.

Barkley turned out to be a yellow Labrador Retriever whose owner, a distraught woman of uncertain age, had lost her grip on the leash and was trying, with little success, to coax him away from his current quest—the tracking down of a delectable scent.

From where we sat, Barkley’s scent trail led directly away from his owner and toward a park across the street.

It was the “across the street” part that, no doubt, had the woman concerned, for it was a quite busy street.

“Barkley! Come here! Here!” she shouted.

Nothing.

Glancing at the onrushing block of cars just released from waiting at a stoplight up the road a ways, and then at her dog’s single-minded obsession with whatever he was tracking, she cupped both hands around her mouth and screamed, “Barkley! Barkley! I’m not going to call you again!”

My wife and I gave each other a wink-wink, nudge-nudge look, knowing full well that the anxious dog owner would, indeed, call him again, because that’s what parents and dog owners do.

I’m pretty sure Barkley knew it as well, for he kept on going, his trail leading him ever closer to the street.

“Barkley!” she wailed.

For reasons unknown to anyone but himself, Barkley suddenly turned and bounded back toward his owner, his doggy face bearing an expression that said, “Aw, I was only kiddin’!”

“Oh, you’re a good b...” she started to say only to watch the spirited canine scamper past her position and commence frolicking around the parking area, dragging the leash behind him.

While safe by comparison, there were still plenty of ways an untended dog could be injured...especially one as bold and full of life as Barkley.

By then she had apparently “had it,” so to speak, and did something that I still have trouble believing, and I was there to see it.

“Okay, Mister!” she said sternly. “Get over here right now. One...”

My wife looked at me in stunned disbelief. “Oh, no she didn’t.”

“I’m afraid so,” I replied.

“...two...”

Meanwhile, Barkley had found a couple of college-aged girls upon whom he was bestowing the full measure of his affection, and having it returned enthusiastically, by the way.

“This is your last chance,” the woman said as if addressing a misbehaving five year-old.

One of the girls noticed Barkley’s owner and asked brightly, “Is this your dog?”

“Yes!” the woman said sharply. “And he’s a bad boy!”

The two led Barkley in the direction of his owner growing progressively somber as it became apparent that she was, shall we say, put out.

They handed the leash over, remarking, “He’s such a beautiful dog,” at which point Barkley dropped to the ground, rolled over onto his back—legs splayed immodestly—and fixed his owner with a pair of deep, brown eyes that seemed to say, “Come on, mom, you know you love me.”

The woman held out for a good ten seconds before her resolve disintegrated under the onslaught of Barkley’s charm.

“Oh, you’re a good boy. Yes you are,” she said in that high-pitched, ridiculous falsetto vocalization known to dog lovers worldwide. Bending over to rub his belly she continued, “You just love to tease your mom, don’t you?”

The girl asked excitedly, “Can we get a picture with your dog?”

Acting as if it were a request she was used to hearing the woman said, “Oh, sure. He loves to have his picture taken.”

The girls handed the woman an iPhone and knelt on either side of Barkley, at which point he sat up, offered his right paw to be shaken and smiled for the camera.

After the girls had gone inside St. Arbuck’s the woman stared at Barkley with a, “What am I going to do with you,” expression, which he met by dipping his head and adopting a posture of genuine contrition.

Shaking her head, the woman dug into her purse muttering, “Now where are those keys?” and dropping the leash in the process.

Barkley took that as his cue to go bounding across the lot to greet another new arrival, holding his leash in his mouth and offering it to an elderly woman who seemed to think it was the most precious thing ever.

“Barkley!” his owner hollered. “One...”

My wife rolled her eyes and texted me a, “Just shoot me!” icon. 

Now, it could have been my overactive imagination, but I could swear that as he trotted up to his owner with the elderly lady in tow, he turned and winked at me.

A Moment In Time

I spend a lot of time at St. Arbuck’s' writing and observing those souls who are my fellow passengers on this amazing ride called life. I'd be less than honest if I didn't admit that there are times when the passing tide of humanity has the appearance of many waters, virtually indistinguishable in its sheer mass.

But there are other times when the waters seem to part revealing a scene that is so compelling that my attention is wholly captured, riveted by the unfolding drama.

Like this morning.

My wife and I were doing our usual thing—she conquering yet another sudoku puzzle and me reading through the local fish wrap while enjoying our beverages of choice.

A young mother and her son entered and sat at the table right in front of us.

The name emblazoned in a nearly illegible scrawl on the young woman’s cup of coffee said, "Veronica."

If I had to guess their ages I would say that Veronica was around thirty and the boy perhaps two and a half.

She took great care in placing her son in a seat next to her, fussing over him so as to insure not only his comfort but also his safety.

When he was well-settled she opened a bottle of chocolate milk which he accepted gleefully and began to drink. He was a bit too eager in the initial consumption, and predictably an entire mouthful of the silky sweet liquid escaped and cascaded down his chin soaking his very stylish shirt.

He looked down at the mess and began to cry.

Veronica immediately picked him up and sat him on her lap ministering comfort that only loving mothers can provide in such moments. He calmed down and had another go at the chocolate milk making sure this time that the sips were manageable.

She sat with her arms around him and her head resting on top of his brown wavy locks, eyes closed, lost in a moment of maternal bliss that was nearly rapturous in its appearance. For in that moment no one else on earth existed save she and that beloved child.

The scene was shattered by the insistent ring of her cell phone. And while I could only hear one side of the conversation, what transpired was heartbreaking.

After the initial small-talk her face took on a sad, wounded look and she said, "Yes, well, I'm not sure you really want to hear about that."

Apparently the caller did and she reluctantly continued, "Well, it's not good. Last night my attorney called and said that David is going to ask for full custody. Can you believe it? He said David intends to claim that I'm an unfit mother..."

It was here that her voice broke and her grip on the child tightened unconsciously.

After a few seconds of silence during which time she listened to her caller's remarks she said, "I know all that, but this means that I'm going to have to go in there and defend myself like I've done something wrong."

By this time the tears were flowing liberally. The child looked at his mommy and with a tiny hand reached up and gently brushed away her tears and laid his head against her breast. The love exchanged between these two was nearly tangible in its intensity.

My wife and I glanced at each other shaking our heads sadly.

Finally she said, "Well, I'd better be going. I'll call you later on...I love you, mom."

She closed the lid on her cell phone, returned it to her purse and choked back a sob that had risen unbidden in her throat. The child turned on her lap so he was facing her and placing a hand on either side of her face said, "Be awight, mommy."

She crushed that precious child to her and covered his head and face with kisses, rocking him back and forth...back and forth, bringing to mind a line by Robert Munsch that my wife used to recite to our kids when they were little: "I love you forever, I like you for always; as long as I'm living my baby you'll be."

It was time for us to go, but I just couldn't walk away without saying something...but what?

I settled on, "I just wanted you to know that the way you love your boy is precious. It touched something deep in my soul."

Blinking her eyes rapidly so as to hold another torrent of tears in check she simply smiled and nodded her gratitude as we made our way out the door.

An unfit mother?

Hardly.

Just another moment in time, but oh so moving.