My husband and I do not own any matching towel sets. We have in the past, but over the years various raveled towels have been dispatched to the SPCA, then replaced with random independent towels, or collections of identically-sized towels, as opposed to Towel Sets, which have matching towels in all sizes.

The pads in our four patio chairs don’t all match either, though there are two disparate matching pairs. Neither matches any of the patio table cloths, and none of the above match the patio umbrella. The patio furniture, excepting the umbrella, is a complete set from our past, the only one we have ever owned.

Inside, the master bedroom is the most put together room, in that the headboard matches one of the bedside tables and one of the chests of drawers. The other table and chest don’t match it or each other, nor does the bookcase. The matching items were purchased shortly after I graduated from college.

Random bookcases pretty much characterize our entire condo, as we own quite a few books, although half as many as we did pre-move, with a third of the remaining ones still boxed in the garage. We purchased a very nice large bookcase for the living room and have ordered a new sofa, but the room also accommodates three family heirlooms, storage for 400 CDs (mostly) and DVDs, audiovisual entertainment electronics, an electric piano, and a hatstand, all moved from Massachusetts.

Our condo does not look like a Pottery Barn showroom, yet we find it amenable to the eye. Most of our possessions are old friends, recalling stories of our family at a glance. The decorative items are all personally meaningful, and many are mentally engaging. Nothing is falling apart, as we have replaced items as needed; I have a particular aversion to aging sofas and mattresses.

For me, the primary satisfaction is in continuing to use items that are useful, rather than discarding willy-nilly. I like thinking of myself as eco-friendly and frugal. I wonder if I would feel the same way if I were to win the lottery? It’s a rhetorical question, since I’m not buying tickets. If I became a rampant discarder, would I still be the same person?

Our condo association wants an adjacent association to share expenses for a fence dividing our properties by splitting the costs half-and-half. That’s fair, right? Maybe not. The other association has four homeowners, and ours has 28. So it proposed we divide the cost into 32 parts, with our group paying 28 of those parts and theirs paying four.

While their proposal may be a ploy to pay less, it’s also a reasonable alternative view. Being your standard sort of waffly progressive, I immediately thought of several more factors to consider, such as total land area, the average unit size, which way the “nice” side of the fence faces, who engages and supervises the contractor, and who benefits most.

I once subbed for a middle school English class in which I had to give a vocabulary test. Students had been given the list of words and definitions the night before, with the option to copy it verbatim in handwriting instead of taking the test. There were students who chose to copy, student who chose to study, and one student who had not done the copying and insisted that it was Not Fair! that he have to take the test.

That situation seemed straightforwardly fair to me. Unfortunately, determining fairness is more often nuanced, and like the case of repairing the fence, often has a monetary component.

If my family takes driving vacations in order to save for college while another spends their excess income traveling the globe, should their child get more financial aid than mine? If someone goes on a long hike with insufficient supplies and gets injured or lost, should local residents pay for the rescue? If someone without health insurance rides a bicycle without using a helmet and gets a head injury, should the rest of us share the cost?

The answer is Yes, partly because the alternatives have consequences. The unprepared person in each case either suffers additional long-term debt, fear and discomfort followed by public opprobrium, or an unhealthful hospital stay possibly followed by long-term disability. The person didn’t “get away with” anything.

But mostly the answer is Yes because no one is perfect. If you haven’t experienced a negative consequence based on your own carelessness or lack of foresight, a Wow, that was stupid moment, then you are either very young, completely lacking introspection, or a narcissist.

I feel like I have these moments almost every day now. My friends and family are very supportive. The hardest part is forgiving myself.

After six months of zero earned income, and five years of not having regular working hours, I have a one-week regular-hours temp assignment in a one-surgeon office. My tax withholding choice is basically, Send it in, but even so I may net a few hundred dollars. I feel unexpectedly valuable.

I’m also discombobulated, and this isn’t even a full-time job. Having to be somewhere at 8:00 AM destroys my exercise schedule and simultaneously imposes schedules on things I have been doing at whim, from grocery shopping and laundry to reading and music.

I can hear all your tiny violins.

Daily paid work is what most adults do. My husband has done it for years, as did I. I’ve even missed some of it: workplace camaraderie, topical expertise, tangible accomplishment, and a regular paycheck. Working is a bit like riding a bicycle. Even after three days, several folks at the surgery center know my name, and I’ve been able to assist patients through logistic hoops required for access to health care.

Paid is the key term. One of the most complicated–and successful–things I’ve done is to implement our decision to move from Boston to Santa Cruz. My husband did a lot of that as well, but he would be the first to say I took point on it. Preparing and selling our home of 26 years; finding and purchasing another 3000 miles away;  sorting our possessions among our sons, ourselves, and various charities; and moving our possessions and ourselves was an enormous undertaking, much of it crammed into four months. We had personal constraints to minimize discards, significantly reduce our living space, and ameliorate the tax burden, as well as schedule constraints. I thought about putting some of this on my resume, but to what end? No wages means not worth mentioning.

The effort did pay off, though. Today after work I walked to the ocean with my binoculars, and after about fifteen minutes spied a whale spouting and flipping its tail. I’ll take that over Snow White any day.

My husband and I decided to check out the annual garlic festival in Gilroy because we like garlic and bands. We didn’t look into it in much detail in advance. Entering crawling traffic two miles from the parking lot clued us in: This festival is Huge.

The arrival portion was very well planned. Hordes of labeled Transportation Volunteers directed each car into the next spot in about 20 seconds. Signs directed pedestrians to Disney-style queues from which the volunteers sorted us into one of three sub-queues, each a bus stop. A continuous supply of comfortable, air conditioned buses carefully filled to capacity, with strollers stored in the cargo compartment, ferried us to the event on dedicated routes, while we watched a video of the attractions. The lines were short for admission tickets and parking vouchers, which served as our return bus tickets.

Jumping to the end, the departure was also well-organized, although quite oversubscribed. The line to board outgoing buses was simply stunning. To their credit, the volunteers walked the line apologizing, offering us cups of water, and pre-scanning our vouchers. The same setup of twisting queues and multiple boarding areas served the return, with the buses’ TV screens silent.

I really admired the planning of the transportation aspect, and I am lingering on it because I love good planning. The festival itself was a bit of a free-for-all, with confusing maps, conflicting directions from volunteers, and really, really long lines for everything. Garlic ice cream was free, but we never got any since the line was a quarter-mile long, seriously. All day. It seemed as if professionals were in charge of people-moving to-and-from, with amateurs devising the interior logistics.

Of course we went for garlic, and garlic there was: every kind of garlic food from sausage to ice cream for sale, with demonstrations of preparation as well as cooking competitions. The bands were talented but not really to our taste, being mostly 70s rock cover bands. There were many more vendors than we expected, high-quality ones, and we did end up buying some things. Most people seemed to be there for the copious opportunities to engage in day-drinking, including three beer gardens, numerous wine booths, and whiskey tasting. It was 81 degrees with little shade, so we abstained.

We did enjoy the rain rooms, twenty-foot-square open areas covered by a tarp ceiling lined with mist-dispensers.

Two sets of people were observed cutting into the very long line for the return bus, and our line neighbors started speculating about their karma payback, with comments like, They will have a flat tire on the way home, but I could not agree. Money-grubbing times have made me cynical. I believe the line-cutters will gain personal and financial success from their willingness to put themselves ahead of others. Even so, I really do not want to be like them; I know I would be unhappy if I did that, and brood on it, and feel odd.

I have always been a bit squeamish, and it’s getting worse.  I’m probably not the first person you want to call if there’s a wound to dress, though in an emergency I will try very hard to help. I lose my appetite easily, for example from an insect, or a sneeze. (The sneezing insect will make me fast all day.) “Scatological humor” is an oxymoron, and the last thing I want in a book or TV show is a scene involving vomiting.

Which is exactly what I got in the HBO version of Liane Moriarty’s Big Little Lies. I don’t believe that was in the book, but it’s de rigueur for modern entertainment.

In an interview, George R. R. Martin (the author of the Game of Thrones books, for those of you just emerging from a cave you entered in the late 1990s) bragged that his characters were more real than those of his alphabet namesake, J. R. R. Tolkien, because they use the bathroom. I disagree. A description of a run-of-the-mill visit to the toilet should not be read by anyone except the editor, unless the character is going to do something interesting like be killed by a crossbow at the same time.

(An editor, for those of you born after 1985, was someone who altered unpublished books to eliminate repetition, improve structure and flow, and monitor plot and style consistency, as well as correct grammar and serve as a wordsmith. Often he or she removed all parentheticals. Some book marketeers today continue to claim the ancestral title.)

Anyone who has had, known, loved, minded, observed, or been a child knows that Everyone Poops, though for your sake I hope you have not had to read that horrifyingly literal book. (I just had my day ruined by finding out that it was turned into a movie. I’m trying not to think about that.) The point is, this activity is banal, so why is it a fitting aspect of entertainment? We wouldn’t want to watch a show or read a book about someone eating a meal, would we? (Watching My Dinner With Andre was a patience-tester. I mostly failed.)

The creators of the 2006 movie Idiocracy are on record as being astounded that America reached the state described therein in ten years rather than the predicted 300. It’s got a high gross-out score, so I haven’t watched it recently (although I predicted its Nostradamus-like accuracy, yes, I really did). In the era of Trump, it probably views like a documentary.

Not that I’m blaming Trump for ubiquitous appearance of substances-nature-teaches-us-to-shun in mainstream entertainment. I think as a nation, our descent into crudity of all sorts paved the way for him, not the reverse.

Today I ran a road race between the wharves at Santa Cruz and Capitola, a distance of a little more than 6 miles. Runners are thinking, That’s a 10K, but you’re wrong. It’s a wharf-to-wharf race, and the distance varies historically based on existence of runnable roads or paths, construction, and access, among other factors. That is to say, it’s not a sports-association-approved, official qualifying race for anything. It’s just a fun way to exercise with friends, family, and neighbors.

Having lived less than two blocks from the Boston Marathon for several decades, viewing it more than twenty times, I had expectations. After all, there are some similarities. Runners pre-register and get a bib, which includes electronic tracking. There were 16,000 runners allowed in W2W; Boston had almost twice as many signed up this year, but its metropolitan area is 17 times larger, so this is a very big event for greater Santa Cruz. Streets are closed during the race, and there are water stations. Many of the top finishers of both genders are from Kenya or Ethiopia. Someone announces the names of the finishers on a PA system.

Most characteristics are different. Anyone can register, no experience required. Arriving and lining up is extremely casual. At least twelve bands entertained us en route, including a high school marching band, two Taiko drumming groups, three rock bands on stages, and several front yard collections of mostly guys with various instruments. People who saw their friends on the sidelines stopped to hug and chat; there were no barriers between supporters and runners. The water stations were manned by people who had been exposed to the idea of holding cups out for us but clearly weren’t under pressure to do so consistently, and most runners stopped to drink then took the time to place their cups in garbage bags. I surprisingly did experience a touch of post-race cooling, but I was not surprised that there weren’t mylar blankets. The cops stayed on the sidelines. No motorcycles, no helicopters, no flyover, no apparent press, no timing trucks.

The water, by the way, was terrible, as tap water is here. I tried one cup early on, and was concerned about contracting giardiasis. Thankfully, a few miles later there were two lovely women handing out cups of flavored Poland Spring water, which got me through to the end. We ran most of the way, but stopped to greet several people.

Sorting the runners into corrals by bin number–related to one’s self-reported rate–was enforced this year, although to run with a friend one could choose a slower corral, which my friend generously did. We were in the slowest bin and crossed the start line about 17 minutes after the starting gun fired. Another change this year was No Wheels, including No Strollers. Apparently strollers were well-represented last year. Fancy that.

Much of my experience was possibly different for those in the Elite corral, who finished in about half an hour. My net time was 1:27:19.

I moved sea-to-sea to run wharf-to-wharf.

I ventured into the backyard and ducked under a tree we call the Pollinator, because of the number of pollinators who visit it. To be precise, we should probably have called it the Pollinator Hangout, but the bad habit is established. With my head inside the canopy–it’s a low tree–the buzzing sounded loud, reminding me of the refrigerator in my childhood home. Viewed close up, the tiny flower clusters are alive with bees, wasps, and butterflies.

I was looking for the hummingbird. I saw it every day last September and October, and this month I’ve started seeing it again, though not in the tree; it flies about twenty feet about the ground and hovers, making it easily visible from the guest room window. It’s ruby throat glows in the sunlight. Afterward it disappears into another yard, or flies away over our roof.

There are several birds I can’t identify. Why won’t they pose while I retrieve my book? A sparrowish bird, small and mostly brown, but not an Eastern sparrow, and certainly not a pirate captain, may have a nest in the loose bark of the nearby palm tree; it keeps entering and leaving. A larger bird my husband and I tentatively identified as a junco, with white outer stripes visible on its tail in flight, is spending a lot of time on our fence and in the Pollinator’s leaf litter.

We have nine tomato plants, mostly thriving, with two apparently striving to occupy the entire yard, and four pepper plants, mostly sticks, surrounding our staunch and plucky little avocado tree. We have only harvested two yellow cherry tomatoes so far, but signs of a future bumper crop abound. So far creatures seem to be ignoring the tomatoes, so maybe they also prefer ripe fruit. We will be in Massachusetts for two weeks in August, when we may share by default.

The smell in the yard can only be described as heady, with roses, jasmine, and at least three other flowering plants supplementing the Pollinator. I wonder if this would bother someone with fragrance sensitivity. If natural fragrances, as compared to artificial fragrances, cause the problem, I feel this affliction belongs on the list of non-communicable diseases that have arisen or become epidemic in the modern age, which includes autism, diabetes, asthma, and obesity. I would be sorry if I were unable to enjoy a deep breath outdoors.

After discovering Liane Moriarty’s book The Husband’s Secret, I proceeded to read through her oeuvre. I recommend every one, though I have my favorites, one of which is Big Little Lies. My husband had another work emergency this weekend, so last night I decided to watch the HBO adaptation. I’m not much of a binge watcher, so I’ve only seen two episodes.

Both the book and the series reveal at the start that the climax of the story arc will be a suspicious death, but we don’t know whose. My reading experience was fraught by this knowledge, and I found myself mentally beseeching while I read: Don’t kill off this person, please…That one might be ok. 

The miniseries so far is true to the book in all important ways. The setting moved from near-Sydney beachfront to Monterey, which is fun for me, and of course HBO added more explicit sex. This time around, I’m the omniscient viewer. I can compare the characterizations and observe changes in emphasis, notice foreshadowing in the acting and writing, and critique additions and omissions.

The experience of revisiting a familiar story in a new medium is similar to that of listening to a performance of a very familiar classical piece with a different soloist or orchestra. Knowing the notes well frees me to listen to the substructure, admire the variations on the themes, enjoy the interplay among the sections, and appreciate the virtuosity. The experience of hearing an amazing piece of music the first time is more likely to be transformative, while deep exploration of familiar music is more broadly satisfying.

Is all of life such? Getting to know new friends in California is fun and exciting, yet we are look forward to a relaxing and rejuvenating time with old friends in Massachusetts. Aruba was a paradise found during the first visit, then after several, the iguanas and flamingos seem to recognize us, and we smile rather than stare at azure water and building without doors. Playing the ukulele is a learning curve of new concepts like strumming and frets, while on the piano I can explore more intricate music.

But I feel I have gone off-track. This post is calling out to me to acknowledge another distinction, a distinction of quality. Jumping from Liane Moriarty, as much as I enjoy her work, to classical music is comparing a simple, entertaining book to very complex music. I could more fittingly have chosen Willie Nelson or The Cars. Instead of watching HBO, maybe I will re-read The Grapes of Wrath.

To honor a surfer who dies, other surfers hold a Paddle Out. My husband and I witnessed the largest one in Santa Cruz history last Sunday, in honor of Jack O’Neill, who died in June at the age of 94. He lived nearby, and most of the over 1000 surfers who participated paddled out from the region between the Hook and the Point. They formed a huge circle in Monterey Bay, while thousands more watched from the shore. Boats and a helicopter also took part in the watery ceremony.

None of my pictures or videos came out well. Others have posted to Youtube.

The founder of O’Neill Surf Shops is usually credited with inventing the wetsuit. He at least popularized its use in surfing, replacing the heavy sweaters previously worn. He also perfected the surfboard leash; a leash accident was responsible for the eye injury that caused him to wear an eyepatch, pirate-style, for most of his adult life.

Though our California lives intersected with his for eight months, we never saw him. He was known for shouting advice to surfers from his seaside home. He had a nurse with him by then, and the two of them sometimes walked, he using a walker, she pushing a stroller with his small dog inside.

Since his death, of course, there have been many remembrances circulating in the press, on the internet, and on the radio. He was famous for both pranks and retorts, and many startling examples seem to indicate that kindness wasn’t his leading trait. However, the victims of these share them enthusiastically, seeming more pleased by the attention than stung by the vitriol.

Although he was not a multi-billionaire, O’Neill left an estate worth over a half-billion dollars, and I think that qualifies him as a hugely successful entrepreneur. Wealthy entrepreneurs we read about so commonly have extreme personality traits that I think it is probably impossible to achieve that status without those traits. One has to be very single-minded, at least during the time when one is building the business, in order for that business to reach empire status. O’Neill apparently spent hundreds of hours in the water experimenting with his inventions, and out of the water building and selling them.

Being single-minded doesn’t guarantee a major hit, though. Having worked for a few startups that did not grow into Facebook, I have observed some dedicated entrepreneurs in the single-mindedness stage who are not in the headlines today. I remember one making a completely dangerous U-turn in four lanes of highway traffic when we got lost on the way to an investor meeting, and another staying up  all night before a trade show to repair a prototype damaged in shipment.

I don’t know about the rest of the non-billionaires out there feel, but I am content with my numerous decisions to knock off work for happy hour, the school play, or vacation, especially since skipping those might not have made the slightest difference.

While considering using the idiomatic expression The ties that bind as a blog title, I did some online searching and found that it has a surprising variety of meanings.

I had thought it referred to family ties, that is, the ties to your blood relatives, or the ties to people you lived with as a child even if they were not genetically related. I think this sense of it would include ties among  a group of people with few close relatives who form an extended friends-family over many years, as well as ties to someone who had a strong moral influence on your life, someone whose example serves as a touchstone when you have to make a difficult decision. The ties of good friends fit here.

The phrase could also refer to ties of common values. These could be a common religious belief; common political views, particularly when political choices have an ethical component; or even a deeply-held lifestyle choice that serves as the governing principle of one’s life, such as non-violence, human rights, or preserving the natural world. These ties may form quickly when you meet people who seem to think about things as you do.

The phrase is not always positive: there are ties that bind us to things from which we should disengage. Material goods, money, popularity, nostalgia, abusers, habits, traditions, and even life itself may become bound to us in ways that preclude our making good moral decisions. In this definition, the ties that bind prevent us from being our best selves, or blind us to true fulfillment.

I originally planned to blog about family ties, because I am questioning how strong mine are as I face some decisions about helping my mother during what may be the end of her life. I feel very close to my husband; even a night or two apart can seem like a deprivation. I also feel very close to my sons, although I moved far from them. I also moved away from my natal family soon after graduating from college, perhaps as a way to establish my own independence.

Both of my moves could be viewed as lifestyle choices that severed ties unnecessarily. I have spent the last three or so decades in economically vibrant, physically appealing regions in which most people hold progressive, empathetic views, and from which I could be supportive and sympathetic to family members in less-congenial circumstances when it was, well, convenient. Maybe my strongest shared-value group is the wanderers? Two major moves in a lifetime do not a wanderer make, so it’s likely something less admirable.