Land of the Free

It's a bright Saturday afternoon and I'm walking to the playground with my son. Propped against a giant oak rest three old shovels, a rusty lantern cage, a box of plastic tabs for hanging files, a basketball, and a sign reading, "FREE."

This is one of my favorite parts of living in Santa Cruz: a total willingness to let go of your stuff without having to go through the extra work of a formal yard sale. To be sure, those exist in great numbers up and down the tree-lined streets, but they sometimes come across as crass and commercial when a man with a bulging fanny pack won't let go of a 1,000-piece lighthouse puzzle for less than 50 cents.

This is the land of the free, where a person can score a leather couch on one corner and a tennis ball lamp on the next. Everyone seems to share and share alike, alternating as depositors or collectors from day to day--a karmic exchange of things. I have shoved bookshelves in my backseat, strapped tables to the top of my car, and debated the merits of a bean bag chair with a teenager on a bike as we stood together on a corner where various items had been left for all to consider.

Once, my husband and I ran across two lanes of a busy street to claim a 3-person patio swing and canopy. With deft precision we jogged the 70-pound swaying monster to our car as if filming a new Farrelly Brothers comedy.

On the other hand, I've also left out plenty of very usable items myself: a working fax machine, a box of Duplos, a giant metal desk from the shed, and coffee mugs with canvas bags from years of conventions.

My grandmother was fond of saying that "one person's trash is another person's treasure" and, although she used it mostly when talking about boyfriends or ex-husbands, I believe she would like how our community of strangers exchange belongings so openly and without the need for a receipt.

It's also where we can enact some of life's adages like to do unto others or to live simply so that others may simply live. Being in the right place at the right time can result in a mattress for a college student or tricycle for a preschooler.

Today, I take the basketball under the tree and my 5-year-old acts as if he's won the kid lottery. It's a little flat, but bounces high enough for him and it's perfect at rolling down the slide for 30 minutes of entertainment. I hope that its previous owner can feel that the basketball has a new home where it's well-loved and that the gift of something for free--no strings attached--is worth more than the dollar it would fetch on his driveway.

Size DOES matter . . . aka Trying to get 3 more inches

We have moved to a new house in Santa Cruz. Actually, it's a new home to us but an old house built in the 1920s. You know the story: lots of charm, wood moldings, basement right from the set of "The Wizard of Oz," yada yada yada. But the kitchen is also from a bygone day and so one of the perks when Massimo took the job was that we would get a new kitchen. We're in the midst of demolition right now which has introduced me to a whole new set of insects that I never knew existed, but that's another story.

We had to get a new stove and refrigerator and scurried out of the mountains to the Sears Outlet to make our selection. That's when I discovered my buried attitude of "bigger is better."

Massimo, the newly-ordained Watcher of the Budget, kept his eye set on the price tags. He conducted inner debates between two refrigerators that were $40 apart. He pulled on drawers, jiggled handles, scratched at the little cosmetic dents that sent these rejects to the Outlet in the first place.

I, on the other hand, zeroed in on the dimensions of each fridge searching for the prized 22'.

Once Massimo located the best price and value, my true feelings surfaced:

"This is the one," he declared.
"But it's only a 19'," I pointed out.
"So?"
"So, it's smaller." Did I really have to state the obvious?
"Again, so?" I felt like he wouldn't be saying that if we were talking about a car engine.
"This one's smaller. The 22' is bigger. I want the bigger one."
"It's $100 more! You want to spend another $100 for three more inches?"

Ouch. I'd been discovered as a size snob. What was the big deal? What was I hoping to achieve by getting an extra 3 inches? Adding one more stick of butter? Maybe another Tupperware bowl of leftover peas that gets thrown away the following week?

The event made me look at my other size wants. I'm always more impressed with the bigger house, knowing full well that it's a bigger pain to clean 10 rooms than to clean five. I am a tree hugger, but love those fat old' SUVs like it's nobody's business. Even my Christmas Tree needs to to touch the ceiling (if not actually bend a bit). And I'm a walking commercial for Costco where for $5.00 more I can get the 50-roll package of toilet paper instead of settling for those puny 20-roll packs from Safeway.

So we came to agree on the 19' refrigerator and that I will seek counseling.

Hopefully the office will have TWO sofas.

Four year olds getting married

I was driving Mariano and his friend home from preschool today. As usual, I try to get him in the habit of sharing his day's details with me.

"Did you have fun at school today?"
"Yeah," Mariano says.
"What did you do?"
"I played, ate snacks, and colored."
"Very fun, sweetie," so far this is standard fare. "Who did you play with?"
"Ally."
Hmm, this in new. He usually plays with "the guys" or Isabella, the little Italian goddess who he absolutely adored last year.
"Really? That's so nice. I'm glad Ally is your friend."
"Yeah," he says casually. "I married Ally today."

HUGE pause.

I have never heard him use that word before! I guess it was just a matter of time. The little girls at preschool have been plotting their wedding days since the moment they turned three. I have tried to shield Mariano from the pressures of matrimony for as long as possible.

At this point Luca, the friend pipes in. "Yeah, I married Lola today."

The preschool has turned into a Las Vegas chapel! I'm trying to picture the teachers dressed as Elvis Presley.

Later, Matthew jumps in the car and we're on our way to eat Chinese. Mariano fills him in on the exciting day.

"Matt, I married Ally today."
Matt does my same double take and laughs.
"You did? Who married you?"
"Ally."
I've entered a skit close to "Who's On First?"
"No, I mean who married you and Ally together? Was it a priest or a judge . . ."
Mariano looks at Matt as if he's nuts. The question just doesn't make sense to him.
Matt tries a different angle: "Well, HOW did you and Ally get married?"
"I asked her to sit next to me. And she did."

Now the whole car is laughing.
"You're going to end up with a lot of wives, if that's how it works!" Matt says.
"Yeah," Mariano admits.

So, I missed Mariano's wedding today. But at least I saved a TON of money on the rehearsal dinner! =)

A New Short Story, by Mariano

Since most of our car rides involve my driving and Mariano stuck in isolation (e.g. the car seat), I am unable to read books to Mariano--his favorite activity. Instead, I've started making up stories and tell them to him. His favorites contain characters that include himself, his brother Matthew, his sister Sabrina, and monsters or "bad guys."

On our way to church today, he asked for an old favorite (Matthew is an inventor and tries to make a machine that stops aging. When he tries is out on himself, he ends up turning himself into a baby and then Mariano becomes the big brother). When I finished, Mariano asked for another one but I turned the tables on him.

"How about if YOU tell me one this time?"

"Ok," Mariano said. And thus began his first story from his own imagination. I swear these are his words and even his own adjectives! =)

One day there was a little baby and her name was Mama. She lived in a big, pretty house and she loved it. Then one day a big scary MONSTER came along and moved into her house. The baby mama was soooo sad and she cried 'waaa waaa waaa' and then the monster threw her out of the house and she cried more and made water. The baby mama was on the street and a bad guy came over and moved into the house. The end.

"What?" I said. "Doesn't the baby mama get her house back?"

"No, the bad guy moved in," Mariano said as if I really hadn't been paying attention.

"But then where does the baby mama end up living?"

"I don't know," Mariano admitted.

Well, it's a start. At least it has conflict even if it's without a happy ending. =)

Somewhere between Ireland and France

I find myself sitting on the same bench at the playground. When you enter Mariano's World, you can either turn to the left and sit at small, crafted picnic tables in front of the sand box or veer to the right and claim space on one of four benches that face the large play area. I seem to park myself at the end of the second bench, somewhere between Ireland and France.

What I mean to say is that the group of moms who consistently hover around Bench One are all from Ireland--authentic brogues and all. I see the same five regularly and, while I know many of the children's names and have even shared our goldfish snacks with several, the women have never said hello to me or introduced themselves. They speak loudly and with great animation. If I listen for too long, I start to THINK with an Irish accent. They have fair skin, dress their girls in matching outfits and their boys in soccer duds that sport Irish flags on the chest or sleeve. One mom has older girls and they join up after school while still in their St. Brigid's uniforms before heading off to Irish dance lessons.

On Bench Three, three French mothers gather religiously. I have a harder time with them since they speak exclusively in French and I opted for three years of Spanish in high school. Their children are more reserved or suspicious--I'm not sure which it is--but one day the older Irish girls ventured into the continent to pursue a game that would require more people. Despite pleading and cajoling from the moms, France wouldn't budge and Ireland retreated to the brood. It was probably just as well since the Irish moms always come with enough fruits, crackers, and juice boxes to make it through another famine.

At the far end, Bench Four serves as home to the Russian grandmothers. I'm not sure how they all got suckered into raising another generation for their kids, but I think I've only seen one Russian mom in the weeks we've been there. Interestingly, I was truly surprised at the large Russian population we've encountered here in the Sunset. Our building has 12 apartments and I think 10 of them are Russian homes. I know that the renter before us, Irena Svetlenskya, paid no attention to telling the post office that she was moving and we still get her mail.

Should we wander towards the sand box, Mariano and I represent the lone American coalition as all of the Chinese grandparents congregate there. They are stern, unflinching, and have no qualms about correcting the behavior of strangers--both adult and child versions. I have been yelled at twice now (in Cantonese, I believe) for letting Mariano go down the slide before the child at the bottom was completely out of the way. The Asian delegation talk to each other exclusively and occasionally stand up to do some Tai Chi movements.

In this miniature U.N. we call home, I have learned that, more than anything, when you stick together, there is security and safety. This became so much more clear one day when Mariano was playing with another 4-year-old. His grandmother did not speak any English, and she had exchanged cursory smiles or nods with Massimo. Suddenly, the boy was crying and Mariano had a gentle arm around the boy's shoulder. Massimo approached to find out what had happened and the boy tearfully lamented that his grandmother had left him. Massimo looked for her again and tried to the soothe the young boy. About 20 minutes later, she reappeared, coming back from across the street where she had been to the Asian market. She felt confident enough in the other grandmas there to fill in for her. She had surrogates and they implicitly understood how to fill in for her. When you share a past, a culture, and a language, some things just don't need to be said.

And while we close up the doors on one Melting Pot, I have learned that somewhere between Ireland and France, in the midst of Russia and China, I have found a real melting pot, alive in my neighborhood playground. Except nobody is really melting together there.

"When I become a baby again . . ."

We were at the playground today (big surprise) and Mariano is in the midst of a marathon swing session (yet another surprise). He is urging me to push him higher and I feel carpel tunnel syndrome coming on after 30 minutes of this. (Yes, there are occupational hazards that go with full time mommy work!)

He's watching two little girls take turns on his old (and retired) Fisher Price push bike that we have brought to the playground that day to leave behind and "donate" to the play area for the smaller children. This is the first rolling vehicle that Mariano ever played on since it can convert from a walker to a bike. The added features of playing music and coming with plastic balls that you can throw into the front basket made it hugely popular with Mariano, even after his legs had outgrown the actual use of the bike.

Since our move to the "suburbs," however, Mariano is now on a "big boy" bike with training wheels and the need for a helmet.

But today he is watching the girls on the basket bike and reflecting.

"Mama, when I become a baby again, those girls can ride my big bike and I can ride that bike again. When I become a baby again."

"No, sweetie, you're not going to be a baby again. You're getting bigger--not smaller."

"Why?"

"Well, because that's what happens."

I wanted to tell him so much about growing up--all the good things that he gets to do like stay up late and eat chocolate before dinner. He will make friends and have sleep overs and be in a play and kiss a girl so that his stomach does flips. He's going to score goals in soccer, win a swim meet, and learn to fence. Not far from now he'll take his piggy bank (which is really a ceramic tennis shoe that he calls his "piggy shoe") to a bank and open up a little savings account. Even his money will grow.

But all he wants right now is his little bike back and I understand that. I want my little life back. It was the life that included a beautiful house and my wonderful Honda Accord. I had a backyard with real grass and neighbors who made goodies in their kitchens at Christmas. We had a big bathroom with TWO sinks and Mariano's room was painted with the help of two amazing friends. It was a gorgeous room. It was a happy life.

Mariano keeps swinging and checks in once more.

"I don't become a baby again?"

"No, honey. We move forward, not backwards."

I'm . . .uh . . . with the 15 year olds

Honest to goodness, I find my way into the silliest situations!

So, to start with, I must say that Torrey Pines High School has graduated some impressive students. They have become quite successful in various fields including, as of recently, the music industry. I was honored to have Tristan Prettyman in my Creative Writing class. She is extremely talented and you should take a listen to her songs (my favorite is "Love, Love, Love"). I also had the great joy of having Dan Layus in my HTML/Web Page Design class. He was also friends with my stepson, Matt, and I can honestly say he was a friend any parent would wish for their own kids--kind, pleasant and very dedicated (at that time, to his church and his band). Well now Dan is the lead singer of Augustana--an alternative rock band with a very popular song called "Boston" playing on the radio constantly.

So Dan and his band come to S.F. to open for The Fray at The Fillmore. THE Fillmore--where Janis Joplin, The Dead, Jimi Hendrix, The Doors have all played. YIKES! They're a serious band! I'm thinking that I'll drop by the backstage door, slip a worker a note to give Dan and hope that he'll come out to say hi. I swung by at 1:00, but they haven't arrived yet. I come back at 2:30 and talk to one of the guys with The Fray and he says they won't be in until 5:00 or so. But I am persistent and I return at 4:00. I think I'm now officially a stalker.

The funny thing--or embarrassing, depending on how you look at it--is that when I arrive at 4:00, I join a group of about 20 teenage girls. Oh no! Now I really feel silly. I approach one of the only two adults there and ask if they are waitingfor Augustana or The Fray. She told me that they were part of a private "Meet and Greet/Sound check" for The Fray and it was by special invitation for only 30 people. Just about then, the magical backstage gate opens and swallows up the 15-year-olds who are panting and giggling.

I continue to hang out by the gate (guarded by very MEAN looking bodyguards who are probably used to groupies begging them to get in everyday). I pace, look stupid, watch more 15- year-olds arrive, sulk, consider leaving, figure out what I was teaching the year these kids were born, etc. It's about 4:30 and a new group of girls has formed at the gate when it opens again. This time I notice that no one is asking for a secret handshake or even a password. The last girl is walking in and receiving a pass to wear around her neck.

Think, Michele! Act quick!

I slide in behind her and am handed the last tag. I actually wonder who isn't going to get her pass now.

So we climb the steep-lawsuit-waiting-to-happen-stairs and arrive at the top. I've never been inside The Fillmore before and let me tell you: it's GORGEOUS! Real chandeliers! Framed posters from all the big shows line the walls. You can FELL the ghosts. I start to veer off towards the main room and figure I'll hang out there until Dan arrives but I get yelled at by an employee. "Hey! Up the stairs!" Where on earth am I going?

"Oops," I apologize. "Lost track of my group."

I get to the top of the stairs and the tweens (with 2 adults) are sitting in a room. The chairs face a small platform with space for 4 people to come up and there's a big Grammy backdrop. One of the men welcomes us and asks if we've come ready with questions for the band. Shortly thereafter the members of The Fray walk in amidst flashes and more giggling. They are adorable, young men and over the course of the next 45 minutes, answer questions with great insight and humor. I have NO idea who they are--haven't heard a single song--but I'm starting to like them already! Heck, I even asked a couple of questions myself!


They take a giant group picture of the band with the giggly girls and then we all go back downstairs. Dan's band still hasn't arrived and I'm trying to figure out a way to avoid being kicked out. I wander over to one of the sound check guys and make it sound like "I'm with the band." He tells me that I can sit "over there." Just to be safe, I turn my hanging tag around so that the white back is showing and I do my best "yeah-I-know-what-I'm-doing-here" impression, even striking up a conversation with another employee who is from Scotland, is three years my junior but looks 15 years older, and is working on being a cover model for Ray Bradbury's "The Illustrated Man." (I actually did ask him at one point if he's read it and he admits that no, he's not really much into reading--has never even finished a book). Anyhow, his presence keeps the other employees at bay and while they sweep the place of people who aren't supposed to be there, I slip under the radar.

Eventually, Dan and his band arrive. I BARELY recognize him and approach.

"Dan?" I say.
"Hi," Dan politely holds out his hand to shake mine. He's got to be wondering what this old lady wants.
"Dan, tell me about Torrey Pines High School."
"Huh?" Of course I've confused him.
"I was one of your teachers."
Now he takes a step back in shock. "NO WAY! Really?" He's reaching back in his memory files. It's really not fair since it's been 5 years and we're not even in the same city where he went to school--this has to be one of the most random things that's happened to him on tour.
"Yeah, I'm Mrs. Paolini--I'm Matt's step mom."
"OH MY GOD!" He gives a great hug and we catch up as well as possible while yelling over The Fray who is doing their sound check. I have to ask Dan how he hasn't gone deaf yet.

Matt and I will be seeing Augustana in September here in the City, so I hope there will be more time then to visit. I'll bring him a baby gift--he's going to be a dad in October.

And I thought that hanging with the 15-year-olds upstairs made me feel old!