User Posts : The Northwest Voice

A Day In The Life: My Sister Tried to Kill Me!

I’ve been told that on the day my parents brought me home from the hospital, my older sister took one look at me and said, “Get that thing out of here!” Of course, our parents thought it was cute, but little did they know that I would soon be locked in a life & death struggle with their darling daughter. Later that day, my mother heard me screaming. When she walked into the nursery, I was hanging upside down by my diaper, caught, thankfully, on the corner of my crib. And so began my childhood, and a time when I learned to sleep with one eye open.

As soon as I could walk my sister embarked on a career in the culinary arts. That is, she became adept at making mud pies, and who was forced to eat them? You got it—me. Regardless of the fact that the topping was White King “D” laundry detergent, I always had to clean my plate. This went on for some time then ended abruptly. Either she was caught, or simply got bored with me complaining about a stomach ache.

I still bear the scar of her most dramatic attempt on my life. I guess I should lay partial fault on our 1947 Studebaker, but the car wasn’t to blame. My sister is the one who slammed the door on my finger, severing it from the rest of my hand. In the early 50’s microsurgery was definitely in its infancy, but still, the emergency room doctors were able to reattach my rather gnarled-looking finger. Good thing they did, as it is the same finger I may need someday to point to her in a lineup.

You may have noticed that I omitted any hint of my sister’s name. Well, there’s a reason for that. In light of the fact that I “mysteriously” fell as a child and ended up in a coma, I’m still a little edgy around her. When I mentioned that I was working on this tale, she warned me she’d get even. Believe me, with the history of her attempts to kill me; it’s in my best interests to keep mum as to her identity. And yet, she is pretty devious, so if you never again read any thing written by me, rest assured I have entered the “Secret Witness Program,” and living incognito in some place like Shafter.

A Day In The Life: Joined At The Hip!

I’m an animal lover, or more specifically, I’m a dog lover. I’m sure everyone is aware that there are two kinds of people in this world, cat people and dog people. We actually used to be of the “cat and dog” variety, but about twenty years ago that changed. When our 21 year old tabby died, we tried to introduce a new cat to the home; our dogs would have nothing of it.

About two years ago we rescued Seymour, a young long-hair dachshund, from a puppy mill in Visalia. When we got Seymour, he’d had very little socialization, something we had to work on, which included hiring a dog trainer. Needless to say, he is basically a well-trained and loving pet today, but more than that, he is my shadow. When we first got that frightened puppy, he latched onto me and hasn’t “let go” since.

He follows me everywhere, and I do mean everywhere. If I am sitting in one chair and move to the next, he’ll immediately join me. When I’m gone he’ll wait by the door until I’m home. He sits in the hallway and waits until I’m done showering, and at the dinner table he is always under my chair. In the evening he tells me when it’s time to go to bed by nudging me with his nose and growling. It didn’t take long for me to be trained, and yes, he does sleep at the foot of our bed.

Not only is Seymour a great pet, he is true comedian. When we are loading the dishwasher, he will climb onto the door, and help clean the plates by licking them. He loves to take my socks and bury them in the garden, and always crawls into open cupboards. Needless to say, he gets into everything. His signature move is to beg with his paws to have his belly rubbed.

The family joke is that he and I are joined at the hip. Not, of course, that I mind. He’s a lap-dog in every sense of the definition, but to be honest, Seymour is much more than a pet, he’s a companion. So, I guess I’ve established the fact that Seymour is an integral part of our family, and as my mother-in-law used to say, “I want to come back as one of Joe’s dogs.” I guess that says it all!

A Day In The Life: A Birthday of Another Kind

A Birthday of another Kind

Unlike most people, I have more than one birthday. The first celebrates my birth and the second, February 9^th, is the day I received my stem cell transplant. In the fall of 2000 I was diagnosed with Primary Amyloidosis. If you’ve heard of multiple myeloma, then you are close to understanding the illness. I was fortunate that my primary care physician, Dr. Stephen Strategos, had recently studied the rare disease.

After months of chemotherapy, I entered the City of Hope for a three-month stay. There, I was given daily injections to increase my stem cell production. My transplant was to use my own cells, not that of a donor. After a couple of weeks, tests determined that I’d developed enough stem cells. The harvesting procedure involved straining out the cells, which were then irradiated and frozen to await my transplant.

I’d by lying if I said I wasn’t afraid when I entered the isolation ward, and the room I would call home for over a month. Once high-dose chemotherapy was administered, it took less than a week before I was deemed “ready” for the transplant. Then, on the morning of February 9, 2001, my nurses, garbed from head to toe, entered my room singing, “Happy Birthday To You!” While one held my hand, the other began the process of infusing me with the frozen stem cells.

What happened next took a total of 29 days. The doctors checked my blood twice daily to watch the counts that would determine that my stem cells had “taken hold.” It amazed me then, and still does today, that those frozen cells sought out my bones and began to remake an immune system. At the end of those 29 days I was released from isolation, much thinner, and definitely weaker. It took another week before my doctors released me to the care of my local oncologist. The day I left the City of Hope was March 15, which amazingly is my wife, Debbie’s, birthday.

So much has happened in the past seven years, but nothing is dearer to my heart than the morning my nurses wished me happy birthday. And, in spite of the fact that I’ve traveled a rough road, I am still here. To say I am blessed is an understatement because that incredible procedure, given to me that February 9^th, saved my life and allowed me to share my story.

A Day In The Life: Vain? Who, Me?

Okay, okay, I'll be the first to admit it. I am vain. I know, you wouldn't think that of a person who fits the description of "fat, balding, and forty (plus nearly a decade)" is vain, but it's true. I am so self-conscious of how I look that I avoid looking into the glass storefronts as I walk by. I just don't want to see how much weight I've put on. So, I recently joined a nationally known weight loss organization. Goaded on by the success of Sarah Ferguson, and my inability to comfortably tie my shoes, I joined.

Now, you have to understand one thing, these weight loss centers are totally geared to women. Oh, they may try to slip in one photo of a man in the weekly pamphlets, but, no matter how you slice it, the programs are run by women and designed to fit women. Of course, the group leaders are great and I have felt nothing but welcome since I joined. However there are times that require a sense of humor. Probably the best example is when the group was discussing the Points Calculator. The leader promptly said, "This will fit nicely into your purse." Of course I had to ask, "Purse? What if I don't own a purse?" That brought the house down, and while I know I'm not being excluded, I have to chuckle to myself. And, by the way, under no circumstance am I belittling the Points Calculator, because for someone trying to maintain a halfway normal lifestyle, and at the same time follow the program, it is invaluable. And, I'm proud to say, I can count points with the best of them. So, I guess you could say that while I don't own a purse, the calculator fits nicely into my lifestyle.

It's now been four weeks since I started and already I have had some success — I have lost over 8 pounds. That's right, the same old 8 pounds I've lost a thousand times over, but I feel better nonetheless. In my attempt to not feel deprived I've taken the advice of the leaders and gotten creative. For the umpteenth time I've purchased fat-free this, and fat-free that (Haven't I been down this road before?). The other night my daughter called me delusional because I have said I prefer fat-free sour cream to the real thing. I guess I've psyched myself into believing that if this is all I can have, I'm going to enjoy it! The same goes for those mini-cakelettes that are no more than a healthy bite. They're OK, but I'd really love to raid the closest at Smith's Bakery (aren't their iced cookies the best?), but I have to use all the restraint I can muster. This time around, my goal is to stick with it, but unlike my fellow classmates I don't have that pair of Size 6 jeans I'm trying to fit back into, or a certain poundage I'd like to reach. Nope, I just want to feel better, and although I refer to my weekly meetings as Fat Camp, I know that I have come to the right place for guidance and support. Besides, I'd like to be able to look into a full-length mirror, sometime in the not-too-distant future. Wish me luck!

A Day in the Life: Driving Mr. Crazy

I have been driving for the past 42 years and consider myself to be a pretty good driver. Having driven on California freeways my

entire life, and on a dare, drove a motor home down San Francisco’s Lombard Street, qualifies me as a decent driver. But, in spite of my experiences I think that some of my best driving takes place in the back seat. That’s right, I am a back-seat driver extraordinaire and proud of it!

I’m not really certain at what point I stopped being the principal driver, but when my daughter and son-in-law are around, they do the driving. According to my wife it takes nerves of steel to drive with me in the passenger seat. In fact, Debbie has now implemented her version of the “three strikes” law. That is, upon my third complaint, Debbie pulls the car to the curb and hands the keys to me.

Now, while I am an experienced driver, as I have gotten older a few things began to bother me. These are, driving in the mountains, especially on the edge of a cliff, and driving across a bridge. The latter makes a trip to San Francisco interesting, but we have managed. One very good friend drove me to Kernville, and after what was referred to as “hysterical rantings and ravings,” she has nicknamed me the Mountain Goat. Simply put, I don’t do mountains and cliffs.

Which brings me to the most recent trip I took to Morro Bay. Since my wife was already there, and I wasn’t feeling up to par, my son-in-law volunteered to drive me to Morro Bay. I was very appreciative, in spite of the fact that normally, Daniel (son-in-law) drives like he’s piloting some experimental stealth fighter. The few times I’d ridden with him driving had caused me to quote Scriptures, or as my aunt used to say, “Get Religion.” I must have really wanted to go to the beach to have gone on what I felt would be a risky venture, but I did.

Since Daniel’s friend rode with us, I was moved from shotgun to the rear seat. This was not a big problem because my Dodge is a boat. Besides, I was just as happy not to be riding in the suicide seat. When we started out, the trip went smoothly. After all, we were driving on Interstate 5. I do extremely well on flat land. Then we came to Highway 46, sometimes called “Blood Alley.” This is when things began to get interesting.

You have to understand one thing - like most people under the age of 30, Daniel is a risk-taker. (after all, he did choose me for a father-in-law, didn’t he?) As the Dodge began to speed along that two-lane highway we began to encounter trucks. No problem, because Daniel would simply pass. At first I began making comments like, “Well, that was close,” or, “Phew, I never pass on this highway!” or, my personal favorite, “Do you realize how many people die passing on this road?” These comments became more numerous, and yet Daniel didn’t respond. I finally gave up and began to tell myself that he wouldn’t put himself in any danger, so I was safe. Right? Well, at least that thinking worked for a time being.

Then came the mountains. By now it was dusk, and I’m not sure if I mentioned that I don’t “do” dusk, especially combined with mountains. And yet, here I was, sitting in the back seat and holding onto the “Oh, Lord!” handle for all I was worth. And all the while, we raced through the mountains and along the cliffs on Highway 43. I normally have to psych myself up to drive through there, and almost never ride down that canyon with someone else driving. And yet, here I was, eyes wide and babbling, “Slow down…didn’t you see that speed limit sign…just remember that your wife will be really angry if you kill her father!” On and on, and I have to give him credit, but Daniel just took it in stride. When we finally got into town, he pulled over and turned around, saying, “I’m not being rude, but have you ever thought of asking the doctor to prescribe some kind of pill to calm you down? You know, especially for times like this. You get really worked up.” Before I could respond I thought of the time we’d taken our dog to the vet, just to get something to calm her down on car trips. It worked for her. I smiled. Maybe he had found the solution. “Good idea,” I answered.

At this point I haven’t asked for a prescription of Valium, but it’s not out of the realm of possibilities. However, the trip has had one effect on me - now I’m very conscious of just how much I “help” others drive and have made a serious effort to cool it. At the end of a trip to town, or the grocery story, it’s almost humorous to be told, “You did really well, Dad.” Sad, isn’t it? Well, I’m still working on traveling with my mouth shut, and in spite of my vast improvements, a trip with me in the car is now referred to as, “Driving Mr. Crazy.” Guess I’ve earned it.

Did you say, color?

With plasma televisions and high definition channels, it’s no wonder we spend so much time in front of the screen.

Now, I happen to be in that category referred as “seniors” and I do watch the boob tube quite often. Anyway, for those of my generation who were children when television was in its infancy, we had the opportunity to witness many firsts.

At the age of seven, I had only experienced color at the movies, but color television? Never! Then that one magical time -- our neighbors got a color television set, and the first any of us had ever seen.

So, the night the television was unveiled to the neighborhood, everyone crowded into that one small living room and waited. The cabinet looked like any other we’d seen, but it all changed when Mr. B. proudly twisted the many knobs on the set. We waited until the screen came into focus. Everyone moaned -- it was in black and white!

“Just wait,” Mr. B. said, “not all stations broadcast in color but something will happen soon.”

And it did. When the multicolored NBC peacock filled the screen there was a universal gasp, and while the bird unfurled its feathers to amaze us we were stunned. True, it was color, glorious color, and by today’s standards it was awful but we didn’t care.

Then came Bonanza, nearly every 50’s household’s favorite show. Never mind that Hoss’s cheeks were an odd hue of orange and the Ponderosa’s trees were a weird shade of green, we didn’t care. It was color!

Those of us who had been fortunate to have crammed into that living room were entranced and never spoke during the entire broadcast.

In the middle of the show was a commercial and we were all invited to “See The U.S.A. In A Chevrolet!” When you’re seven one car is like any other, but those heavily finned, turquoise and yellow sedans will forever live on in my memory.

Of course, after that, the rest of the evening was broadcast in black and white. The show was over and the stunned throng filed out of the living room.

At home, my sister and I began haranguing our father to purchase a color television set, but we were given, what would become his stock answer to end all arguments, “No, it will give you cancer! ”

Cancer? We weren’t sure what it was but we certainly didn’t want any of it, so our argument died.

Later, when I was in high school, I came home to find he had purchased a color television. I was excited and immediately plopped down to watch Star Trek, but was told to move back. You see, there was an invisible line drawn halfway across our living room and we weren’t permitted to get any closer to the set. I obediently sat across the living room while our father explained that sitting too close would cause cancer. Of course!

Honestly, I don’t know of anyone who died of television cancer, or eating red M & M’s, for that matter, but our father’s excuse never fails to bring chuckles at family gatherings. He probably knew that once he left we were right on top of the screen, but he never let on that he knew.

We will never forget that first color television set we saw, but more importantly how, in his own way, our father tried to protect us.

Thank you for not talking

The Nile theater holds many memories for me.

Not only is the place that my wife, Debbie, worked as a ticket girl, it is also the place where my mouth nearly caused me to lose my front teeth.

I recall that it was probably early in the 1980’s and we had gone to watch a newly released science fiction movie. My brother, Jim and his wife, Tina, had accompanied Debbie and I to the show.

Believe me when I say we love science fiction. Apparently, so did half the population of Bakersfield, because we had to wait in a very long line.

By the time we finally purchased our tickets the auditorium was nearly full and the only four seats we could find together were in the third row. The third row? Yeah, we had to slouch way back in our seats to watch the towering figures march across our field of vision.

I hate having to sit in this position, but as I said, “I love science fiction,” and I wasn’t going to let a potential sore neck keep me from watching Dennis Quaid’s thrilling performance.

When the movie began it seemed to be a signal to a group in front of us, that it was okay to talk. Directly in front was a group of at least eight big men. As I was trying to focus on a thrilling space battle they started joking and laughing, oblivious to the fact that they were in a theater, they laughed and yelled down the line until I had had it.

This is he part where common sense vanished, only to be replaced the feeling of teacher invincibility! When I took all I could I stuck my head between a couple of them. Now, I should have asked nicely, but I was a teacher and was used to demanding quiet in a room.

So, without even thinking of possible consequences, I said, “I didn’t pay money to listen to you talk!” Suddenly, it was quiet as a tomb.

My brother, who was scrawnier than me, leaned over and said, “You’ve done it now, idiot.” From that point on, time seemed to stand still. Before I could come back with an equally derogative comment, the two men stood.

Talk about towering over us. These guys were big, heavily muscled, and, at the time, were apparently considering tearing me limb from limb. I gulped but didn’t raise to my 5'10", 150 pound height.

I shivered when my wife took my arm. Wasn’t I supposed to protect her? I swear I heard growling as one of the men began rubbing his baseball mitt hands together. Then, to my horror, one of them reached for me. I swallowed my heart as I watched the mammoth fist snake across the seat.

Suddenly, a voice from the other end of the line said, “Sit down you guys. He was in the right.”

Saved!! I was saved!

“Oh, alright," the reaching giant muttered and the turned and began watching the movie. We had sat there for approximately another twenty minutes when one of them turned to me.

In his most polite voice, he said, “I’m sorry sir. You were right. We should never have disturbed others.”

”That’s okay," I said, finally but could think of nothing else to stay.

”Well, it won’t happen again,” he added and turned his enormous head to face the screen.

Once again leaning in my direction, Jim hissed, “Doesn’t matter because when the movie is done they’ll kill us and take our women hostage.” I managed a wan smile and did my best to watch the movie.

Toward the end, I whispered, “pass it down, don’t watch the credits…let’s bolt out of the theater. Nice plan, but it didn’t work, because a bunch from the first row immediately blocked the aisle. Trapped and doomed!

I was doing my best to pull myself up taller, especially when standing beside a group whose shortest member was probably six foot two inches, when one of the young men said, “I’m their captain, I apologize for any inconvenience.” I smiled and nodded then watched as they filed by.

I exhaled and turned to Debbie who said, “Next time leave your whistle at home, Mr. Tomasi.”

Later, as we walked toward our car, Jim said, “Nice, Joe, you were going to take on the entire Taft football team.”

I imagine my gulp could be heard all the way to Taft.

So, a lesson to think before speaking had been learned.

Sadly, this was the last time we went to the Nile, but every time we get together with Jim and Tina, the story is told and retold. In one such version I am picked up and, but the basic story remains pretty much as I have related.

And, my whistle? I’m not even sure in which archive my whistle is stored, but I learned my lesson to self-monitor my conversations. It works.

Well, most of the time!

Third time up to bat

While some can say that tendencies to certain medical conditions run in their family, I am beginning to think that a certain tendency runs in me. You see, it is my third time battling cancer.

Like most people, I am related to, or know someone who succumbed to cancer. I have lost one parent, several aunts, uncles and cousins, and countless friends, to that insidious disease.

Just the threat of cancer is enough to send ones life into a tailspin. It is a diagnosis with which I am all too familiar because, as mentioned earlier, I am presently dealing with my third type of cancer.

I had tumors removed from my skull when I was 22. We weren’t yet married but my wife Debbie stood by me. I remember giving her the option of backing out but she would hear nothing of it.

Luckily, the tumors never returned and Deb was finally able to stop worrying. Then, when I was 49, I was diagnosed with Primary Amyloidosis, a rare blood disease, second cousin to Multiple Myeloma but in leukemia form. It was so unique that I was told fewer than 200 people are diagnosed with P.A. each hear, and 90% of them on autopsy tables.

The only positive side to the diagnosis was that I received a tremendous amount of medical interest and actually had cancer centers vying for me. I chose The City of Hope because of its proximity to Bakersfield, mainly because our daughter, Aly, was still in high school. My treatment for P.A. was to have a stem cell transplant, immediately following high dose chemotherapy. At the end of my four month stay at The City of Hope, I was released.

Since there is no real cure for the disease, doctors were very reticent to use the word “remission” with me. However, I have had no symptoms since January of 2000. I think that qualifies as remission, don’t you?

Then came the fall of 2005 and yet another cancer. After experiencing horrible abdominal cramping, weight loss, and night sweats, I was diagnosed with stage four prostate cancer. The staging refers to the progress of the disease and mine had left the prostate, traveled to the lymph nodes and bones. That is where I am today.

Just as with the P.A. treatment it began immediately and I responded beautifully. Within 30 days my P.S.A. had dropped 39 points, which left Drs. Patel and Strategos, and myself, thrilled. The drop in points indicated that, not only was the treatment successful, but once again the progression of cancer had been slowed.

So, here I am, third time dealing with cancer and while the forms have been different each time, my response has been the same. Ask anyone who has dealt with a chronic illness and they will tell you that attitude is an extremely important part in coping with disease.

I have found that my positive attitude has helped me through some pretty difficult times but there are other elements to successfully fighting cancer – support and faith.

I’m very fortunate to have the support I do, especially when I see fellow patients at the C.B.C.C. who never have visitors. I always wonder how they can handle it.

Of course, the all-important aspect of having a positive outlook is essential. I have been accused of being goofy, but you know, it has served me well many times.

And then, we come to faith. Guess you can say I saved the best for last. I am not standing on a soap box, but I would if asked to do so because faith that has made all the difference.

Once I was diagnosed for the third time I had my pity party then regrouped, found my sense of humor, gathered my family and friends for their love and support, then spent some very important time with the Almighty.

I am not certain why I am still here, especially since this is “C” number three, but one thing is certain, I have a drastically changed appreciation for life.

The only reason I have written about my experience is to give hope to others that have found themselves in equally tragic situations, so, keep smiling, draw your loved ones close, and hold onto your faith, whatever that may be.

A Day in the Life: The perfect Christmas tree

As the holidays approach I am reminded of our first and only Christmas in Oregon. It was, without a doubt, one of the most unforgettable holidays we have celebrated in our 33 years of marriage.

Because all our family was still in Bakersfield, we planned to head south for the holiday. So you’re probably wondering why we would need a tree. But if you knew my wife, you wouldn’t bother to ask. Debbie is driven by holidays and the Christmas of 1979 was no exception. She was determined to squeeze every ounce out of Christmas. No sooner had the Thanksgiving turkey been consumed, boxes of decorations came out. There was only one thing missing — the Christmas tree.

Now, I’m not talking just any tree, I’m talking about a perfect tree. Of course, Debbie’s definition of perfect differs from most. Whereas I am from the it-looks-good-enough-for-me school, Debbie seeks perfection in each selection. So, the following morning we set out to get a tree. As I drove to one of the two Christmas tree lots in Bandon, I foolishly figured it would be an easy task. This particular lot was privately owned, and therefore, more expensive. The other was run by the Boy Scouts. Since I was determined that we give our money to the Boy Scouts, I first steered Debbie toward the high-priced tree lot. Luckily, she didn’t find a thing she liked.

Good, I thought, and drove to the opposite end of town. It was here that I got an inkling of what I was up against. After looking at each and every tree — I mean, every, tree — Debbie announced that she didn’t see a thing that was perfect. I asked her to explain perfect to me, and she replied that she couldn’t give an explanation, but she’d know when she saw it. With that nebulous answer, we got back into our car and drove the 20 miles to Coos Bay.

I think we must have visited six or seven lots in Coos Bay. By now it was lunch time and I was beyond being interested in the tree hunt, but not Debbie. Without even stopping to eat, she informed me that she knew why we hadn’t found the perfect tree – all these trees were from a farm. She explained that what we needed to do was just go out into the forest and find a tree. After all, we were surrounded by forest.

I was shocked. I’d always assumed the forest was sacred. Besides, it had to be owned by someone and if that someone was the U.S. Government, we definitely had no business trespassing. Yet, after I’d pleaded my case, Debbie insisted we venture off the beaten path and find that perfect tree.

We drove back to town to get my tree saw. Since there were fewer people around Bandon, I figured it might be less conspicuous if we went tree hunting in the surrounding forest. We didn’t know much about the geography of the area, but it didn’t take long before we were deep into the woods. I parked the car on the shoulder of the road. I had balked at the prospect of walking through damp undergrowth, but Debbie was adamant so we started out. Now, I’ve got to say that my wife has discriminating taste because we must have passed 50 possibilities and all of them were rejected.

The trail we were following took us deeper and deeper into the forest. I’m definitely not the mountain man type and I was spooked by each sound we heard. As we climbed a slight rise, I was determined that once there I would cut down the first tree I could carry.

After much huffing and puffing, we reached the top, only to find that the trees ended and the path led down into a sea of plants, many taller than us. Debbie pointed to a stand of trees on the opposite side of the small valley and led the way down the hill.

We probably hadn’t gone 50 yards when I realized the plants were all marijuana. In fact, we were smack dab in the middle of a pot plantation. I knew we were in danger and whispered to Debbie that she needed to follow me without making a sound. She was puzzled, and I sensed she would rebel, so I pretended to be smoke a joint then pointed to the dense growth of plants. Her eyes were suddenly wide as I made a slashing motion across my neck and as quickly as we could, Debbie and I made our way back to our car.

At that point I knew that somewhere I had lost my tree saw, but I figured it was enough of a sacrifice to save our lives. Keeping my eye on the rear view mirror, I drove like a maniac all the way back to Bandon.

Once we were back in town I pulled up to the Boy Scout lot. Debbie got out and walked over to the closest tree to our car.
“This,” she proclaimed, standing next to a Charlie Brown tree, “this is the perfect tree.”

We paid the price and quickly loaded our tree onto our car’s roof. As we drove away, I said, “I think you made a wise choice.”
Debbie, exhausted and defeated, just nodded.

Back home we took the tree inside and began the process of decoration. Like the tree in the Peanut’s cartoon, it seemed that all the little tree needed was attention, and you know what? It was beautiful. We stood there for a while, my arm around Debbie, as we gazed at the twinkling lights.

As memories of Christmas past filled our minds, Debbie sighed and said, “It’s absolutely the most perfect Christmas tree of all.”
And, you know, I couldn’t have agreed more!

A Day in the Life — Abandoned By The Sea Part 13

As we drove back over the mountain to Bandon, Debbie and I discussed why we had left California. After all, except for a few days in summer, Bakersfield weather isn’t that bad, but I guess when compared to the cool northwest, it hadn’t stood a chance. Oregon, just to say that name brings to mind trees, cranberries, and salmon. It sounds so…oh, I don’t know, refreshing, which was one thing the stale air of the Central Valley lacked. Yes, Oregon had sounded like a paradise, but what we hadn’t expected was to be cut off from family and friends. After all, in that not-too-distant past, there was on P.C. and the internet, so communication was done through letters and occasionally, by phone.

When we pulled up in front of the theater it seemed like any other Bandon afternoon -- a little drizzle and few people out and about. Debbie reached into her purse for the keys Hemmings had given her.

She then turned to me, and said, “We’ll make this work, I promise you.”

Wanting desperately to believe her, I agreed and we walked into the theater. As if on signal, Edgar appeared and began sweeping outside the theater. A rusted Volkswagen, clattering and belching exhaust, pulled up to the sidewalk and disgorged Betty. In a cloud of smoke, she came smiling through the front doors. From beneath the voluminous skirt she extracted a somewhat wilted bouquet of wispy white flowers. When Betty went behind the counter, she rummaged around until coming upon an old coffee can. Once she had filled the can with water, in went the flowers. She then announced proudly, “Queen Anne’s lace. It’s for your first night.”

“Or, last,” I mumbled under my breath, immediately reminded that while flowers are given out of love or to celebrate, they are also a mainstay at funerals. I sensed that those flowers were soon to be put to good use.

As the hour to unlock the doors approached, we became more and more apprehensive. However, when Dan arrived to work the projectors, he assured us it would be fine.

Just before he opened the door to the stairs, he turned to us and said, “Don’t let them sense your fear.”

We watched as the door shut behind him. Sensing our anxiety, Betty, who had been popping corn, rushed over and said, “He’s just teasing. Everything’s okay. Oh, look,” she pointed to the clock, “it’s show time!”

Debbie settled herself in the booth then I cautiously opened the front doors. As the Saturday evening crowd surged into the cramped lobby there was heightened tension in the air. Hemmings was conspicuously absent and the Bandonites, like so many savvy hunters, sensed that the prey was weak. With Debbie safely tucked into the ticket booth, it left just me and Betty to man the snack bar. Things went well enough, and although I had expected at least one person to ask about Hemmings, not a single enquiry was made. Did they know already? Of course they did. After all, this was a small town. As we were soon to find out, everyone knew everything about each other.

The show began without a hitch. Betty, flashlight in hand, walked into the darkened auditorium, then joined her friends in their smoky sector. I stood on the opposite side and watched as a Frisbee was thrown from aisle to aisle. Even one person in Betty’s crowd caught the Frisbee and tossed it into the center section. There was a madcap, carnival feeling to the crowd. As I stood there, immobile, I realized that this was Betty’s job. So, I walked back into the lobby, crossed to the other side, and walked down the aisle. I stood next to Betty and asked her to come out to the lobby. Her zany smile made me even more frustrated.

Once there I closed the curtain and turned to the grinning flower child.

“Why don’t you do something?” I demanded.

“Do what?” she asked with a vacant expression.

“Well,” I blurted out, “for starters you could do your job and control the crowd. After all, you’re the one with the flashlight.”

She thought for a minute, then set the flashlight on the counter, “Here, you do it. Besides, my old man has been after me to quit.”

I gaped open mouth as she turned with a swish of her skirt and reentered the auditorium.

“What have I done? What have I done?” I kept asking myself.

Debbie came out of the booth just to see Betty walk away.

“What was that all about?” she asked.

Before I could answer, Dan came stumbling down the stairs, pale and definitely nauseated. He handed me his gloves.

“Gotta go. Sick,” he managed, “but you can do it.” With that, he hurried out the door into the dark of night.

Accusingly, I turned to Debbie, “Well, Miss I-can-run-a-theater, what do you propose we do now?”

For the very first time since our Oregon adventure began, I saw a cloud of regret cross my wife’s face. “I don’t know,” she offered, then walked back into the ticket booth and shut the door. I was left standing in the lobby holding gloves and now in possession of a flashlight.

A Day in The Life: Abandoned By The Sea Part 12

After hearing the news that we would be in total charge the following night, I looked back at Debbie, expecting something, anything, but she only smiled weakly. Of course, I knew the answer already—we were committed for our entire summer, and it wasn’t even the 4^th of July! Those remaining two months loomed before us, and though it should have been a time to relax—a time to get acquainted with our new home, we were shackled to the decrepit theater. We were doomed.

During the return trip to Coos Bay , the only sound was that of the windshield wipers. Those frayed rubber blades only did an adequate job, mainly because I hadn’t changed them in three years. Foolish Californians! So, instead of talking, we listened to the sweeping, back and forth, motion. After all, there was really nothing to say. Of course, I longed to blame Debbie for the loss of our summer, but the truth is, I only had myself to blame for not speaking up.

Just as we pulled up next to the old house on Telegraph Hill, the sky opened up. Where there had been a continual drizzle, now was a downpour, the likes of which we’d never seen. We sat quietly watching the water run down the windshield. Finally, the silence was broken.

“Did you bring an umbrella?” I asked.

She replied, “No, I though you had.

“Nope,” I answered, “sorry.”

But maybe we can wait it out.”

Sounded logical, especially if it was a California rain, but we had no idea how much it rained in the Pacific Northwest. We sat and sat until finally we’d had it.

“What if it never stops?” I asked. “What do we do?”

“Let’s make a break for it,” Debbie said. I nodded and we quickly flung open the car doors and made a dash for the stairway. Since our apartment was on the third floor, the stairway made two switchbacks before reaching the top floor. By the time we staggered into the apartment, we were soaked to the skin.

As we peeled off the wet clothes, Debbie said, “I will never again make fun of women in rain gear.”

The next morning we awoke to rain. Since we had both grown up in the Central Valley, we were used to sunshine and lots of it. So, it’s no surprise that the rain was starting to wear on us. I mean, in Bakersfield a rainstorm made the news, so to shake ourselves out of the doldrums, we decided to go out to breakfast and then go shopping at the indoor mall.

This time we took our umbrellas and pulled them out when we parked the car. Wouldn’t you know it – it was a Saturday morning, so we had to park quite a distance from the mall. Armed with our trusty umbrellas, we were taking no chances, but while our head and shoulders stayed dry, our shoes began leaking. So, by the time we made it to the shopping center, we both were sloshing around in wet socks. We were miserable.

“How do they deal with all this rain?” Debbie asked as we sat down on a bench.

I shrugged and slipped my shoes off of my feet, pealed off the sodden socks, and started to wring the water from them into a planter. I was beyond wondering what people would think, but when I realized that I had no intention of putting them back on, I slipped on my shoes and tossed the socks into a trash can. Debbie followed suit and soon we were both walking down the mall. As luck would have it, a shoe store was just around the corner from the main entrance. Making squishy sounds, we walked into the store and were immediately approached by a young salesgirl.

She smiled and looked down at our feet. “Need some rain boots?”

“I guess so,” I answered and we picked out a matching pair of green boots. We also bought two pair of slip on tennis shoes, and dry socks, to wear as we explored the mall. With our wet shoes in a bag we headed out of the store, looking for some serious raingear.

Poor Debbie – she had always taken pride in the way she looked and dressed and now she was reduced to wearing rubber boots. As we walked through the mall she became more critical of the people who passed us.

“Did you see her? She’s not even wearing makeup! And that one over there – her hair isn’t done. Come to think of it, none of the women we’re seeing seem to care about their appearance.”

“Maybe the climate forces them to simplify,” I offered, but Debbie would have none of it.

She shook her head. “Doesn’t matter – there’s no excuse for it. My gosh, we’re out in public. Have you ever seen me go to a department store dressed like that?”

I shook my head, but thought to myself, “If she’s willing to wear rain boots in a mall, who knows what next year will bring?”

A Day In The Life: Abandoned by the-Sea -- Part 11

Since it was Hemmings' practice to allow anyone in free after the ticket booth closed, there were now more people crammed into the lobby than before.

I went back inside and helped serve popcorn until Hemmings came downstairs and asked me to follow him. This was the first time he had actually addressed me by name, although he did call me Tom instead of Joe.

At the top of the stairs was a battered wooden door with the words "Projection Booth" stenciled on the wood. I followed Hemmings into the small dark room. If I had thought the theater was creepy, then the projection booth was doubly so. I swear that the ceiling was only inches above my head, and the only light was from a pair of red light bulbs. I had never been in a projection booth before and was stunned by the size of the projectors. That’s right, there were two of them set in front of their own windows. There was also a sulfur-like smell that I couldn’t identify.

Hemmings introduced me to his brother and clone, Dan. The stooped, middle-aged man wore coveralls, a pair of thick glasses, and had heavy leather gloves that reached halfway up his forearm. He nodded in my general direction, then with a pincer-like tool, grabbed a rod from a box on a shelf and stood watching the projector, not the movie. A glow came from a small window on the side. When Dan opened the window, the sulfur smell became stronger. The movie reel was about finished, and I watched as Dan flipped off the projector, than ran around to the other one and started it, where the action continued. He then returned to the first projector, pulled out a burned rod and inserted the new one, then replaced the reel with the next in the series. All of this happened without a major lapse in the movie, and within a very short time.

It was insane to expect me to learn how to operate such a system. Honestly, I had trouble setting the time on an alarm clock. I was certain to fail as a projectionist. Not only was it a job where time was of the utmost importance, those small rods were burning –– that’s what produced the light source. When he yelped in pain and mumbled, “burn,” I understood quickly why Dan wore those heavy gloves.

I was determined not to ever be in the position where I would have to fill in for him. Besides, I needed my hands to write on a chalk board. No way, I told myself, and without a word I left the booth and went back down the stairs to the lobby. So, as I stood there shaking my head, Debbie noticed the distressed look on my face and came from behind the counter.

“What’s the matter?” she asked.

Instead of answering, I asked, “Exactly how long did you promise to watch the theater?”

Before she could respond, Hemmings came down the stairs and handed a set of keys to Debbie. “Well, kids,” he said, “that’s about all there is to running a theater. You should do fine tomorrow.”

“Tomorrow?! What’s this tomorrow?!” I blurted out.

He smiled that toothy grin and said, “The contract does state that in your friends’ absence, you will manage the theater, does it not?”

“Yes, but ...” I stammered. “I guess so.”

“Don’t worry, you’ll do fine,” he replied. “Besides, you do have Betty.”
I glanced at Betty, who smiled. Of course she smiled –– she was stoned out of her mind. At this point, even Edgar was starting to seem normal.

I prayed that we would wake up from the nightmare. I desperately wanted this to be the result of indigestion, but try as I might, there was no way to wish ourselves out of this mess. Like it or not, we were stuck running the theater.

I’d never hated a building so much in my life. We were definitely up that proverbial creek, and not a paddle in sight.

A Day In The Life: Abandoned by the Sea Part 10

As the small lobby began to fill, I stepped behind the counter, just to stay out of the way. Since I was now on the other side of the counter, people began to ask for different snacks, and before long I found myself taking orders, filling tubs with popcorn, and changing soft drink tanks.

This was actually fun, and once I stopped fretting over the loss of our summer, I relaxed.

On more than one occasion I noticed people discussing the two of us. At the time I imagined that they were just curious about the strangers in town. We really wanted to fit in, but when they thought we weren’t looking, their shrugs and smirks underscored that they considered us to be something from another planet.

Once the rush had cleared, I helped Betty by popping corn and restocking candy. While we worked, she explained that Hemmings' brother ran the projectors and would probably teach me, just in case.

I wasn’t sure what just in case meant, but figured it couldn’t be any more difficult than operating a projector at school. After all, just threading film and closing the cover was second nature to me. I foolishly assumed it would be much the same.

The movie began as soon as the last patron had walked into the auditorium. At that time, Betty removed the key from the register, untied her apron and grabbed a flashlight from a shelf under the counter, explaining that part of her duties was to maintain control in the theater.

I stood at the top of the aisle and watched as Betty walked halfway down and joined a group of friends. She sat there chatting while a hum of conversation filled the small theater, oblivious to the noise. The movie had begun, and yet people kept talking. The teacher in me was incensed, but I didn’t have the flashlight. Besides, I kept reminding myself that it was not my theater, my job, or even my concern.

While I was standing there, I thought I heard the trickling sound of water. I walked over to the sloping side of the theater, and sure enough, there was water coming into the theater. I had been concerned when I had seen the slant, but water in the theater? I couldn’t believe what I was seeing. If this had been California, the place would have been condemned.

I knew that Hemmings was upstairs, so I looked around for Betty to tell her about the water. When I spotted her in the middle of her friends, I suddenly saw the bright red dot of what I assumed was a lit cigarette. Foolish me. Once that smell made its way to me, I knew that this was no regular tobacco. I hurried back to the lobby where Debbie was just filling a tub with popcorn. I quickly motioned for her to follow me outside.

The sinking theater all but forgotten, I blurted out, “You won’t believe this, but they’re smoking pot in there!”

When she gave me that look that said I had lost my mind, I took her hand and we went back into the theater. Debbie and I sat in the back row. Sure enough, the cloying scent drifted in our way, affirming that indeed, the natives were smoking joints. It was at that moment that Debbie’s resolve faltered.

“Where are we?” she asked.

At that point I should have been the sympathetic spouse, but I just shrugged and reached into the bag of popcorn she had brought. I longed to say, “I told you so,” but I kept my mouth shut. Soon, we were watching "The Brides of Dracula" and munching away. It seemed kind of cool not to have to pay a cent for admission or snacks, but believe me, by the time Alex and Diane arrived, we had paid in ways we could not have imagined.

During a brief intermission, there was a rush on the one operable bathroom. There was no lock on the door, but when a girl was in the tiny room, others stood watch outside. Debbie and I helped Betty at the concession counter, which by now had started to feel like a job. We were standing there when I noticed water seeping from under the bathroom door. I pointed it out to Betty, who merely shrugged.

“It happens every time,” she explained. “Kids plug it up. You wanna take care of it? I’m busy. Plunger’s in the storage closet.”
I gave Debbie my best glare, and mumbling, “I went to college to do this?”

Armed with cleaner, gloves and a plunger, I went to clean the stopped up toilet. When I entered the bathroom it looked like every ounce of paper had been stuffed into the bowl. At this point I was frightened about what my class would be like in September.

After spending 15 minutes in the cramped room, I definitely had to get some fresh air. Gasping, I pushed through the double doors and took a deep breath. As I stood under the marquee, it started to rain, and I don’t mean rain in a California way, but real you-can’t-see-2-feet-in-front-of-you rain. It was a portent of things to come.

E-mail Joe at: jtomasi@bak.rr.com

A Day In The Life: Abandoned-By-The-Sea — Part Nine

I walked outside the theater and sat on the curb while Debbie spoke with Hemmings. It was deathly quiet in town so when I heard someone approaching I looked up. There came Edgar sweeping toward me — ski hat, mittens, and all.

Just before he reached the theater, he crossed the street and continued sweeping the sidewalk. I was watching him when the shrill whistle at the lumber mill blew. I jumped up, looking around like a frightened rabbit. I then heard laughter — the owner of the Crab Shack. As if it wasn’t bad enough that I was trapped by the theater, I had to endure the man’s smirk. I took comfort in the hope that karma would prevail.

After a couple of hours, we finally left Bandon and headed for Coos Bay and the only semblance of home we had — that third floor apartment. Just as we were pulling into the parking spot, our landlords, the Wongs, pulled up next to us.

I nodded and turned to go upstairs but was stopped when Mr. Wong asked, “You wouldn’t happen to have a cat up there, would you? You know how we feel about animals.”

I swallowed and replied, “Of course not.”

We then hurried to the long flight of stairs that led to the apartment. No sooner had we closed the door than Debbie blurted out, “They know! What are we going to do?”

All I could say was, “Nothing.”

We flopped down on the mattress and sat there, petting our cat and contemplating the events that had brought us to this spot. It was getting more difficult to recapture that pioneer spirit. After all, we had left a perfectly comfortable home, a single-story home, with no one to tell us what to do.

Where had we gone wrong?

My instinct was to blame Debbie, but the truth was, I had been the one to push the move to Oregon. I sighed, realizing that, like it or not, we’d be making trips up those stairs many, many times to come. And yes, the apartment was cramped and sparsely decorated, but we vowed not to spend any money on unnecessary items. After all, we already owned everything we could possibly need, but where, exactly, our possessions were was another question. So, for the time being, discussion over our belongings became a moot point, because we didn’t even have a place to put them. We had to make do with our minimalist surroundings, and since we had few clothes, we had to do laundry more often.

The next morning we awoke to a perfect day. The sky was the bluest of blues, and there was not a cloud in sight. Once again we allowed ourselves to believe that rain in Oregon was over-exaggerated. Maybe it wasn’t so bad at all. For the next couple of days we stopped fretting over our misfortune and began to focus on the beauty of our surroundings and the slower pace — the reasons we had decided to move to Oregon in the first place.
Just when I was totally caught up in the euphoria, Debbie dropped the bomb.

“I promised Mr. Hemmings we’d come to the theater to learn the ropes,” she said.

I protested, arguing that we only agreed to “watch” the theater, not to “run” it. Of course, she reminded me that Hemmings was taking off on a vacation, but stated that his employees actually ran the theater — all we had to do was oversee things.

Well, that sounded simple enough, so I promised Debbie to “lighten up” and we headed back to Bandon.

Debbie was excited but I was skeptical. Who knew what would happen?

We drove over the Coquille River Bridge and I noticed that it was high tide. I knew that it could only mean trouble for the theater, but obviously I was the only one concerned about water running into the theater, so I didn’t even bring it up. We parked across the street from the theater, right in front of the Crab Shack. I glared at the owner, silently putting a curse on all his progeny, but he ignored me and walked back into the kitchen. It appeared that we were the only car on the street, which I felt was a good thing — it could only mean there wouldn’t be a crowd at the theater. Of course, Debbie had to burst my bubble by reminding me that it was a little early — business would pick up later.

Hemmings had just replaced light bulbs around the ticket booth and was storing the ladder when we walked in. He immediately took Debbie to the ticket booth to explain the ticket-selling process, but he was pleased when Debbie told him she had sold tickets in a theater when she was a teen. He left her in charge of tickets with the assurance that there was only one showing per evening. That didn’t sound too bad, but what Hemmings failed to mention was the fact that the theater was the only entertainment in town. That’s right, the only entertainment, except, of course, when Bandon High School was playing a game. Of course, this was the summer, so we had the people of Bandon all to ourselves — definitely not a good thing.

Right off the bat, my wife had a job. I, on the other hand, just hung around the lobby, watching the concession girl, whose name was Betty.

That seemed like a common enough name, but when I asked her what her last name was, I got a different impression.
She laughed and said, “I’m Betty from the jetty — everyone knows that.”

I wanted to ask what a jetty was, but I felt it was safer to just smile at this flower child — flowers in her braided hair, long Madras skirt and all. Compared to Hemmings, she was extremely pleasant. In fact, too giggly and nice. It just wasn’t normal. I was trying to figure out what was wrong with her when I caught the sickeningly sweet scent of marijuana that clung to her clothes.

That explained it all, but I hardly had time to think about it because the unique residents of Bandon-by-the-Sea began to trickle into the theater.

As I watched the parade of hippies, fishermen and loggers pass before me, I began to wonder just how long we would survive this far from civilization.

E-mail Joe at: joe jtomasi@bak.rr.com

A Day In The Life: Abandoned-By-The-Sea — Part Eight

Convinced that our belongings would soon arrive in Oregon, we purchased sparingly at the local K-Mart. Coos Bay was small, especially in California terms, so it didn’t take us long to find the store. Because there was no refrigerator, we had to buy an ice chest, and rather than purchase sheets, we bought a pair of sleeping bags. Adding to that a pot, pan, two bowls, two plates, two glasses, and plastic utensils, we were equipped to weather this momentary inconvenience. Once we had unloaded our supplies at the apartment, Deb and I decided to drive over the hill to Bandon.

Just as it was at Easter break, the air was cool, crisp, and fragrant with the scent of ocean and forest. Surely the fact that our house was nearly finished was only a minor setback – or so we thought. As happens so often, reality shattered our euphoric mood. When we turned onto Eighth Court, we noticed that our “house” was still in the framing stage, and here it was, eleven in the morning and not a single workman in sight. Since the driveway hadn’t been poured yet, we parked on the gravel road, stunned.

Debbie kept repeating, “Peggy said it was nearly finished, I know she said nearly finished.”

It was so depressing that we didn’t even get out of the car. After a while, we drove to Peggy’s office, only to find she was out of her office. Somehow, I felt she must have been warned we were coming to town. So, with no one to complain to, we drove around the picturesque seaside town before finding a restaurant and having lunch. We were depressed, to say the least, but with no foreseeable end to our dilemma, we returned to Coos Bay to treat ourselves to a night on the town. What we needed was a laugh, so after dinner we chose to see a Steve Martin movie, The Jerk, and it did the trick. The intense feeling of doom evaporated with that hilarious movie. After laughing for two hours, we decided to call home. It had started to rain, so we both crowded into the phone booth and called each of our parents’ homes—careful to sound as upbeat as possible as we reported that we would be moving into our home within a few days. We then called Alex and Diane and told them the truth but they cheered us with the news that their house was now in escrow and they’d be able to join us with sixty days. Alex assured me that we were all in this together, but it was hard to feel warm-fuzzies with them hundreds of miles away. Before we hung up Alex reminded me to contact Hemmings, the owner of The Bandon. Grudgingly, I said we would.

The next day we drove back to Bandon, and this time were able to catch Peggy in her office. She was sympathetic and apologized that she’d not been available the day before and then suggested we all drive over to the house. When we got there the workmen were framing the roof. We were in luck because the general contracter, Mike Anderson, had just arrived. Mike was sympathetic and explained that shortages had slowed down the construction. That seemed reasonable enough, but later, when we drove by the busy Bandon Lumber Mill, we were a little skeptical about his excuse.

Realizing that there was nothing we could do but wait, we dropped Peggy off at her office, assured that she would stay on top of things. Just as we were pulling onto the highway, Debbie remembered our promise to let Mr. Hemmings know we were in town, so we turned onto Third Street and parked across the street from the theater. It was almost like a flashback to see Edgar sweeping the sidewalk, wearing the same ski hat and mittens. Through the open door we could see activity behind the concession counter. Eager to be part of the theater, Debbie bounded from the car and crossed the street. I sat there and stared. When had I agreed to this, and what, exactly, was our responsibility here? We had no percentage in the theater, and other than helping our friends, we had no reason to waste our time.

To tell the truth, the theater was creepy, the owner was creepy, and Edgar, poor old Edgar, was icing on the cake—but at least he didn’t speak. As I stepped into the theater, I saw my wife talking animatedly with Hemmings. I didn’t even bother trying to interject a comment. Instead, I was trying to process the aroma of freshly popped corn, intermingled with the stench of mold. As I walked up to meet the concession girl, long hair, peasant blouse, a sprig of some flower in her hair, I chuckled to myself wondering if her name was Moon Flower or Sun Beam. As it turned out, I wasn’t too far off.