I have been weighed down lately by worries and concerns. Attempting self-prescribed SST (Sand & Surf Therapy) I went to my favorite spot at Capo Beach this afternoon with my beach chair, towel, umbrella, and all-purpose tote in tow (thanks, Shannon Sorensen, for this much-used gift from Char and Cam Archibald's wedding).
After having just barely driven out of my apartment complex, I saw a woman hitchhiking with a half-gallon of milk in her hand. (I call this my "opportunity corner". Last night, as I was heading to my Sound of Music rehearsal, at the same corner a woman was sitting on the ground, confused and bleeding, with her bike laying next to her. After bandaging her up as best I could with the items in my car, I sat on the sidewalk with her until her boyfriend came and took her home.) My new hitchhiker friend, Theresa, apparently works at the grocery store a block up the street from me and had gone into work to pick up her check. However, the line for cashing it was so long she missed her bus. She asked if I could just drive her down to the PCH (1 1/2 miles west) so she could catch another bus into San Clemente. I offered to take her home instead since I was heading to the beach anyway and she wasn't that far out of the way.
Our conversation consisted of her telling me her story. She was 50 years old, a recovering alcoholic, had a tax lien from the IRS and wage garnishment, lived in "transitional" housing, and was reclaiming her life. I asked her which AA group she attended and she said it was called "What's Good About Today". I asked her what motivated her to stop drinking and she said she was tired of run-ins with the police, jail time, job losses, fights with her boyfriend, and beating people up. (She may have lost a fight or two as I observed she was missing a few teeth--and apparently everyone in this town has a boyfriend but me.) When we got to her place I told her maybe I'd see her at the grocery store as she smiled and waved good-by.
Having detoured beyond the Circle K where I originally planned on picking up a soda for the beach, I drove back to Costco to buy a hot dog and a Diet Coke--consistently the cheapest meal in town. As I was putting ice in my cup, a boy around 8 yrs old was struggling with his pink lemondade. I asked him what the matter was. He said, "It keeps leaking on me--the lid doesn't fit". I lifted up the lid to discover the lemonade was all the way to the top. "Sip a little out first," I instructed, "and then let's try this again". He sipped and I secured the lid for him. He said "thanks" and ran off to find his mom.
Finally arriving at Capo I set up my heretofore mentioned paraphernalia and reached for a library book I'm studying called "The 10 Best Questions for Living with Alzheimer's" when along came 20 running boys and men, ranging in age from 5 to 25, who were were apparently involved in some sort of fitness camp and had decided to set up in front of me.
"Squat 10 times," "Lift those legs," "Run in place" were the commands I heard as I ate my hot dog and lazily turned over. Now this is a large beach. I don't know why they had chosen this particular spot, the one blocking my direct view of the ocean. But when they were all done I heard "Hey, let's take a picture of us". I looked up as they crowded together and one of them said, "Turn this way to show off your abs." I turned the other way to hide mine. And then I heard, "Hey, let's take our picture in front of a girl...but not her. Find a pretty girl." I couldn't bare to look up and see to whom they were referring.
They left. I read my book.
And then, just when I figured it was time for me to head home I heard great laughter and giggling. Down in the waves, closer to the shoreline were 2 little girls about 6 years old. They were doing cartwheels and somersaults and rolling around in the water. Sometimes their legs were straight. Sometimes they fell sideways, knocked over by the waves. Always they giggled and laughed and shouted with glee, encouraging each other with "try this!" or "look at me!" I thought about the sand their moms would have to wash out of their hair and all the sand in all the wrong places on their little bodies. And I thought, maybe next time, not today, but maybe next time I might do a cartwheel and somersault in the sea.
Feeling refreshed and with my load lightened I went home. As hard as it may be to believe, (C'est incredible! the French would say) I knew a woman in Texas named Sandy Butts. Next time I hope that's what they'll call me.
I'm visiting at my sister, Marlene's, in Granite Bay. The missionaries called to say they needed to borrow a book and would drop by to pick it up. A few minutes ago as we were sitting in the living room we saw the missionaries walking up the pathway to the front porch.
