Hello from my corner of the world. It’s not a corner really, but a facet, an infinitesimal facet at that, one tiny sliver of the human experience. I write to you from Guido Street, a street many have insisted can’t possibly exist.
“Isn’t that a racial slur?” these well-intentioned people have asked. Upon examination, I learn that, yes, some decades ago, mainly on the East Coast of the U.S., the at-one-time perfectly respectable Italian name “Guido” became a derogatory term for a stereotypical working class Italian-American male. This may explain why some of our street’s denizens insist on pronouncing the name “Gee-doh” rather than the correct “Gwee-doh,” presumably out of an abundance of caution.
Anyway, Guido is my street, a street that used to be called “A Lane in Spain” due to the plentitude of Spanish-Mediterranean houses in the tract, each different from the next. Because it’s a cul-de-sac, our street is special. Since torrents of cars can’t hurtle through to the other side, we are able to use the street as a kind of gathering space.
Pre-pandemic, we typically held several block parties during the summer and fall. Little kids on bikes would launch themselves from a ramp erected on the street. Smaller kids would roam in bands from lawn to lawn as the sun fled the sky. Tables heaped with cakes and cole slaws beckoned, while dads bar-b-cued steaks, fajitas, sausage, and whatever else people brought for the grill.
These days, the street is quieter. When the pandemic began, there was a sort of festive atmosphere. People were scared, but many were also delighted at not having to commute hours to their office jobs in Silicon Valley or San Francisco. Kids were thrilled to be sprung from school. I saw them climbing trees and scaling hills for the first time along nearby Peralta Creek. Posses of them wove through the streets on bikes at all hours. A neighbor sitting tall and pretty pedaled by on her own bike each evening with a cocktail in one hand.
These days, with the pandemic wearing on, and on, and on, and with the scary new variants arising, people seem to be more battened down.
Today, B. and I hiked in the Las Trampas Regional Wilderness, out by Alamo and Mt. Diablo. I chose it after googling “most remote Bay Area hikes,” but when we reached the trailhead, we were crestfallen to find three parking lots full of cars, and densely packed lines of cars parked along the roadside as well.
Lucky for us, the space is so vast, and the grade so challenging, that we quickly left most folks behind. We took the Chamise Trail up to Las Trampas Ridge, passing several types of fragrant sage, mint-green manzanita, blazing red-trunked madrone, and dozens of ancient, moss-covered oaks with curving branches that touched the ground as if in homage.
The steep hills around us were charmingly terraced in concentric rings by the hooves of generations of cattle on the surrounding ranch lands.
As we climbed, B. pondered the current series we’re watching: “Downton Abbey.” (Yes, I realize we are years late on this once-upon-a-time fad, but better late than never, and boy is it good.) B. calls the show “Downtown Alley,” one of the many humorous language tics he’s developed since beginning Lithium for bi-polar disorder six months ago. (He also calls “mouth” “mouse” for no reason we can discern.) Mind you, he doesn’t notice he’s said “Downtown Alley” instead of “Downton Abbey.” I smile.
B. is the bravest person I know. Lithium is no fun to take. Each morning and evening for at least half an hour after taking his pill, B. sits with his eyes closed on the couch managing waves of nausea. But, Lithium is also giving B. a livable life, for the first time ever. He is blessedly not manic and by the grace of God, he’s left the terrifying depression behind, too. For now. Hopefully forever. The new B. is kind, gentle, helpful, and… slightly odd. Somewhat child-like. His short-term memory is shaky, another side effect of Lithium. But he can focus and complete tasks, for the first time ever.
These pandemic days with B. are sweet, to be honest. We need each other right now. B. can’t return to the co-op where he rents a room in Berkeley. He’s still afraid of that place, those people. Our kids are away—Nina at college in Los Angeles, and Jim house-sitting at a friend’s near Lake Merritt. For the duration of this pandemic, then, B. and I keep each other company. We circumambulate in our own orbits during the work days. He scans boxes and boxes of family photos—three generations’ worth—while I work remotely.
In the evenings, we make dinner. Lately, it’s often B. who makes dinner. Lithium has also, surprisingly, uncovered a discerning chef in B. Somehow, somewhere along the road of his life, he learned how to cook, and I never knew. After more than twenty years of either perfunctory stir-fry or boxed macaroni and cheese, it turns out B. knows how to make all kinds of delicious things. Each week, he makes a roasted Indian chicken dish, bright yellow from turmeric, redolent of ginger, garlic, and—saffron! Who knew B. was into saffron? But, he is. He’s found a source and lovingly stores his vivid crimson crocus stamens in a corner on the top shelf of the door of the fridge.
I’m deeply grateful that we still have B. with us. B., my ex, a VIP in our family. After surviving four serious depressions and several hospitalizations over five years, it’s dawned on me and the kids that B. may not be able to live alone, that we may always be taking care of him, one way or another. I am immensely grateful that we figured this out before we lost B. We are committed to keeping him safe, the kids and I, for the foreseeable and the non-foreseeable future. For the duration.
For now, then, it’s quiet nights, fires in the fireplace, posh British castles on the TV screen, brilliant yellow chicken dishes, blues on the radio atop the fridge, and the Bay Area trails we’re blessed with. Forests black with redwoods, golden hills speckled with ancient oaks, grassy terraces with nursing calves teetering upon them.
A good life, in other words.
What a joy it is to read YOU again.
I’m glad B. has you (and you him). It’s time you got a break from cooking.