One 10-foot Bronze Pirate, please. Hold the Anchovies. 

We woke up late. Raylan and I decided it was a fine day to go over to the ocean, and headed west to Dillon Beach. As we rounded the last corner down to the sand, just on the south side of the road, we were surprised to find a 10-foot tall pirate statue. He was majestic! His left arm held high, he wields a sword like he means it.

After a lovely time in the warm sun and sea air, we drove back up to the Pirate, and got out of the car, intending to learn about him. We found what looks like the remains of two cannon mounts and not one word about the Pirate! There was evidence that at one time, possibly, two plaques had been set. They were gone as well.

So began the hunt. Driving along, we took turns googling pirate Dillon Beach, pirate Tomales Bay, pirate origin, Dillon Beach. Nothing. We learned online that George Dillon founded Dillon Beach in 1958. Plenty of webpages talked about pirates up and down the coast, but no-one could tell us the name of this particular pirate. Some webpage even declared there had only been one California pirate, a Frenchman by the name of Hippolyte de Bouchard, who raided the Presidio of Monterey in 1818. We were stumped and couldn’t believe that there had been only one pirate in all of California.

One post said it was a statue to commemorate George Dillon. We figured there had to be more to it than that. We drove by the Tomales Regional History Center, which was closed for the day. We decided to call them later.

We put the search on the back burner, realizing we were hungry and a good pizza was in order. Not just a good pizza – we wanted a great pizza. Yelping Petaluma on the phone, we chose Hector’s Pizza.

We almost drove off after seeing the storefront shop. Yelp gave Hector’s four and a half stars, though, so we went for it.

We were shown to our table by Daniella. Raylan asked where the bathroom was. Seconds after going through the door, he rushed back out, grabbing my hand. “You’ve gotta see this!”

In the corner of the hallway leading to the bathrooms, was a second magnificent version of our pirate!

We read a little history about Hec the Pirate. Born in Italy, he took off as a young man to pirate and sail the seas, ending up jailed in America. He and his pirate friends Luc, Jean Lafitte’s grandson, and Bluebeard, Blackbeard’s nephew, escaped a North Carolina Prison in a bloody battle in 1845. They fought their way onto a ship sitting in the harbor, complete with crew, and took off, sailing south around Florida and onward toward California’s west coast.

They pirated their hearts out, battled here and there, and by the time the ship, the Painter, arrived in northern California, they were low on rations – and spirit. Luc and Bluebeard had both died recently in a fight near San Diego. Hec was on his own with a straggly crew in his pocket.

On March 1st, 1848, the ship threw anchor in Tomales Bay, at Dillon Beach. The men were tired of marauding and pirating. They crawled into their little dinghies and made their way to shore. There were a few settlers there, a small camp of Indians, and luckily for everyone, they worked together and created friendships among themselves.

Of course, you may remember, 1848 was also the start of the Gold Rush. It turns out, Hec wanted in on it. He and a few of his crew, and a couple Indians, traveled up to the mountains and by god, they struck it rich. They couldn’t believe their luck. They didn’t wait around to see what would happen next, either.

They made their way back to Dillon Beach for the summer, and traveled inland in the fall for supplies in a little town of Petaluma . New businesses were starting up to supply the surge of incoming residents north of San Francisco. Hec and his friends wanted in on that, too.

The consummate leader, Hec looked around and settled on opening a restaurant. He remembered fondly the dinner pies that his grandmother had made almost every day of his young life. He opened his first Pizza shop and lived over that little hole in the wall, never marrying, until one day, while throwing a pizza into the oven, he had a heart attack and died right there on the spot.

Hec the pirate!

We asked Hector, the current owner about Hec and the statue and the story. He confirmed it all. That statue in the bathroom hallway was the original Hec statue. Somebody copied it later and sculpted it at the beach, complete with the details of Hec’s life as a pirate. Hector told us though, a few of Hec’s descendants stole the plaques. They wanted to keep Hec’s life to themselves.

It was so funny.

Back to the Hector’s in Petaluma. You can’t find better pizza – and caesar salad – than what we found at Hector’s. Even the menus have a fine rendition of Hec the Pirate on the back cover.

I’m giving Hector five stars.

She Made a Difference

I like to think mothers the world over do their absolute best to provide loving arms, direction, laughter, and nurturance to the children in their lives. Some mothers do a better job than others – I know that. It’s not always easy. Or ever easy.

Other women, who haven’t birthed one baby, give their hearts and love to little ones each and every day. In my own heart, I know these women. I feel their love, their pain, their tears of joy, and the sadness in their hearts.

I salute you all. To my family and friends who are mothers, to the mothers of my family and friends, and their mothers, to the women who love and cherish their family, whatever that family looks like, to all our children — we are the lucky ones.

My own life has been heavily influenced by my mother and I wouldn’t change a thing for all we shared together. She taught me to stand by my friends and family, no matter what. She taught me to never give up my dreams and to always stand up for myself and for those in need. She taught me to keep peace in my heart, and in my world.

She made a difference. I love her so much.❤️

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It’s a Ride, Not a Race.

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I celebrated Earth Day out on it.

It was to be my first 50-mile bike ride in support of Cycle for Sight/Enchanted Hills Camp/Lighthouse for the Blind. I’ve been training for it. I ended up cutting the ride short—not because I couldn’t physically do it. Oh…I could have. Definitely could have.

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No, I had a big Writers Club event at one o’clock. How the universe put together possibly my two biggest personal events of the year in one day, I have no idea.

I suppose it fits—a bike ride—and the release of a new book. Both treks take you up and down, over and over again, alternately speeding and holding back before coasting successfully across the finish line.

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I arrived at the staging area at 7:30 in the morning, and commenced riding with the early birds at 8 o’clock, bike bag laden with water/gatorade and a granola bar. It turned out I didn’t need any of it. The Ride rest stations took good care of us. As I wheeled along with dozens of other riders, passing and being passed, I kept reminding myself – it’s a ride, not a race, it’s a ride, not a race.

The morning was glorious with stunning cloud formations and shoots of warm sunshine. I started out in leggings, silky red cashmere gloves, sleeveless gym shirt, and two jackets. By the time I hit the first rest stop, those jackets and gloves were packed inside my bag, my skin free to feel the cool air as I whizzed along.

We pedaled 7 or 8 easy miles through vineyards, alongside streams and past lush greenery north of the start line until we arrived at the Yountville Veteran’s Home. We sailed up the wide driveway, along Memorial Mile lined with staked posters calling out the names of Veterans and Ride supporters. Donations to the Ride are split between The Lighthouse for the Blind and Pathway Home, a Veterans Organization.

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It was a quick porta-potty stop and several minutes of walking and stretching. The Ride Support crews served up a huge spread of orange sections, power drinks, water, cookies, and hard boiled eggs. I grabbed a few bites before heading off.

On the way down the hill, I purposely wheeled close to a 90-year-old-ish Vet with a WWII ball cap on his hairy head. He was in his wheelchair watching the riders on parade. I thought of all our old dads who’ve served, and called out to him, “Thank you for your service!” I was more than happy with the slight smile and nod I received in reply.

I’ve ridden many miles in the valley—up, down, and across. My longest until yesterday was 27 miles, sometime in the past few weeks. At one point on the route, when the race guides suggested going left (north), I thought better and went south, to the right. I was thinking of the time and wanting to head back.

I was sailing along when I looked over to see a well-known and oft-visited landmark—Mumm’s tasting room. That shouldn’t be there, I thought, starting to laugh. After my initial surprise, I was cracking up. I hadn’t been riding south after all. I’d been getting in several extra miles to the north!

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There was no traffic so I quickly made a nice wide u-turn and headed south. For real. A few miles later, just after stopping at the top of an incline, I texted one of my friends to check in, and sailed down a rough patch of bike lane. FWHKISH! What was that noise? I slowly braked, and looked down to see a rear flat tire.

Was I ever surprised. There was a brand new tire/tube on that wheel.

I wasn’t only thinking about the flat, and what to do about it—I was thinking about the next big event I  needed to get to. I didn’t think I had time for a flat. In less than two minutes though, two biker-angels came to my rescue.

The first, a rider about my age, sailed across the road from his own ride north. “Could you use some help?”

Laughing, I answered, “Yes I could.”

He asked me a few more questions. To which I replied, “No, I don’t have an extra tube. No, I don’t know how to fix a flat, either.”

IMG_9437Standing at his bike, he answered, “I’ve got one right here that’ll work for you.” He pulled an empty tube like a magic trick right of his little carry pack attached to his bike seat.

His name is Blair. He lives here in town. We talked about the idea of me learning how to change a flat sometime, in a helpful manner of course. No judgments. He got his little tools out to pry the tire off and get the tube out. It wasn’t easy as they were new and stiff. Just as he was finishing up that task, as we chit-chatted, a ride support-van came along, also heading north. Anthony (I learned his name quickly) popped out of the van and crossed the road, air pump in hand. “Need some help?!”

Other riders would pass us, cheerily calling out “Need help?” or “You guys all right?” and once—”Get out of the bike lane!” That last one was from the only women who yelled out at us. “It’s a ride, not a race,” Anthony said as the three of us chuckled. Where were we supposed to be? In the weedy drainage ditch on the side of the road?

They finished helping me, we said our goodbyes & good lucks and each of us headed off on our merry ways.

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Early on, I had decided I had time for the 25-miler. With those extra miles of mine, I ended up at the finish line with 34 miles! Woo hoo! I also had a new bike tube, two ride t-shirts, new friends, and a wine glass half filled with a nice cool white. I was able to chat a bit with my friends from The Lighthouse – Tony, Kathy, and James before I made my way a mile or so to Rob & Liz’s house where I’d stashed a car and dress-up clothes.

After a shower and a little make-over, I headed out to the Napa Valley Writers Book Launch. First Press, with stories and poems from over 45 authors of Napa Valley, was finally seeing the light of day – we were excited! Over 50 people attended this fabulous event. More than a dozen of our authors read excerpts from their work. We enjoyed each other’s company, along with a nice spread of wine, cheeses, baguettes, and chocolate covered strawberries put together by our Launch Team on a beautiful Earth Day afternoon.

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On a sad note, one of our First Press authors died recently – just prior to his work being published. I’d invited his wife beforehand to join us at the Launch. I watched Maryann in her dark teal sweater as she filmed one of our writers reading Michael (Mike) Layne’s piece to the crowd. I was touched, and I know she was. I think we were all touched as we thoroughly enjoyed the reading of Mike’s story, “Vittoria’s Secret”.

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All, or almost all, the books we had on hand sold out. Some of us laughingly passed our books around to get autographs—just like high school. First Press: Collected Works from Napa Valley Writers 2017 is available now at The Bookmine in Napa and First Press at amazon.com

It couldn’t have been a better day in the neighborhood.

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Half and Half

“Give me your tired, your poor, your huddled masses yearning to breathe free, the wretched refuse of your teeming shore. Send these, the homeless, tempest-tossed to me, I lift my lamp beside the golden door!”

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My writing desk sits smack in front of a big window. I pause as I write to peek out on life as it moves on in front of me. On a beautiful sunny day such as this, I sit in the warm sun. The light is so bright, I happily don a baseball cap to keep the sun out of my eyes to continue to enjoy the sun’s warmth.

I haven’t written on this blog for a while. My heart, and my soul, seems to have been on strike since November 8, 2016.

I am and have always been grateful for the millions of immigrants and their families who made the difficult journey to this land in the North American continent. Our lives are more full and blessed in so many ways. Language, ideas, and ideals. Inventions to make life grand, written words to awaken our souls, works of art broaden our horizons. Together, we toil each and every day, educating children, caring for families here and abroad. Doctors, nurses, teachers, service providers, physicists, politicians, road workers, writers, musicians, neighbors and friends. Good people. Upstanding people I call my friends; friends and strangers who never, ever pose a risk to me and my security.

I, and almost everyone I know in this country, come from a family of immigrants.

I am so ashamed of the new federal leadership. I ache for the souls who could very well be punished by an evil, narcissistic, mean-spirited and mentally unstable man who was elected president this past year. His followers and supporters are no less guilty in the travesty they are planning, and the results that could come.

The world is watching.

Thank goodness for the resistance of our local residents across this land and around the world. We will never stand idly by. This is not an easy task ahead of us. We cannot rest.

When I sat down today, the sun shone on one half of my face. It’s just how I feel. One half of me is proud of everything we all have brought to this world. The other side lives in a dark place, fearing where we are going.

Each day I sit in the sun revives me for another. Just one word came to me to close this short tale.

Help.

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Headbanger in Paradise, Part 4

CONTINUED FROM  Headbanger in Paradise, Part 3

 

It was warm where we sat in the day hall, sunlight streaming through the windows onto my assessment sheet.

            “What’s your name?” I asked.

“Frank.”

“Where are you?”

He looked out the bank of steel-framed windows holding yhe world outside in a giant picture frame.

“Valley State Hospital.”

“What day is it?” I asked.

“Wednesday?”

“Right. What’s my name?”

“Shea.”

I smiled, nodding in agreement. “How are you feeling?”

No answer. His forearms rested atop the wheelchair armrests, fingers dangling. He seemed taken in by the giant tulip tree blooms drifting in the courtyard.

I chatted with Frank, other patients, and staff as they drifted into the day hall. Judge Judy ruled the TV in the far corner.

After awhile, Frank said he was cold and sleepy, a common ECT reaction. I wheeled him to his room. He was a little shaky but able to get himself into bed. I covered him with an extra blanket and watched him roll over to face the wall.

“Thank you,” he muttered.

“You’re welcome, Frank.”

This routine went on for a few weeks, one treatment each week, increasing to two treatments, then to three. After four months, Frank was having far fewer instances of violent behavior with only rare episodes of head banging. He slept better. His attitude was much improved. The treatments seemed to be working, with only minor, temporary, memory loss. Some days he would forget having breakfast. A few times, he didn’t remember the ECT treatment at all.

Frank’s parents, far from the norm, came to visit him often. They were amazed at the positive changes in their son’s demeanor. They’d delivered him to us from their foothills home less than six months earlier, after watching his long decline. They were hopeful. I’d seen life changing results in other patients after ECT. It was looking as if Frank really would have a new start in life.

After returning to the unit one day, we were again sitting in the day hall.

“Shea, can I tell you a secret?”

“Sure. Tell me a secret. I may not be able to keep it, though. What is it?”

“During ECT sometimes, I feel really high, like over-the-top stoned. I try to stay there to keep it, but it runs away. I keep trying to get back to it, but I can’t.”

“I haven’t heard that before,” I chuckled.

“Do you think you can get my doctor to give me more drugs to keep it going?”

“Ha, ha. I don’t think so, Frank. It’s just one way you’re responding to the treatment. Do you think, besides the unusual high, you’re improving?”

“When’s the last time I hit someone?”

“A few weeks now.”

“Good,” he said, his blue eyes glistening.

After several more treatments, Frank was showing great progress. No violent outbreaks and no head banging. His depression lifted, he laughed often, and he enjoyed the company of others. His memory loss, though, was becoming serious. In consultation with his doctors and parents, he decided to discontinue ECT.

Just before Christmas, Frank was discharged home. It was a grand gift for him and for all of us who had been part of his success.

He was happy, and I was happy for him.

On a road trip the following summer, I braked for a stoplight while driving through the tiny foothill town of Paradise. I spotted Frank walking in the crosswalk. He was holding hands and laughing with a nice looking woman about his age. He turned his head my way, squinting into the sun behind me.

He couldn’t see through the glare. I’m quite certain he couldn’t make out the big smile on my face.

 

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“Headbanger in Paradise” was originally published in its entirety in Untold Stories: From the Deep Part of the Well. 2016 Redwood Writers Anthology, Roger Lubeck, Editor. September 2016.

If you’d like the entire story in one piece, just ask.

Mirrors

Denial.

Anger.

Bargaining.

Depression.

Acceptance. Hope.

I’ve been clawing my way over and under these feelings since that November 8 evening.

Long before then, I was frightened, angry, and shocked as I watched little donnie in his made-for-twitter gutters and swamps.

Everything he’s done, everything he is doing, is exactly what I’ve come to expect. Nothing he does surprises me. That’s what scares me the most.

Acceptance.

Hope. In you. In us. In the best we have to give on the other side of the stream.

 

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Headbanger in Paradise, Part 3

CONTINUED FROM  Headbanger in Paradise, Part 2

 

Calm again, Frank watched the tip of the needle disappear into his right shoulder.

I applied electrical leads to the pulse points on Frank’s head, chest, and feet while the docs reorganized the scattered equipment. Dr. Afzal added blood pressure cuffs, one on Frank’s left arm and another on his right lower leg to monitor the immediate ECT effects.

Frank’s chest swelled up and down, slow and steady.

Dr. Umbar methodically cleaned Frank’s right arm around and inside the elbow. “You’ll feel another pinch now.”

           Frank flinched as the anesthesiologist slid the needle tip into his vein. The IV drip assured good fluid intake while providing a line to piggyback Frank’s treatment meds.

“You’ll be getting sleepy now,”Dr. Umbar said, opening the valve to adjust the flow.

Frank eyed the milky white liquid slithering down the thin tube from the tiny valve below the IV bag. A snowy river streamed toward him. His lips stirred, occupied by his inner self-talk.

            Three, six, nine, twelve. One, two, three. Three, six, nine, twelve. One, two, three. Three, six, nine, twelve. One,two, three.

Frank looked at me. I took his hand in mine as his eyes glazed over. His eyelids fluttered in rhythm to his heartbeat until both eyes closed.

Dr. Umbar told us Frank was receiving IV Propofol, the same medication Michael Jackson received shortly before he died. It gave me the chills. I wasn’t concerned Frank would die, merely aware of a brief pall of sorrow paying me a visit from the King of Pop.

Within three minutes, Frank was deep in sleep.

“Dr. Umbar? Are we ready?” the psychiatrist asked.

Dr. Umbar nodded in agreement. “Good to go.”

Dr. Afzal looked to the black metal box. A paper strip spooled out like a receipt at a checkout stand.

He pressed the red button, holding it for a count of three seconds by the machine’s digital readout. Frank’s body twitched, just enough so you couldn’t miss it. His upper body and head spasms lasted six seconds. His fingers and toes continued their tiny dance for another dozen beats on the monitoring strip.

We were all quiet.

Soon enough, Dr. Umbar loaded Frank’s IV with a massive dose of caffeine.

While we waited for the caffeine to kick in, I asked about Frank’s unexpected pre-ECT behavior.

“That was an unforeseen experience,” Dr. Afzal said. “I believe the anti-anxiety medication given on the unit beforehand induced an abnormal response.”

“Surely, that wasn’t all of it?” I asked.

“Frank talked to me last Friday,” said Dr. Afzal, “before my weekend off. He told me about a dream he’d had recently. It involved him rolling in a wagon through a dark cave, eventually landing in a sunny arena filled with children at attention, all outfitted in white playsuits. I think, this morning, our patient confused reality with his dream.”

“So,” Jerry said, “next time he walks here. No rolling.”

            My goodness. It would have been nice to know about the damn dream.

Thirty minutes later, Frank was up, still groggy from the ECT and the assorted meds swirling around in his body.

Jerry helped him to the wheelchair.

The return trip seemed much longer than the previous one. I was still shaken by Frank’s outburst.

Hospital policy dictates one RN accompany patients to and from ECT and continually monitor health status two hours post-treatment. I charted Frank’s vital signs every fifteen minutes, relieved to see no blood pressure spikes, paranoia, fear, or loss of consciousness.

Short-term memory loss is a common side effect of ECT. The extent of memory loss after additional treatments would determine whether or not to continue the therapy. The positive aspects of ECT would be weighed against any detrimental memory loss.

It was warm where we sat in the day hall, sunlight streaming through the windows onto my assessment sheet.

“What’s your name?” I asked.

 

 

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“Headbanger in Paradise” was originally published in its entirety in Untold Stories: From the Deep Part of the Well. 2016 Redwood Writers Anthology, Roger Lubeck, Editor. September 2016.

I’m choosing to publish it here in four parts. Stay tuned for the final Part 4. KT