BLUE BOOMER

                I had a nice week and weekend with the golf group. The guys played in a three day tournament and the girls were invited to join them for dinner two evenings. It's a great group of people and we talked, laughed, ate, drank, and whiled away the hours sitting on the balcony of the country club. Since we're boomers, the guys sat at one table smoking their cigars and telling golf war stories, and the girls at another talking about our lives as empty nesters and retirees or semi-retirees.

                So why am I feeling so down in the dumps today? I hate to even admit that I am down. I have so many things to be grateful for, but once in awhile I just can't help it. I've done a lot of thinking and I've decided I'm not so alone in feeling this way. I kind of got the feeling from some of the other girls that they feel a bit the same way.

                I miss a lot. For some reason I'm really missing my dad today. And I miss my kids. They're all grown up and living their lives and I miss having them around. I miss taking them to their ball games and practices. I miss the noise in the house and the chaos. It's just too quiet around here. Even my dog is a senior and he sleeps most of the day.  I miss the big family celebrations we used to have. Everyone crowded in together all talking at the same time.

                I've thought about how it was to be a child without responsibilities and a senior without responsibilities. As a child, I didn't remember wanting anything more than to just be able to play with my friends, read my books, run around outside, and go to school when I had to. If I had free time, the more the better. I didn't long for anything else. As a senior, I have the freedom to play with my friends, read my books, walk around outside, and go to school at the senior center when I want to. But now I find all of this freedom sad at times. I suppose I should be enjoying it more, but at one time I was needed...a lot. Not so much anymore. But now that I know what it was like to be needed, I really miss it a lot.

HOMELESS IN THE OC

                I was walking to my car in the Costco parking lot, cart loaded up as it always is when I shop there, when a young man approached me.  I thought, Aha, maybe this is my first homeless person interview coming right up! I forgot all about the frozen salmon and the tri-tips that could get a head start on cooking in the bright sunlight.

                The man looked Eurasian. Around 5' 9 " tall and about 150 lbs. He was very clean and well groomed, and in fact looked like he'd just stepped out of the shower. His hair was long, dark with a few gray strands, had  bit of curl and was freshly shampooed. He wore a spotless white tee shirt with advertising on it, wore clean denims and shoes with very little wear on them. I looked at his arms and drew on my nurse experience and I didn't see any drug track marks. He was calm and didn't appear to be under the influence of any drugs or alcohol.  Needless to say, he didn't look very homeless to me, but I figured I'd ask him a bunch of questions anyway, once he'd asked me for money. He wouldn't look me in the eye at first, rather shifted side to side. As I showed interest in him and his problems, he faced me square on and looked directly into my eyes. My conclusions at the end of the interview was he'd told me a number of lies, some untruths, but there was a lot of truth in his story as well. While he was talking, there were times when the words flowed out of him from the depths of his being and I could tell those parts were true. Other times not so much. Here goes:

                "Excuse me, ma'am. I wonder if I might ask you a favor. You see, we belong to the church around the corner, and we're homeless. The pastor of the church told me he'd get us into a room if I could raise $200. I'm short $55. That's all." He looked down at the ground.

                "Where are you living now?" I asked. "And who's we? Are you married?"

                "Yeah, it's me and my wife and two kids. They're 5 and 6. We live in Pearson Park right down the street. We have a little spot behind a flower planter that we've sort of carved out as ours. No one knows we're there."

                "Do your kids go to school?" I asked.

                His head shot up at that and he looked me straight in the eye. He had a bit of fear on his face. "No, why? Is that against the law?"

                "I don't know about that. I'm just curious. I'm a writer and I'm interested in people, that's all." I smiled at him.

                He smiled back. "You're a writer? Maybe you can write a book about me and then I'll get rich."

                "Why are you homeless? Did you ever work?" I asked.

                "Oh, yeah. I had a good job in IT at Boeing and I got laid off. They laid off 1500 people. I used to make $48 an hour. I had everything I needed. I can't find a job anywhere now. I've applied at every single store in this area and I can't get a job. I even applied at Chuck E Cheese. I'll do fast food, anything to get back on my feet. My mom lives in Texas and I have a sister in Washington but we can't go there. They have their own financial problems and they don't want us. I tried to talk my mom into it, but she says no."

                "How old are you?"

                "46. Pretty sad, huh? Here I am a 46 year old man out asking people for money. I'd rather work any day than live like this," he said, looking me straight in the eye.

                I noticed again how clean he was and knew it was time to ask. "So, I noticed you're very well groomed and your clothes are spotless. How are you able to do that when you're homeless?"

                He didn't have a good answer for that question and didn't look me in the eye. "Well, uh, sometimes the church people let us in to take showers and wash clothes..."

                "You know, it's kind of a coincidence but I had a man ask me for money the other day over in Henry's parking lot. He also told me he just needed a few more dollars and he'd have enough for a room? Your stories a similar. Why do you think that is?"

                "I don't know, but those other guys only want money for drugs. They'll tell you anything."

                I remembered my food and started loading my car.

                "So, do you think you can help me out with a little money?" he said, hesitantly.

                I reached into my wallet and pulled out some bills. "Here you go. This is for talking to me so I'll have something to write about. Good luck to you and your family. I hope you find work soon."

                "Thank you and God Bless You. I hope I do, too. Only $45.00 to go and we'll have a room."

                Somewhere in between these lines lies the truth.

               

Writers on the Loose in the OC, on Mission Viejo Lake

I just returned home from a Monday night writer's group meeting. Tonight we met on Mission Viejo Lake, thanks to KAS, who lives in the area and rented a boat for us. We all met at KAS's home. That's where things went a bit wrong. We were to meet at 4:30 PM. Diane didn't arrive. We were to get on the boat at 5 so we decided to leave without her (and her dessert). We'd gotten on the boat and set out to cruise the lake and a young man from the dock called to say Diane had arrived. We turned around, picked her up, and set out again. It was quiet, relaxing, inspirational. Well, not all that. That was the original goal but with this group things tend to go awry. We discussed the last book we read, CUTTING FOR STONE, decided on the next book through a long process of elimination, VISIT FROM THE GOOD SQUAD, then tried to agree on a date for our "writer's retreat". No luck. Also no luck on a decision regarding our group writing project. Oh well, next week.

Terrill volunteered to drive the boat. That's where things really went wrong. She ran over a buoy, killed the boat, and we drifted into a private boat dock where we then called the lifeguards for help and passed the wait time by eating our dinner. We argued a bit with each other, disagreed a lot, swore a bit, called each other names. Great fun!

I love this group of dynamic women. We are as individual and different as different can be. We get together and there is so much creative energy anything can happen. It's so energizing and such fun.

Actually, the boat got easily fixed and there wasn't any permanent damage to anything. Hope KAS will plan this again some time!

PS...that isn't me sitting in the driver's seat. It's Terrill, the boat killer.

Who killed George and Lynda Taylor?

On March 18, 1999, my husband and I, along with our youngest son, David, had gone to the premier of a movie "short" a family friend was in in Hollywood. We drove together, and after the movie was shown, our friend's son invited David to go to a post premier party. My husband and I left David in Hollywood and went home to bed.

In the wee hours of the morning, the telephone rang. Every parent's nightmare. I awoke and answered the phone to hear a stern detective ask to speak with my husband, who was the presiding Judge in the Norwalk courthouse at the time. My mother's fears kicked into gear and I questioned the detective, "Where are you calling from? What is this about?" The detective was calling from San Bernardino, which made no sense to me since we'd been in Hollywood. My heart was beating faster than it had ever beaten, and I of course was concerned that this somehow was related to our leaving David in Hollywood. Finally, when the detective refused to talk to me anymore, I handed the phone over to my husband.

My husband quickly learned that George had returned to his home in Rancho Cucamonga following an evening law event, and as he drove into the garage, he was shot to death by someone lying in wait. Lynda was inside the house, sewing dresses for their daughter's coming wedding, and as she ran into the garage to investigate the noise, she was also shot to death.

The shock and dismay overwhelmed us. My husband began calling the court staff in George's courtroom to inform them of the murder and to warn them to increase their own safety.

Here we are, 12 years later. The case hasn't been solved. Actually, it's a cold case and is all but forgotten. But not to me. I remember George and Lynda Taylor. We weren't close friends, but my husband and George were colleagues and we met at social events. They were very nice people. Just like I'm a nice person. And they were struck down in the dead of night. It's been 12 years.

Today my husband and I finished his home office. I hung pictures. George Taylor is in those pictures. Tomorrow we are attending a wedding of another Judge's daughter. Then we are going to the annual Norwalk Judge's BBQ. It's a huge reminder that someone killed George and his wife Lynda. That someone most likely had to do with a case he was presiding over. And that someone is still at large.

Something about this whole case just doesn't seem right. It makes me wonder, if my husband and I were murdered would it matter?