Sexy Garden Story

Probably, I suppose, whatever it is you do for a living can sometimes elude you; you may feel your skills have departed, or that the world has changed in ways that renders you less relevant.

For a writer, losing your voice is scary. It's as if someone turned the (very loud) music off inside your head, and all that remains is silence.

That's what has been going on with me lately. I'm aware of some of the reasons I've gone silent, but other causes exist that mystify me. Usually, I'm pretty good at cutting through noise and chaos around me to tell a story.

Not lately.

So, tonight, let me try to tell you a little story. I'll turn to several elements that usually work for me: Nostalgia, love, sex, change, aging and youth.

Turning a familiar corner recently, at the bottom of Cortland Street on Bernal Hill, I looked at the long-vacant Goodman's Lumber Co. building, and remembered a summer 15 years ago, when I was getting married.

My best friend Howard had come out to be my best man. He came out about a week early, I think, stayed in our spare room, and helped me garden. He also helped my friends Camille and David establish their garden that week.

We lived on the south side of Bernal; they lived on the north side. We had a tiny yard; they had a massive one.

Howard and I commuted between Floorcraft, a garden center across Bayshore from Goodman's, and their yard for a number of days, as he carefully designed a garden plan based on Camille's wishes for an English-type theme. We planted heather, lavender, and the like.

Today, I turned at that corner again, and suddenly Goodman's was gone! In the space of a few days, its old building has been demolished. The other day, I thought about stopping to photograph it. Now it is too late.

***

I bumped into some old photos of a girlfriend, when we were very new at dating. We were up in Gold Country, picnicking and sunbathing next to a river. In my favorite photo, she is looking over her shoulder at me, smiling. She looks like she feels adored.

I also remember having sex back in our hotel. Before we left to return to San Francisco, she said, "Please let's do that again."

Love is a fragile companion. It is there, as it was when I married and when I was in Gold Country. Sex goes along with love, not always of course, but at the best times, it's there.

Why everything has to fade and break is a mystery. Slowly, love fades away.

***

I don't get this aging process. My oldest son tells me that if I make it to age 90, I'll never get sick again. By then, he claims, I will have basically developed immunity to everything out there.



My youngest son ran in a race today. Competing does not come naturally to him but he did just fine. The venue was a private school where his big sisters studied for some years in their elementary years.

Next to the school is a city golf course where I used to play the game with my father. He always loved to tell about the hole where he'd overshot the fairway, parted some bushes to search for his golf ball, only to see the mighty Pacific Ocean churning below.

Every story has to end. I think I'll end this one with that image.

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