Güd wrtr

My favorite editor at the big newspaper
sidled up to me one day as my

rumpled, nondescript khakis and I
confronted the huge computer screen

blinking its green insistence.
She set before me what became

my favorite ice cream soda:
a Jik Jak frost from Vic’s—

chocolate malt ice cream with
nuts in bubbly water. She’d been

in town maybe three months
and knew more about my city

than I did, this woman with an
explorer’s heart, who loved to talk

to everyone. She drank conversation
like water, lived for repeatable

anecdotes. And she appreciated me
in a way that no other editor did

at that paper, affirming my still-
young self while gently teaching

me how to write well about
home interiors because, she said,

our job as journalists was to validate
people more than their surroundings

or job titles. “People,” she liked to say,
“matter more than anything.”

She loved opera and theater, food
and art, flowers and travel. She loved

so many people who loved her, too.
She loved me, partly, I think, because

I shared her younger sister’s name,
and my boss became my champion.

One day as I arrived in our office
wearing, unusually, a floral dress

with a wide skirt that swirled
when I turned, she smiled,

saying, “You look like Monet’s
garden,” a compliment, I knew,

from one who’d been there more
than once. She cocked an eyebrow

and waggled a forefinger at me.
“No beige,” she said.

I’ve never worn the color since.

•••

In memory of Patricia Beach Smith,
Sacramento Bee editor and arts reviewer,
Aug. 23, 1943–May 13, 2026

Pamela’s on the noon to 2 shift today,
sunny and breezy, coolish on the bluff
overlooking both sections
of Tidepool Beach.

She doesn’t mind: She’s bundled up
against the chilly wind, which
two days ago when I was here
blew warmer on this bluff,
spring bringing a mixed bag
of weather conditions, as it does
on the California coast.

Down on my favorite beach,
currently inaccessible as a harbor seal
rookery/napping spot, three new
mamas and babies sleep, sun-dried
into sand-colored torpedoes,
though one is dalmatian spotty.

I get a good look through Pamela’s binocs,
which she uses to count the harbor seals
arrayed on both beach and on far rocks
like barnacles, looking rock-like themselves
until one moves a head or flippers.

The seal docents keep watch over
their pinniped neighbors all day,
every day, for the months when
the mothers occupy the beaches,
giving birth and tending the young
till they’re weaned, then disappearing
into the waves, leaving behind
bereft offspring.

The babies’ cries are hard on
the docents, too, most of them
having done their stints as moms,
but they are here to ensure that
clueless humans don’t disturb
the new families, that they have
a safe place to rest.

We all need such spaces, in a world
where they are sometimes hard
to find, I think, as I watch Pamela
count and send good juju
to those napping on the sand,
in the water, on the rocks,
big and small,

the been-there encouragement
of one who has tended little ones,
who knows what it is like when
they will, all too soon, set off
on their own journeys,

making their way across
the shallows, into the deep,
through the rough and tumble
of the sea.

•••

With thanks to and admiration for the Harbor Seal
Rookery Docent Program, originated and still lead by
Laura Yale of The Sea Ranch, California, for the past 30 years.

And with gratitude to my friend Pamela (PJ) Hill,
who allowed me to sit with her during one of her
docent shifts on the bluff.

(for PJ and Dave and Scooby)

As we arrive, Scooby,
the head dood, leader of the pack,
the alpha golden doodle,
arrows right for us—
“People!” his wiggles seem to say—

though his dad has a firm hand
on the leash attached to the gyrating,
excited 6-year-old delighted by
company who’ve come to dine
with his people.

Two other doodles in the household
respectfully hibernate in their crates,
allowing Scooby to happily take
center stage, and who among us
wouldn’t want him to?

The big curly bundle of energy
proves an enthusiastic host,
making his rounds, licking guests’
chins, standing still for a massage,
oblivious to the conversation
zinging over his heads.

He’s here for the company,
this social animal, and we delight in
his doodly-doodleness before we
sit around the lovely table
relishing excellent homemade
sauce over pasta with wine,
visiting old friends and making
new ones.

After dinner, we humans feel
as content as the sweet dog
who drapes himself atop the sofa,
lowers his head to rest on his
his fluffy front paws, satiated,
like us, by food and fellowship,
settling in for a good snooze.

What’s not to love about this
moment, as we look out the long
windows, admiring the gentle
evening light goldening the meadow
across the street, and beyond it,
the unbridled ocean stretching
to a clear horizon at the end of
this gorgeous day?

•••

With thanks to PJ and Dave for dinner in their home—
as well as to the doodles Skooby, Shelly and CoCo—
and new friends Susan and Jan, for such a lovely evening.

that you get less than 15 minutes after
you arrive at the house you love
by the ocean because you simply

have to go out on the deck, unlatch
the clasp that holds down the lid
to the hot tub and check the temp,

but the new tub has been installed
so that you cannot see the digital
readout any other way than inching

around the planks surrounding
the damn tub and kneeling to peer
at the faint numbers in the late

afternoon light, which is when you
feel the zing of splinter thread its
way into your left ring finger,

and after you swear, you make out
the number 104, then with an undamaged
finger stab the down arrow button

to 101, rising carefully to look out
to the ocean, so close here, which
is where you should be, taking your

first walk on this bit of sand after
far too long away, so, after you go
inside, literally take a stab or 30

at your left ring finger, managing
to extract only part (of course) of
the damn splinter, with more

swearing to quell the pain, you detect
a sigh of someone not you, saying
“Breathe, honey,” so you do,

taking the hint to put on your
shoes and sweatshirt and hightail
it out to the trail that leads

directly to the dunes that hump
along the ridgeline, giving you
an excellent view of lemon yellow

lupine waving breezily at you,
and you forget about your finger
as you make your way to the sand,

watching the sun still giddily
high in the sky for 7 p.m., and
you remember that this is late

spring going on summer,
your favorite time of year, so you
find a rock where diminished

waves arrive nearly but not quite
at your feet, reminding you of
the always-thereness of ocean

and sun and sky, and why,
always, you are so happy to be
here, refueling the ocean creature

you know yourself to be.

You always see better with your heart,
especially when your vision is going
or has been impaired all your life.

“Nice to see you” is an expression,
not a reality, though you might well
be happy to be in someone’s orbit.

I wonder now if she, her vision mostly
gone, could see better with her heart near
the end, fighting departure as she was.

I wanted her to soften as her body
died by inches, hoped that she’d get
mooshy around the edges.

If anything, she toughened as her
skin stretched tight on bone. What
do we, the living, know about dying?

Especially if those on their way
can’t tell us. Maybe her heart was
one big puddle of love by the time

she took her last breaths. Maybe
that’s what I feel now, when she
flits into my peripheral vision—

flickers of kind, pinpoints of gentle.
Or maybe it’s because I want it
to be so, that I wish to hold her softly,

the way I wanted her to hold me,
the way she surely must have
once upon a time, when she and I

were both new.

Custards first this morning,
always in memory of the mothers

who made them—Elizabeth and
Margery, mother and daughter—

though I am not related to them
technically, certainly so spiritually,

deep in my bones, family
in the best way. Now I make

them for Margery’s husband
as well as her daughter who

long ago adopted me as aunt,
both of whom find comfort

in the little cups of eggy
sweetness that she used to

make, the one who taught me,
her legacy continuing.

While the custards bake, I head
outside to plant a tall pink

lupine that called to me
at the nursery, a replacement

for one of the babies slug-nibbled
to the ground. In another time

I’d’ve installed it in a big pot
on my mother’s patio, hoping

that her diminishing vision
would allow her not only to see it

but also remember to water it,
knowing that she would likely not,

but that my sister and I would
do so on our frequent visits.

It does not matter how attentive
they were, the mothers,

or how much they forgot.
What matters, especially after,

is that they made us, planted us,
gave us much of what we needed

and some of what we didn’t
to help us grow and thrive,

whether or not we shared
the same bloodline.

I do not know how we stay bound
at the heart by invisible threads

that stitch us together.
Only that, thank God, we do.

“It’s not about you,” our director
reminded the band as we sat
behind the curtain, blue overhead

lights waterfalling down, before
we backed up the student dancers
in their end-of-year show.

And she was right. Those in the audience
listening for my parts could not hear them,
nor could they see me at the back

of the stage, which comforted me
about the clunkers I could not avoid.
But it wasn’t about me. It was about us,

all of us, working together to make
music punctuated with outstanding
moments—the piccolo player who

nailed the “Stars & Stripes” solo that
has tortured musicians since 1896.
The drummer who out-Krupa’d

Gene (or at least did him proud)
on “Sing Sing Sing.” The raging guitar
solo, every bit as good as Jimmy’s,

on “The Star-Spangled Banner.”
And, though no one but me could
hear it, the “Stars & Stripes” bells

part that I hit spot-on at last.
Band is a team sport, and, with
the guidance of our good coach,

we scored the extra point,
we made every free-throw,
we hit homer after homer,

upping our game, making
everyone sound good and
having a great time to boot.

•••

With gratitude to Dr. Molly Redfield, music professor and director
of bands at Folsom Lake College, for welcoming me into the symphonic
wind ensemble this semester, and for her excellent conducting
and teaching that helped us all up our game.

And my thanks to my fellow band members, whose kindness
made this newcomer (and certainly its oldest member)
so happy to be in their midst.

Not just us, honey, you’ve got all
the grandparents listening to you play—

everyone who nudged you along
your musical path. Auntie Lo, of course.

When you were very small, you sat next
to her on her piano bench as she guided

your fingers on the keys and taught you
“Chopsticks.” She could play by ear

any song that you and Donna requested—
so many rounds of “A Spoonful of Sugar”

and “Supercalifragalisticexpialidocious”.
Here’s Grandpa Keeley, whose piano you

once lay under, feeling the vibrations of
Chopin and Gershwin through the floorboards.

Over there is Mrs. Meinyer, the Bonicelli’s
Music piano teacher who taught you to

read treble and bass clef, which came
in handy later for bells and tympani.

Not to forget percussion teacher Stan Lunetta,
band directors like Don Whitehead.

Mr. Rolicheck, your eighth-grade homeroom
teacher who insisted that you sing a solo

at graduation, who had endless confidence
in your budding writer self, once intoning,

“You, Miss Haag, have potential.” And look
at you, ages later—so many ages—

still putting that potential to good use.
The music never left; it’s been waiting for you.

Of course, those of us with wings are watching
from the wings. We always will as you continue

to grow yours. Can you feel them lifting now,
ready to help you soar?

We take up the back half of the stage,
two bands divided by a grand piano—

jazz stage left, wind ensemble stage right—
some of us in both, me dazzled, literally,

by bright lights. I haven’t played onstage
in a half century, but I remember these

pseudo stars gleaming overhead,
red streaks raining down in sheets and,

as the dancers rehearse, all kinds of color
tattooing their lithe bodies. I am agog at

the stagecraft—the capable stage manager
and riggers warning us to watch out

as they lower trusses and adjust tall black
curtains, while up high over the stage

in the fly loft mysterious equipment
waits in the shadows for its cue.

And when someone calls “Blackout!”
I extinguish the slender light clamped to

the music stand before me, then lower
myself to sit in this theatrical womb,

watching for the signal to rise, pick up two
mallets, locate the director’s white baton

poised in the half-light, wait for her
downbeat, and begin.

(for Lindsey Holloway)

And then the magic of May drizzle,
droplets falling like mercy’s gentle rain

as we walk back from a late brunch,
stopping to sniff roses for scent

(pretty pinks, no rosy smell), you
naming plant neighbors on your street,

(the heart-shaped leaves on the lushly
blooming catalpa tree!), greenery

as familiar to you as the folks who tend it.
Me noticing wee drops polka-dotting

the variegated leaves of hostas as I resolve
to photograph the translucent pearls

decorating the fully blooming cosmos and
calendula in my yard, on the insect-nibbled

plumbago (bugs gotta eat, too) and stockpile
the cool for the sizzling days to come.

Then the hose and I will shower the thirsty ones,
when we will all fondly recall rain,

our occasional visitor, who will by then
have migrated east over the Sierra

and hightailing it north for summer,
as is its habit, without a backward glance.