2016 - 2017

Greetings!

My apologies for the collapse of my Christmas card and letter writing last winter. I was still working on it on Friday, January 6, when my dear cat Jazz (Tuxedo longhair), age 16, became ill. I took him to the Veterinary Hospital on the Monday. He had kidney failure, and the Vet was unable to save him. I made my farewell visit to Jazz there on the Thursday, when he was very far gone, but was able to raise his head a few times. That was his last day of life. I was so upset at losing him, I just could not go on with the Christmas card project, and I piled all the drafts and cards into a box.

project, and I piled all the drafts and cards into a box. My other cat BB (official name Butterball, orange stripes) (same age) was utterly desolated, left forlorn without his adoptive brother, and his own health deteriorated. He already had hyperthyroidism and now developed kidney problems and “tummy trouble.s”

I became his private duty nurse, feeding him prescription diet food about every 2 hours, applying a transdermal gel medication for his thyroid problem twice a day, and cleaning out the litter 3 or 4 times a day, plus numerous “unauthorized deposits outside the box.” By June the Vet said he needed subcutaneous hydration twice a week; I was not successful learning how to administer it, so I had to have a Vet Tech make house calls for this. The few times I had to be out of town, I had to board BB at the Vet’s for his medical care.

He hung on for a few more months, a determined little fellow despite growing steadily weaker, especially in his legs, and died at home, in an unexpected hiding place, in midOctober.

Both cats were 16 years old, the equivalent of 86 human years. So I keep telling myself they had a very long life--but nevertheless, 16 calendar years seem too short.

Thus it’s been a difficult and sad year, losing my “babies,” who grew up together from the age of five months, always curling up together for their naps. So cute. I miss their perky, affectionate personalities so much. Rest in soft peace, my dear little furry friends.

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Not much in the way of more positive news for 2017, just a few movies, Metropolitan Opera HD simulcasts, and the “tax prep trip” to San Francisco/Palo Alto in March, which is at least made more pleasant by seeing carious Bay Area friends. Also made the usual jaunt to Santa Barbara for the polo finals at the end of August.

In September the daughter of an old friend of mine who’d died earlier in the year asked me to be one of the tribute speakers at her mother’s memorial service in the Stanford University Church. Daunting to think of “How will I make myself heard in such a huge building?!” But of course they have an excellent microphone system. The attendees were seated mainly in the front, and my friend’s two daughters, who were up in the choir loft to sing a Mozart”Ave Verum,” said they could hear me there too. I also gave them a printout of my talk, which highlighted some of the fun memories of my long friendship with their parents dating back to the sighteseeing excursions we’d made together when I first went to work in England so many years ago.

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Thus far (as of December 10) a few pre-Christmas parties, and while I’m drafting this letter, darkness has fallen on the land. Since about 9:30 am it has become so dark with yellowish smoke from the fires in Southern California I had to turn on the lights. [Less smoke here on subsequent days.]

I’ll close this 2017 portion with best wishes for Christmas and the New Year. And my many thanks to all who went me cards and letters despite my failure to reciprocate.

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And I’ll append here some of what I’d prepared (as of a 5th draft) for the 2016 letter.

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2016 (5th Draft)

Attended various Met Live in HD opera performance in San Luis Obispo. I was most keen to see their Tristan and Isolde,because the male lead, Stuart Skelton, had some years ago sung for our Wagner Society Christmas party in San  Francisco. A big, happy Australian chap who was then at the “up-and-coming” stage of his career. He had sung “In Fortnum Land” for us (from Lohengrin), always a hit with Wagner buffs. The Metropolitan’s Trisanproduction didn’t grab me, however--the volume was too low. But it was great to see someone I’d met long ago, now a star in the Big Time Metropolitan.

The Pacific Coast Open Final polo match in Santa Barbara (August) provided a bit of a shock when one horse and rider fell. The horse lay motionless on its side, bringing a great cry of anguish from the spectators. Then in a few minutes the horse rallied, scrambled to its feet, and scampered off the field -- “I’m outta here!” -- to hide behind the stalls. Laughter, cheers and applause from the audience! (Note that they were more anxious about the horse than about the rider.)

At midpoint in the game, a female staff member began hurling souvenir polo balls into the audience, as a PR stunt. One ball was coming straight at me, and I ducked to avoid getting hit in the head. It landed--plop!--right in my large open tote bag! (It turned out to be made of soft rubber, a useful hand-squeeze-exercise tool when one is sitting before BBC World News on TV.)

During 2016 my cats, semi-retired, were still quite active indoors and out.

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TRAVEL MEMORIES:

After reading my 2015 letter, a number of my readers (fans?) wrote me that they’d particularly enjoyed my reminiscences of travel in the Middle East years ago, when all was peaceful and safe. So I thought I’d report on a memorable day in Jordan, part of that British tour I took in 1964 (prior to my leaving my job and residence in London). The tour comprised historic and archaeological sites in Lebanon, Syria, and Jordan, with a few of us afterwards proceeding independently to tour in Israel.

This was a small group, 11 people plus a young English archaeologist as courier/guide/lecturer, traveling in three old cars with local Arab drivers, whose philosophy may have had some effect on their carefree driving style (“nothing happens unless it is written” ?) (e.g. a bit rambunctious in city traffic, or barreling up a highway on the wrong side of the road while approaching the crest of a hill.)

An outstanding site in Jordan is Petra, “the Rose-Red City half as old as time,” carved out of the red rock face in ancient times by the Nabatean tribe, who lived on protection rackets, preying on traders’ caravans.

The Petra site was approached through a long, narrow, canyon-like defile called the Siq, which then spread out as the center of the bowl-like village, with “buildings” and caves carved out of the high walls of rock all around.

When we were there, it had not yet been much developed for tourism--a bit like roughing it. You had to enter via the Siq on scrawny horses, and the only place to stay inside was a barracks-like building, everyone having to share rooms and beds with 3 or 4 other people. (Imagine the snoring!) Food was tinned stuff like beans, that could be heated up on spirit lamps, which also provided light.

There was another English lady archaeologist having her meals there, who said she had “taken a suite of caves for the season,” along with her local guide/assistant.

Our first sightseeing goal was to climb up a rough rock face to a flatter surface on top, where a basin had been carved out by the Nabateans to perform their child-sacrifice rites, slitting teh children open so their blood could run down a carved-out channel. Since I was the youngest member of our group, they said I had to go. So I sat down in the basin while another member took pictures of us, the “grownups” standing behind me in jovial anticipation of my slaughter.(Clambering up and down this rough site was a challenge, I might add, even for “young” me.)

The following day four of us chose to make an optional run down to Aqaba on our own, while the others would stay and climb some more rocky sites. Having learned of Aqaba in the movie “Lawrence of Arabia,”I was keen to go there.

As we started our horseback ride out of the Siq, I was photographing the man and horse directly in front of me, Mr. G - a frail little erudite gentleman in his 70’s. I had my head  down to look in the viewfinder of my old-fashioned Box Brownie camera, and when I looked up, I saw that what I’d photographed was Mr. G falling off his horse, with the Arab groom trying to catch him.

The others in the group froze--a lady in her 70’s, and a man in his 50’s--neither of whom had any experience of horses. So as the youngest, most agile person, and comfortable with horses, I leapt off my mount and rushed to his rescue. The groom and I managed to hoist Mr. G. back onto the saddle and held him on till we reached the Siq entrance and our car. Mr. G had fainted. My trusty shoulder bag of travel gear contained old-fashioned smelling salts, which I waved under his nose trying to revive him. I sat in the back seat of the car propping him up, while he kept falling over in a faint, and I kept trying to revive him. It seems he had eaten no breakfast after that strenuous climb the day before, and he had low blood pressure.

As we took off, speeding through the Wadi Rum desert, (seen in the Lawrence film)--our happy-go-lucky Arab driver pulled out his bottle of Arak (high alcohol content up to 63%), waving it about and swilling it freely as we raced along. (“Don’t drink and drive” ?) (Arak is meant to be diluted with water. Based on Anise, it is similar to the Greek Ouzo or Turkish Raki.)

Along the way, coming in the other direction, we passed a grand-looking Arab arrayed in black robes on a handsomely-garbed camel, festooned with fringes and decorations. I was delighted to see an important-looking Sheikh who looked the way Omar Sharif did in the movie!

We came to a government outpost, a Beau-Gestelooking, crenellated mud brick building, with a couple of uniformed police and a couple of Army soldiers on duty, who warmly welcomed us, all smiles, with Bedouin Tea (containing some mint and lots of sugar), served in small glass cups in decorative metal holders. They also served us some lovely chocolate candies, in honor of the Muslim equivalent of Easter, celebrating Mohammed’s ascension into heaven. These refreshment perked up Mr. G, and we proceeded on to Aqaba.

At that long-ago time, there was only one very tiny, modest German hotel at Aqaba, with a sprinkling of German sun-seekers. While the “old folks” sat on a shaded veranda taking refreshments that brought Mr. G back to his old self, I rented a floral-patterned German bathing suit and changed in one of the little cabanas, for a swim. Note that the movie sequence of Aqaba was filmed somewhere else, showing ocean waves. There are no waves at Aqaba--it is at the tip of a long, narrow bay off the Red Sea--and the water is absolutely still.

After we’d all had a good lunch at the hotel and everyone felt great again, we drove back to Petra to rejoin our group, where, feigning modesty, I basked a bit in the praises for my “taking care of Mr. G.” -heroine of an adventurous day.

I’ve been shocked to learn over the years how commercialized Petra has become--fancy hotels and restaurants in the area and at Aqaba as well, with “Bedouindesert-camp excursions,” etc. Not only am I happy that I saw this area in time of Middle East peace, I saw things in a far less commercial mode. I can’t blame Jordan for capitalizing on a valuable tourist asset--but for me, it was more fun being there in simpler times.

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In closing I must tell you of the most unusual, colorful Christmas card I received in 2016 from a Japanese lady in Tokyo whom I’d met years ago at the Bayreuth Wagner opera festival. It depicts a large sports arena viewed from high in the stands. Two Sumo wrestlers are grappling it out on a stage in the center. A couple of Christmas trees are positioned among the audience, and the entire audience is wearing Santa Claus costumes!