I am Auntie Murray. And I talk.
It's 62 degrees in beautiful downtown North Hollywood, (sorry, Johnny C.) and, oh my word, what a world we've got going. Another Memorial Day night, another how many soldiers dead, (we'll never know, because Uncle Georgie won't let us see the caskets) and even Cindy Sheehan says, Ok, I'm done.
My word. My word. Hubby and I just back from a week's blissful vacation, and no more than five minutes into L.A., La La Land, that we're itchy and bitchy and wishing we were anywhere but here. It's loud. Too many sirens, too many crying babies across the alley (and by "too many" I mean "one") and here we are, wondering whether to call the manager of their complex or our own, and wishing with all our hearts that the baby is okay, okay, and not the recipient of some sort of sly abuse by their caretakers. Do you call the authorities and hope they do the right thing, or do you wait and wait and ultimately understand that these people have a baby that needs more attention than it gets and that the authorities would only complicate the situation irrevocably? There are no websites to help with this one.
We were in a place that was so quiet, so remote, that any whisper, any cell phone conversation, any noise beyond the plaintive woo-oo-oo-oo call of the mourning dove seemed an affront, an assault on the senses, and all we can do is remember it and resolve to return there. We're not plebes, by any means, having lived happily in L.A. and Manhattan for years, but oh. As one ages, one yearns for peace. And there are certain places in California and elsewhere that provide it, and certain others that do not.
I'm not sure where this blog is headed, but I do know that I have many strong opinions, and many travels ahead, and maybe you and I can get there together. Hang with me, and we'll see what's there.
