PB

They say you can't go home again, which means, I guess, that the place you think of as home doesn't exist anymore except in your mind. But some things don't change. Certain friends can seem just the same as they were even though twenty (or more) years have gone by. Even the way you feel can stay the same though the world around you goes to hell and everything you once believed turns out to be just plain wrong.

And then there's Pacific Beach.

Pacific Beach, or "PB" as it is known by the locals, was a laid-back beach community just north of San Diego when Bob Sweeney and I arrived there fresh out of college in 1981. Populated by surfers and skaters, waitresses and bartenders, sun-worshipers and stoners -- and two pale guys from back east. We came because a friend of Bob's from Cleveland was managing a store called 'Great News!' and said he could get us jobs there. We would start out as stock boys and work our way up to management in no time. They had already opened two new locations and more were planned. It was a real opportunity.

Bob had no intention of pursuing a career in retail, which was a good thing because he never did get a job at Great News! Bob was only there to take a year off before going to law school. He ended up working at the local Drug King and actually did become manager fairly quickly. I started out working at Jack in the Box making tacos and later became a sales clerk at Great News! But I wasn't there to conquer retail either. I was there to write a novel.

PB was a great place to shed the myopic, pensive, dark and dusty mantel of academia and breath some bright, breezy, empty-headed, healthy ocean air. We ran on the beach, swam in the waves, grilled fish in the alley and soaked up the sun. We drank pitchers of beer at Billy Bones and danced like gangsters to the surf-rock of The Nomads. At high tide under a full moon, we collected bucketloads of grunion that were strewn all over the beach to spawn. We sat in silence under the stars and watched the phosphorescent blue tide streaking through the breakers like lightning in a bottle. We smuggled beer and tuna sandwiches into Jack Murphy stadium to cheer the Tribe as they beat the Padres in a double-header. We believed that everything was possible and nothing could stand in our way.

The days passed by uncounted, differentiated only by the shroud of haze that drifted on and off the shore each morning and evening, framing the sunny afternoons with a misty border that obscured the boundaries of time. Our year on the beach came to an end. Bob went off to Law School and a career. I finished my novel and went back to Connecticut to try and get published. But that, as a friend of mine likes to say, is a whole other 'Oprah'.

I returned to PB recently to see if any of what I remembered is still standing. I met my old pal Dave Todd, whom I've know since high school back in Louisville. He was in San Diego for a conference of Law School Alumni Magazine Editors and extended his stay for a couple of days so we could hang out together for the weekend. I booked us a room right on the boardwalk in the heart of PB, just two blocks from my old apartment. Right away I knew things would be different since there was no hotel on the boardwalk two blocks from my apartment back in '81.

And it wasn't just PB that changed -- Dave and I aren't exactly the young, spry athletic adventurers we once were. On the other hand we have gained certain advantages, such as the ability to enjoy an excellent grilled-fish dinner with amber ales right on the boardwalk and put it all on the Mastercard. We checked out the night life as well -- The Nomads were long gone, but we caught a singer-songwriter at a place called Blind Melon's at the foot of the Crystal Pier who was decent. We stood out like dinosaurs among the twenty-somethings in the audience. At one point, during a Dylan song, Dave remarked, "When we first heard this song, their parents hadn't even met yet."

We wandered the neighborhood searching for remnants of my fabled past. My old apartment building was still intact, just up the alley from the beach. A lot of the surrounding businesses had changed, but not as much as I expected. The basic vibe of PB still felt the same. Tattoo parlors, used record stores, surf shops, bars, fast food joints. The video arcade had been replaced by a shoe store, but the old Jack in the Box was right where I left it. Unfortunately, Billy Bones, the archetypal surfer bar, vanished without a trace -- replaced by a mini-mall.

The people, however, seemed pretty much the same. Kids just out of college in their first apartments, holding down stop-gap jobs. Hanging out, cruising the strip, checking each other out. That was a big adjustment when I first got to PB -- everyone checks everyone else out. Back east nobody every looked at anybody, but here they look you up and down and back again. Sadly, there weren't too many babes checking out Dave and me. We were clearly out of our demographic, constantly being referred to as "sir" by cute young waitresses, surly desk clerks and the like.

We hiked up to the plaza where Great News! and Bob's old Drug King had been. The Drug King was replaced by a super-sized Long's Drug, but Great News! is still thriving. The plaza hasn't changed that much either -- smoothie bar, grocery store, bank, pita shop. Lots of young folks everywhere you look. They have no idea what lies in store for them. How plans don't work out. People change. Dreams get put aside or forgotten.

But as we walked back towards Crystal Pier watching the evening haze paint a broad purple band across the orange horizon, I realized that it wasn't just PB that felt the same, it was me. Despite the years and the miles and the losses and the gains, I still felt the same way I did when Bob and I first hit the boardwalk that late September afternoon a million years ago. I still have my good friends, I still have my crazy dreams, I still believe that anything is possible.

Maybe you can't go home again. But you can go back to PB.

Hang loose.
HWD

PB Gallery

Open Heart

Here's what not to do if you find out that your mom is going in for open-heart surgery in 18 hours: go on the hospital's web site to look up the procedure and see graphic full-color illustrations of exactly how they will hack her chest open, jam in a rib spreader to yank her rib cage apart, and clamp off her aorta to stop her heart while they cut out the existing arteries to replace them with a vein they pulled out of her leg.

They're going to do that to my Mommy?!

We found out on a Friday evening that she was having coronary bypass surgery on Saturday morning. The surgery actually took the better part of Saturday as they found four blocked arteries and had to replace them all. She was in intensive care that night, but on Sunday afternoon I was able to speak to her on the phone. And she sounded great.

Sure she was a little weak and out of breath, but damn -- she was alive and talking! I was pretty amazed. Not only by the fact that medical science has reached the point where they can cut somebody open, repair their heart and sew them up again, but also by the fact that the human body can withstand such an incredible trauma and be sitting up in bed, eating solid food and talking on the phone the very next day.

Mom stayed in the hospital for the rest of the week. Dad was there with her most of the time. Apparently they really enjoyed the hospital food. That's all I heard about when I called, "we're having roast beef with potatoes and vegetables -- it's so good." My Dad basically ate all of his meals at the hospital.

My sister Cindy flew down to Florida be with them for the first week home from the hospital. They came home on Cindy's birthday, which I guess is a pretty nice present. Being so far away, I was really glad to know that Cindy was there to lend a hand. Mom was already well on the road to recovery: up and walking for a few minutes two or three times a day, breathing exercises six times a day, eating lots of protein and getting plenty of rest. She has a nurse that comes by every few days to check up on her progress. Everyone said she was doing remarkably well.

Still, it was hard be unable to see her.

My younger sister Susan took the second shift with Mom. She brought special foot-massage socks that show you where all of the pressure points are. Susan's foot massages were a big hit with Mom. Her recovery was proceeding extremely well and she was up and walking about a half-hour each day. That's more than I usually walk. People from Mom & Dad's church came by with casseroles and hams and Mom was amassing a pretty sizeable collection of cards and flowers. One of the most difficult aspects of the recovery is maintaining a positive spirit. After suffering such a major injury, it can be difficult to summon up the energy each day to keep up with the regimen of eating, exercise, medicine etc. But my Mom is a real trooper and when the going gets tough, she rises to the occasion.

Finally it was my turn to visit. I packed up a load of organic grains and protein powder and the SuperFood blend of algae, seaweed, alfalfa and wheat grass that I swear by and flew out for a week with Mom & Dad. What a great relief to see her at last. She looked fantastic. Despite having spoken to her many times since the operation and hearing the glowing reports from my sisters, it was a pretty big deal to be able to see her and give her a hug -- but not too hard.

I started right in the next morning preparing her my special SuperFood fruit smoothies. As it turns out they have a health food store called "Richard's Whole Foods" within walking distance of their house. I fixed them my favorite whole grain pasta with veggies and ground turkey for dinner one night, which they seemed to enjoy. We took several long walks -- Mom was up to 45 minutes at this point. One night we walked down to a fish house on the nearby inland waterway. But instead of fish, Mom ordered a beer-battered hot dog with fries. She said the Doctor told her to eat whatever she wants, and that's what she wanted. Who am I to argue with medical science?

Even though she was doing quite well, Mom was still having a little trouble catching her breath. When her nurse stopped by she learned that she needed to have some excess fluid drained from her lungs, a normal by-product of the healing process. The nurse told her to take it easy and not to worry, but for the next couple of days she seemed to lose a little of her energy. On Monday, we took her to the hospital for the procedure, it doesn't take that long, but they like you to rest for a while afterwards. Dad and I sat in the waiting room for a couple of hours -- I actually fell asleep. Suddenly, I felt someone touching my arm -- it was Mom, she was done with the procedure and didn't feel like waiting around there anymore, so she told them she was ready to go. We stopped and picked up a chicken salad sandwich for her from the hospital cafeteria -- "the food is so good here!" -- and we were on our way.

I had to leave the next day, I really wish I could have stayed longer, but that's another story. Fortunately, Cindy's husband Angelo picked up the fourth leg of our relay and is spending another week or so with my parents. They've been keeping him busy with plenty of little chores around the house, plus he's and excellent cook, so I'm sure they're being well fed.

It was good to feel like I was able to help take care of my parents when they needed a little help, after all they took pretty good care of me for twenty-odd years. And still do. In fact, my trip to Florida did a lot more for me in some ways than it did for them. I'm sure they could have gotten along without me, they have tons of friends who would be willing to pitch in and help them with whatever they needed. But I needed to make sure they were OK for my own peace of mind. And they were. They're doing fine. And the fact that they are doing fine is just another way that they are still taking care of me.

Keep getting better, Mom.
Love, Rich