Maureen and I have developed this annual tradition that we seem to have kept (except maybe during the war years or years when I am in not in SF for the hols). The idea was to meet every Christmastime for breakfast and hang and catch up. It started out as breakfast and morphed into throwing a ball with Maureen's dog, Kobe. It really has no dictated shape except that it is "our thing."
The traditions I know or am usually a part of last for one time only as in "This is the first annual camping trip/skiing trip/cookie exchange for charity..." But we in spite of ourselves have kept this one going.
Today we went to Ocean Beach to throw the ball with Kobe. I love that beach because it is where I think of my insignificance. There was a photo in the Cliff House similar to this one below that had Victorians walking on this very same beach I am on. I imagine them all with thought bubbles like "I wonder if I will ever work again?" "Will I ever meet the one?" "I need to lose this weight." "I haven't read the classics" "Why didn't I get a masters in journalism?" and "I should have been younger." And I realize that every single person in that photo is dee ee ay dee. And I know I am just a leaser on that beach and on this planet and I best damn well learn French, see Argentina and enjoy every bloody moment.
I was struck in one of those joyous bloody moments which was today that Maureen and I think so much alike. We had very frank talks about Catholicism, abortion, down syndrome and Obama. It was good to talk to someone, a close friend, so openly and honestly and be able to really talk. On that beach in our clothes of now knowing that this beach will outlive us and we will be dead with some of our questions answered and others left hanging and the only certainty is we spent a day over the Christmas break together throwing a dog a ball on a beach and that was good.
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