Life In A Word

Pageant of the Masters

In the small but wealthy community of Laguna Beach, California, the crown jewel of the annual Festival of Arts is an event known as the Pageant of the Masters. The Pageant is remarkable entertainment: ninety minutes of classical and contemporary art pieces, recreated one-by-one on stage in larger-than-life frames, using real people instead of their painted counterparts. Makeup, lighting, and carefully choreographed sets complete each “painting”, resulting in a remarkably accurate depiction when the curtain sweeps aside. Add in the accompanying music from the live orchestra and it is a nonpareil performance. Thousands attend the Pageant each summer, as they have since its beginnings in 1932.

In the smaller but modest community of Augusta, Georgia, the sporting world was witness to another nonpareil performance last weekend – the Masters golf tournament. Just like the Pageant, thousands attend golf’s Masters each April, as they have since its beginnings in 1934. To me, the Masters is golf as a fine art.

Whether or not you play golf – whether or not you even like golf – there is no denying the Augusta National Golf Club is a beautiful place. The photos here do not do it justice, but most of us will have to settle for just that – photos. Tickets to the Masters go on the market a year in advance (apply now for 2017!), and a four-day tournament badge runs upwards of $2,500. Candidly, even a golf fan like myself – who has “visit Augusta National” on his bucket list – would rather watch the action on television. The price of cable gets you far more camera angles and coverage than you could ever hope for in person.

Augusta National’s eighteen holes are so revered that each one has been given a name. The first photo above is #12 “Golden Bell”, the shortest but perhaps trickiest of them all. It’s a spectacular par-3 where the tee shot must clear water and then land on a small green protected by several sand bunkers. This year’s tournament was lost on this hole.

This photo is #15 “Firethorn”, a twisting par-5 that tempts you to go for the green in two – if you’re brave enough to tune out the creek that runs in front of and behind the green. Firethorn also has the distinction of a hole where Masters tournaments have been won or lost.

It’s easy to get lost in the pageantry of the Masters, whether it be the ceremonial opening tee shots from prior champions, the CBS theme song “Augusta”, the reverent tones of commentator Jim Nantz, or the endless camera shots of the color-burst of spring azaleas against the backdrop of bright green fairways. But don’t ignore the play itself. You’re witnessing one hundred of the world’s best golfers, competing on one of sport’s most difficult stages. Watch them as they bend shots blindly around trees and over water, or curl in putts that move from left to right and then left again. Augusta National is a true test of composure and will. Masters champions are artists in their own right. Like Laguna Beach, it really is a Pageant of the Masters.

Photos courtesy of the Official Program of the 2006 Masters Tournament

Field of Flowers

In the heart of timeless Rome, not far from the Pantheon and the Coliseum and the Vatican City, lies a field of flowers. The Italians call it the Campo de’ Fiori (literally, “field of flowers”) and it is a welcome retreat from the bustling metropolis that surrounds it. The Campo is open and happy and bright; a sanctuary nestled within a vast maze of winding streets and crowded buildings.

You can see the Campo in the photo above: the rectangular area with all the white tents. Admittedly the Campo is not really a field, but rather a piazza (a public square). But the place abounds with flower-vendors. And the square hosts a daily food market, bars and restaurants, and a bath-like fountain to keep all those cut flowers fresh.

The Campo has a special place in my heart, because in 1982-1983 I spent nine months in Rome, studying architecture. The Hotel Lunetta (also in the map photo at the upper right) was our “dorm”, and the streets of the city our “campus”. The Campo was our “quad”. It was where we played Frisbee (while the Italians played soccer alongside us). It was where we had our laundry done or grabbed a snack or shopped for conveniences. But mostly it was just a cozy place to hang out after classes.

The Campo is one of Rome’s smaller piazzas. To contrast, here’s a photo of nearby Piazza San Pietro, the vast open space in front of St. Peter’s Cathedral in the Vatican City:

The Campo has an interesting history that dates back to the Middle Ages (see https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Campo_de’_Fiori). It really was a field to begin with, until a Cardinal had it paved over in the fifteenth century. Many of the buildings that surround the open space are the originals from hundreds of years ago. My wife Brigid, an equestrian, would enjoy the fact that a) the one church on the Campo is for Santa Brigida (a Swedish saint), and b) the square was once the site of a twice-weekly horse market.

Several streets that lead to the Campo are named for the trades that occupied the area all those years ago. Via della Corda – approaching from the southwest – means “Street of the Rope-makers”. Via dei Cappellari – approaching from the northwest – means “Street of the Hat-makers”.

The Campo also boasts a not-so-nice aspect. In the seventeenth century the square was used for public executions, particularly for those at odds with the Church. Almost in kind, the Campo of recent years has become a gathering place for drunken tourists, soccer enthusiasts, and overzealous youth, earning the distinction of “one of the most dangerous places in Rome at night”. What a shame. Perhaps the Campo should remain a keepsake memory for me instead of a place to revisit – my Campo – an unspoiled sanctuary more akin to a field of flowers.

Photos courtesy of Google Maps: https://www.google.com/maps)

That’s (Not) the Spirit!

In the latest Skytrax airline review, Spirit Airlines received an overall rating of 3 (out of 10). Not so good, eh? I’d love to debate that grade with those who fly Spirit. But what if those travelers also learned Spirit received a mere 4 for “value for money”. Value for money? This is an airline that touts itself as “the leading ultra-low cost carrier in the United States”! Have we been duped?

One of my family members flew Spirit earlier this week, and from her I learned the extent to which a business model can go “no frills”. I thought Spirit simply attached a fee to everything outside of the ticket itself. It’s more convoluted than that. Best example: Spirit’s checked bag fee starts at $30 (paid at time of booking), increases to $35 (before online check-in), then to $40 (during online check-in), then to $50 (at ticket counter), and summits at $100 (at gate). Pack carefully too, because an “overweight bag” begins at forty pounds (not fifty), and the fee-on-top-of-the-baggage-fee for overweight begins at $25.

Here are some other gotchas with Spirit; enough to consider your nearest emergency exit. Choosing a seat yourself runs $50 and up (not so unusual with the airlines these days). Carry-on bags that can’t be jammed under your seat cost you $55. Boarding passes are $2 if printed at a kiosk; $10 if printed by an agent (must be premium-weight paper, huh?) Unaccompanied minors are an extra $100 each way. Finally, the drink you’ll need to survive this a-la-carte menu starts at $3, even if it’s plain ol’ water. And don’t forget to press the flight attendant button or your beverage will never, ever arrive.

All of the above might read as criticism, but it’s apparent the Spirit model works for enough passengers to keep their planes in the air. If you choose to fly Spirit you are – ideally -a person traveling alone, carrying only one bite-sized piece of luggage, and you don’t mind where or with whom you sit on the plane. You also don’t care about comfort, because Spirit proudly reduces legroom to create “more seats for less airfare”.

I waged a little fares-war to see how Spirit’s “bare fare” stacks up to the competition. I chose five of Spirit’s larger-city destinations and compared those fares to the next lowest carrier. Here’s what you pay if you book a one-week round-trip flight from Denver starting April 15th:

Chicago – Spirit: $108, Next Lowest: $117
Atlanta – Lowest: $167, Spirit: $270
Dallas – Spirit: $78, Next Lowest: $86
Phoenix – Lowest: $130, Spirit: $150
Los Angeles – Spirit: $91, Next Lowest: $138

Percentage-wise, the best deal is to Los Angeles, where you only pay 65% to Spirit vs. the next lowest. But are you going to fly all the way to the coast with a bag that fits under your seat? Not likely, so add another $55. Whoops – Spirit is no longer the lowest-cost option.

I’m not necessarily throwing Spirit under the bus here (even though a recent DOT report showed they had the highest number of complaints per-passenger among major U.S. airlines). I’m not saying they don’t care about you the customer (even though my sister-in-law took three hours and five agents/supervisors/managers to get her storm-delayed flight re-booked). I’m not even saying Spirit doesn’t run its business above board (even though the FAA recently slapped them with a $375,000 penalty for false advertising and refusal to reimburse customers).

What I am saying is do the math and know what you’re paying for. Don’t be duped.

I’ll conclude with a bit of irony. Three years ago my overnight flight to Florida was cancelled because I couldn’t connect through Houston on account of bad weather. But I simply had to get to Florida by the next morning. After exhausting all options the counter agent informed me my only option was out of another airport an hour’s drive to the north, and the only option out of that airport was… Spirit. And I’ll be damned if Spirit didn’t get me to Florida the next morning – right on time. So there you have it – I’m a fan of Spirit! Er, that is, after exhausting all other options.

Sounds Good to Me

At the movies last weekend, as we waited for the lights to dim, two women were having a conversation in the row in front of us. What struck me was not what they were talking about, but how they sounded. Their voices projected loud and clear above the quieter chatter of others in the theater. Yet they were talking normally, neither straining nor raising their voices. It’s like they had built-in megaphones.

I find that fascinating about the human voice. With one person the words come out all velvety and smooth, like honey-dripped taffy. With others it’s all cymbals and brass band.

Take “Debbie” on the current season of television’s “Survivor”. If you watch, you know who Debbie is (the self-proclaimed uber-intelligent “Brain Tribe” member). But even if you didn’t know all that about Debbie, you’d recognize her voice in a heartbeat. There’s just something about her combination of accent, volume, and non-stop blah-blah-blah.

When I hear voices like Debbie’s, I’m spirited back in time to high school speech class. Midway through that semester so many years ago, our teacher brought in an “alumna” to demonstrate public speaking at its most refined. I’ll never forget it. Our guest spent several moments standing quietly in front of us; eyes closed, breathing deep, as if preparing for a long delivery. Then she simply said:

“Thank you for the plums. They were delicious.”

That was it. That was her entire speech. But I was utterly spellbound. The way she delivered just two lines: enunciating each word completely, starting and finishing each sentence smoothly, captivating her audience with her words as well as her body language – was the total sensory experience. I could hear her eating those plums. I could see the juice dripping down her lips. I could even taste those plums myself (and they were delicious). To this day it is one of the most powerful moments of speech I have ever witnessed.

The accents in the Southern states – i.e. Virginia or South Carolina or Georgia – are similarly spellbinding. I remember touring a plantation house once when I was a teenager, and our guide was a short, heavy-set black woman who possessed one the softest, sweetest voices I had ever heard. Her words were so calming and mesmerizing I found myself falling asleep on my feet, jaw dropped. I hope she realized that was a compliment, because I can still hear her voice to this day.

The Irish accent is even more affecting to me. Male or female; on the Emerald Isle or watching the movie “Brooklyn”; there is something utterly captivating about the Irish spin on the spoken word. It is soft and fluid, with subtle twists of pronunciation and emphasis. It’s like an audio massage. I could listen to the female Irish voice for hours on end (just as my wife could listen to the male equivalent. Hate you for that, Colin Farrell).

Since I am neither Irish nor a resident of the South, nor even a refined public speaker, I settle instead for using words that simply sound nice. Search the Web and you’ll find lists of “the most beautiful words” or “the sweetest-sounding words”. Here are some of my favorites:

cashmere
cinnamon
chimes
dulcet
effervescence
grace
lithe
mist
murmur
rhapsody
sapphire
serene

Don’t those sound nice and velvety? Don’t they bring just a tinge of comfort, or conjure up images of the nicer things in life? To conclude, some of us may not possess the most pleasant of pipes (like Survivor Debbie). But at least we have some sugary words that can bring us a little closer to that honey-dripped taffy.

I Need A Fix

Home improvement gets a lot of attention these days, thanks to HGTV programs and the do-it-yourself draw of Home Depot and Lowe’s. Home maintenance however, lurks gleefully behind the scenes. Home maintenance demands your attention regularly, whether you want it to or not. If you’re a home owner, you’re a home maintainer. It’s the gift that never stops giving.

Last week our kitchen garbage disposal finally got the best of me. It’s kinda-sorta worked for several weeks now, but the occasional drip-drip below the sink (and why is it just occasional?) and the uncomfortably loud grind of its teeth had my disposal practically begging to be replaced. So I finally completed the task, but not before discovering some unexpected wiring and plumbing as a bonus.

For me, that’s how it goes with all home maintenance projects. Something breaks. I assess the situation and decide how long I can put off the fix. I don’t wave the white flag until I find all of the work-around options I can think of. Then, at last I purchase the parts and round up the tools, take a deep breath and dive in. That’s where a project gets really interesting, because there’s always more adventure in the repair than meets the eye.

When I wrote about my smoke detector assault a couple of weeks ago, the fact remained that I had ten outdated detectors still to be replaced. Amazon Marketplace came to my rescue. One mantra for modern times is “you can buy anything on Amazon”, and home maintenance projects back up that claim. I matched my ten-year-old smoke detectors to photos and details on Amazon and instantly purchased a whole box of the exact same little devils. But what looked like an easy project became anything but. It wasn’t until I replaced the first one that I realized the ceiling mount on the new units is slightly different than what I already have. So instead of just clicking in the new units, I also get to replace each ceiling mount, including the electrical wiring.

Perhaps you’re one of those who pays someone else to do your repairs. You figure, cough up the money and the job will be done a lot sooner (and better) than through your own effort. Much as I want to walk that road, my conscience always gets the better of me. I grew up with a father who basked in the curiosity of home maintenance and improvement. He just about lived for any kind of fix-it project on his weekends. His own upbringing – including a hand in the construction of his own childhood home – gave him the confidence to even take on the projects he’d never done before. Hence one summer my brothers and I found ourselves digging trenches and piecing together PVC pipe in our front yard as we constructed a massive sprinkler network. I’m not sure I even knew how to turn on the sprinklers before that.

Twenty-five years of home ownership would suggest I’ve evolved into a home maintenance expert. Nope; just not built that way. Even the most routine project still finds a way to confound me. Whether I’m replacing the guts of a toilet, rewiring a light fixture, or addressing the next water crisis (and there’s always a next in that department), I cut myself a break by assuming the project will not go as planned. That’s a good strategy for those of you just getting into the fix-it game. Beware the phrases “easy to install”, “replaces in minutes” or “requires no tools”. It will never go down as simple as swapping the old for the new.

Here are five home repair mantras worth memorizing. One, your project will require parts or steps that were not part of your original plan. Two, your project will involve words and gestures that are not typically part of your vocabulary. Three, double the time you need to complete your repair (actually, triple it). Four, the previous installation was not done perfectly – and you will suffer because of it. And Five, you will worry for days or weeks after your repair, wondering whether you got it right.

Yesterday – utterly mocking this topic – my coffeemaker called it quits. I worked on it for over an hour to no avail. Broken coffeemaker and no morning joe? Makes me want to call the repairman from here on out.

Winning the Big One

U.S. News & World Report just ranked Denver and Colorado Springs high on its list of “best places to live” in America. Apparently the job market, cost of living, and quality of life in the Rocky Mountains leaves little to be desired. To add to the accolades, the Broncos just won the Super Bowl.

Before you say “Honey – pack up the kids! We’re moving to Colorado!”, you must pause if you’re a sports fan. Sure, that Lombardi Trophy is shiny and new and will feed Denver’s ego for the rest of the year. But it sure is lacking for company. If the State of Colorado had a trophy case for professional sports, the Lombardi would almost find itself in solitary confinement. Sequestered. You might even feel bad for it.

Denver wasn’t even supposed to win this Super Bowl. Fans from North Carolina (and frankly, anywhere outside of Colorado) never gave us a chance. But we’re used to it out here. Denver and Colorado are perpetual underdogs when it comes to sports championships.

The Super Bowl win got me curious, so I spent a few hours researching Colorado’s professional sports franchises (Wikipedia is my new best friend). I desperately wanted to use the phrase “a list of championships a mile high“. Far from it. To be honest I had to dig deep to find any noteworthy performances.

To spin it positive, Colorado might earn your envy for being one of only thirteen states where the four major professional sports are represented. whoop-dee-doo. The last time the Broncos won the Super Bowl was last century. The one and only time the Avalanche (hockey) won the Stanley Cup was 2001. The last time the Rockies (baseball) won the World Series was never. But at least the Rockies made it to the World Series . The Nuggets (basketball) started play in 1967 and fifty years later we’re still waiting for a spot in the Finals, let alone an NBA Championship.

To add a miserable exclamation point to Colorado’s track record, the Nuggets will once again miss the playoffs this year (it’s a tradition), the Avalanche are battling a half-dozen teams for the very last playoff slot in the Western Conference, and the Rockies… well, the Rockies haven’t even begun the new season yet they’re projected to finish in last place in the National League. Go COLORADO!

My Wikipedia search – ever more desperate – moved on to college championships. Colorado’s six D1 schools have accounted for a grand total of one football championship in their entire un-storied histories (Univ. of Colorado, 1990). None of these schools have come anywhere close to tasting college basketball or baseball glory. But then, mercifully, we have hockey. On the college ice the Centennial State shines. Denver University and Colorado College have combined for nine hockey championships; the most recent in 2005. I need to become a better fan of the puck.

If you’re reading from California, Massachusetts, Texas, or Florida, you feel none of my pain. Each of you can account for five, ten, even twenty professional or college sports championships in the last fifteen years alone. But if you’re reading from Georgia or Washington D.C., you’re pitching the proverbial championship shutout. You have my sympathies.

On the heels (hooves?) of the Broncos’ Super Bowl victory, Peyton Manning hung up his cleats for good – a justified decision. But Peyton’s backup just signed with the Houston Texans. In fact, several marquee Broncos have already left the state for other (better?) teams and higher salaries. Sigh. Back up the truck boys; the Lombardi Trophy is heading to another state soon. Let Colorado’s next sports championship drought commence.

So go ahead sports fans – move to Colorado. But I suggest you follow soccer. The Colorado Rapids have only been kicking for twenty years and they’ve already made the finals twice and won the whole thing once. Go RAPIDS!

You’ll Find This Alarming!

They came for me quickly, in the deep of the night when my defenses were completely down. A coordinated attack as I slumbered. Theirs was no slow, stealth-like movement of sentries, but a full-on guns-a-blazin’ ear-splitting blitzkrieg. Who was this ruthless after-hours enemy, you ask?

My smoke alarms, of course.

Smoke alarms sit quietly on the ceilings of your bedrooms and hallways. They rest there upside-down like giant aspirins, waiting for a reason to blow their horns. They smugly advertise themselves as safety mechanisms (“you need us, pal”) but don’t be fooled. Even as I type they’re plotting another one of their coordinated onslaughts.

I have ten of these little monsters in my house: three upstairs, three on the main level, and four in the basement. In the dozen years we’ve lived here our smoke alarms have never – not once – alerted us to actual smoke or fire. Sometimes they chirp their once-a-minute beeps, demanding their failing batteries be replaced. Other times they sound off in pain as the static electricity of nearby lightning fills the air.

Lately it’s gotten worse. Now they’re making unreasonable demands, exploding in unison for no reason whatsoever. It always starts with one and then the others join in quickly. It’s downright deafening. A symphony of sirens more ear-splitting than the cannon fire of the 1812 Overture.

Their latest invasion came last Friday, in the wee hours of the morning. As usual they attacked without warning. The general (oh yes, I know which one he is) commanded one of his basement infantrymen to sound off, and per design as soon as one opened his mouth the other nine joined in with obnoxious harmony.

The net effect of this audio jolt was a magic trick. I levitated off the bed at least a foot – still horizontal, still under the covers (my wife missed an opportunity to wave her hands with a flourish and say “ta-dah!”) But shortly after returning to earth my brain kicked in to fully 5% of capacity and I was on the move. Alarms screaming, dogs barking, feet pounding, and no smoke or fire anywhere to be seen, I clapped my hands over my ears and dashed to the garage to grab a ladder. Then I climbed to the nearest little devil and ripped his battery out. Then to the next one. And the next. Hurrah, I was winning the battle! Or so I thought.

After dismantling four of these buggers it occurred to me the batteries-down approach was having no effect. All alarms continued their gleeful shrieks, and no amount of screaming obscenities would shut them up. Then it dawned on me: batteries or not, my alarms were still feasting off the house current. I dashed back to the garage, threw open the breaker box door, and triumphantly killed the circuit. Better. But six of ten still wailed away on battery life.

The remainder of my counterattack was the beginning of the merciful end. Each time I yanked out a battery, the siren would weaken to a pathetic moan and finally die away. I’m not saying it was music to my ears but you get the idea. After I dismembered Number Nine the sirens stopped entirely. And thank goodness for that. Number Ten – the general – sits seriously high up in the two-story stratosphere of our family room. It takes the full height of my extension ladder and tippy-toes to bring him to his knees. So I left the general with his battery, but fully detached from his regiment. He all but waved the white flag.

The following morning, as I surveyed the carnage hanging from my ceilings, I wondered how I could bring this war to an end once and for all. I decided to take down one of the dead bodies and have a closer look. Just as I was about to crack open the plastic cylinder for the autopsy I noticed the following words, printed in raised lettering around the edge:

“REPLACE THIS DEVICE BY YEAR 2012 TO AVOID MALFUNCTION”.

Seriously? Smoke alarms have a shelf life? Apparently the joke’s been on me for the past four years.

The general’s still up there and I swear I hear him laughing.

Go On, Take the Money and Run

If you buy e-books through Amazon, you’re familiar with the option “send a free sample”. Rather than buying the book up front, Amazon sends the first 5% to your e-reader as a teaser. The sample cuts off abruptly (sometimes mid-sentence), but you get enough of a taste to decide whether you want to commit to the purchase or simply walk away.

Free samples are a genius sales tactics (think Costco), but I say free samples are saving graces for an often mediocre world.

Mediocre. It means you experienced something run-of-the-mill or commonplace. Think about the last food item you purchased. Would you say it was delicious? Like nothing you’ve ever tasted before? Would you rush back and buy another one? Probably not. Yet you ate the whole thing even though the first bite screamed “meh”. Why did you do that?

Here’s a better example. How often are you at the movies and twenty minutes into the film you start to wonder if it’s going to get any better. You become more interested in your surroundings than what’s up on the screen. For me, the first red flag is when I suddenly double-check my pockets for my wallet and car keys.

Sometimes you see people get up and leave in the middle of a movie – the bold ones. Do you leave? Chances are you don’t. You finish out the show, turn to the person you came with and say, “ah, it was just okay”. Again, why did you do that? You could’ve been gone almost two hours ago and salvaged the evening by doing something better!

I think we should apply Amazon’s “first 5%” to more of life’s experiences. At the movies, why don’t they flash a little question mark in the corner of the screen fifteen minutes in. If you’re not into the film you get up and leave at that moment, and the theater refunds you 20% of the ticket price. Sure they might have to charge a little more to offset the loss, but guess what? Movie producers would track the “leave” statistics and make better films.

The other night I saw the Harlem Globetrotters, an act I hadn’t seen since childhood. They’re not as entertaining as they used to be. The basketball is still impressive, but the slapstick comedy is dated, and the focus seems to be as much about their charity and the products they’re selling as it is about the show itself. Again, the “first 5%” rule says you decide within the first fifteen minutes whether to stay or go, and you get a 20% refund on your ticket. And, that ticket could be handed off to another line of patrons, who would then watch your remaining 80% for free (and probably buy enough concessions and products to offset the refund).

We’re in an election year. You may consider your choices for President mediocre. No problem. The “first 5%” rule says the winner has 75 days to make good on those “when I get in office” promises. If he/she comes up short, the Vice-President (or even more interesting, the runner-up) takes over and also gets a 75-days shot. Sure, I’m making the early months in office more demanding and the election process more complicated. But at least the VP would no longer be a figurehead. And you the voter would no longer feel like your “purchase” of the next four years demands a refund.

Old-World Charming

One of my favorite musicals is “Brigadoon”. The original production dates a long way back; to 1947. Brigadoon tells the tale of two Americans traveling in the Scottish Highlands. A town quietly appears to them through the fog: charming, simple and untouched by time. It is idyllic. To protect itself from the changing outside world, “Brigadoon” only appears to outsiders one day every hundred years. So when one of these travelers falls in love with a Scottish lass from the town, he only has a few hours to decide if that love means remaining in Brigadoon and disappearing into the fog forever. The ending is fitting (and not so predictable). I won’t give it away here.

My own Brigadoon appears to me, once a year for only a week or two. Just north of San Diego lies the little coastal town of Del Mar. It is a quiet village by the sea, with pretty little shops and restaurants, a prominent hotel, and a train that whistles its way along the nearby cliffs several times a day. You can stroll leisurely from the beach to the center of town in a matter of minutes. You can sit in the park on the bluffs and lose yourself in the horizon. The flip-flop pace is slow and the carefree inhabitants always seem relaxed and happy. Like Brigadoon, Del Mar is simple, romantic, and idyllic.

I keep returning to Del Mar, just as I did when I was a boy. Growing up in the bustle of Los Angeles, Del Mar was only a two-hour drive south by car or an effortless journey by train; yet always seemed a world away. My family spent the summers at our house on the beach, including countless hours in the sand and surf. In those days – a half-century ago or more (gulp) – Del Mar was as modest a burg as you can imagine. The beachhouses were drab single-story wood-sided bungalows. A walk on the shore encountered a lot of seaweed and rocks and only an occasional shell. The town was unremarkable; more practical than boutique. My child’s eye recalls the 7-Eleven as a highlight; the only place a kid cared about thanks to its Slurpees and pinball machines. Del Mar’s drugstore was almost forgettable, except you could buy chocolate malt tablets (meant for indigestion but candy to us kids). The park contained a snack shack where you couldn’t get much more than a grilled cheese and a Coke. And my friends and I used to sneak under the highway through a culvert, giving us a back door entrance to the nearby horse-racing grounds. I can still picture the jockeys, exercising their thoroughbreds in the ocean waves.

Del Mar is a wholly different animal today. The draw of the coast, the consistently good weather, and the summer horse-racing season has transformed a modest locale into quite the tony address. The beach is groomed daily and the sand is marked into areas for swimming and other areas for games and still other areas for dogs. The hotel commands a nightly rate of $350. The park on the bluffs is all spruced up – no more snack bar – and used for concerts and festivals. A sunset wedding/reception sets you back $4k just for the use of the park. The local Starbucks sells enough coffee and tea to rank among the most successful locations in the country. The racetrack patrons hit the town in their Sunday best the first day of the season (think Kentucky Derby). And most notably, a house on the beach – with a very narrow slot of property abutting the ocean – cannot be had for less than $10 million. Yes, Del Mar is all dressed up these days and hardly simple.

But it’s still my Brigadoon.

My family and I make our annual pilgrimage to Del Mar every July. We leave behind landlocked Colorado for yet another taste of the sun and surf and salty air. And as soon as I arrive, the little town I remember reveals itself to me from the fog that has enveloped it over the years. The fancy shops, restaurants, and patrons step aside in favor of the simpler and more idyllic memories of the Del Mar I first fell in love with. If it were possible, I might just choose to take a leap – forever – into the Brigadoon of my yesteryear.

Left, Left, Left-Right-Left

I’ve never been a baseball fan, but I do like the nostalgic origin of the term “southpaw”. Baseball claims the word because early ballparks oriented their fields with the batter facing east (to avoid the setting sun). That put the pitcher facing west, and in the case of a lefty, his pitching “paw” to the south.

I am a southpaw myself. The more formal term for me and my left-handed brethren is sinistral. We are the ten percent of the world’s population who curse as we ladle from the punch bowl, write in our spiral-bound notebooks, or cut that not-so-straight line with our scissors. We are the annoying person to your right at dinner parties; the one who bumps your elbow every time we lift our fork.

Handedness is often determined in the womb but almost always by the age of two. Handedness suggests a tendency towards the opposite side of the brain (that is, left-handed people are more “right-brain” and vice-versa). But it is also believed that left-handed people have the hemispheres of the brain reversed, so that their right-brain skills actually reside in their left hemisphere. Confusing, no?

Whether left or right, the connotations go beyond the body itself. Left-brain people favor analysis, logic, and facts, while right-brains favor creativity, imagination, and feelings. I generally behave left-brain (which would confirm that reversed-hemisphere notion), but just to be sure I took the following 30-second test: http://braintest.sommer-sommer.com/en/ . Try it yourself. It tells me I am 59% right-brain. Huh? Then again – to squash this approach completely – logic tells me a right-brain person would not even subscribe to the idea that a test can determine these distinctions.

When we lived in San Francisco there was a small shop in Fisherman’s Wharf called “The Left-Hand Store”. Among its more popular products: watches that could be set from the left, measuring cups that could be read when held in the left hand, and notebooks spiral-bound on the right. They also sold an impressive selection of scissors and cutlery with the cutting edge on the -ahem – correct side. Finally, they sold a “Super Power” hoodie proclaiming “Left is Right”, which is really just a desperate plea for sympathy from all you righties.

We lefties may need super power to overcome the perception that we are out of favor in a right-handed world. After all, “right” connotes “correct” and “proper”, while sinistral connotes “unlucky” and “clumsy”. The English derived “sinister” from sinistral, while the French termed “gauche” for “left”, but also for “awkward”. Black magic is sometimes referred to as the “left-hand path”. Many cultures seek to convert their left-handed children to the right. Why is it never vice-versa? Hence the perception.

Admittedly, some tasks remain nightmarish when performed from the left. I will never again take chalk to board (as most ends up on my hand). My spiral notebooks will always be bound from the top, to avoid the indent of metal wire on the edges of my palm. My writing will forever be illegible since my hand curves awkwardly around the words I write, (to avoid smearing). And if I ever wish to play the guitar – or the accordion – I need to play them upside-down for the benefit of my more dexterous hand. At least Sir Paul McCartney feels my pain.

Here’s an interesting premise. It is said that more left-handed drivers die in accidents than right-handed drivers. Why? Because in the effort to avoid that head-on collision, we southpaws instinctively pull the wheel down to the left… which takes our car into oncoming traffic. At least in America. Perhaps I should move to England.

From the Facebook community That’s One Awesome Mommy, we read “Left-handers are wired into the artistic half of the brain, which makes them imaginative, creative, surprising, ambiguous, exasperating, stubborn, emotional, witty, obsessive, infuriating, delightful, original, but never, never dull.” Whoa. Now that’s what I’d call a left-handed compliment!