Another Year

My trip to Palo Alto for cataract surgery did not start well. When I cleared Customs in Houston, to leave both hands free, I slung my traveling handbag and the Dell crosswise, bandolier style, on opposite shoulders. It was a less-than-comfortable load. I hooked my wardrobe bag onto my roll-aboard and headed for the escalator down to the terminal train. The weight of the luggage nearly pushed me down two sets of moving stairs without benefit of steps, but I kept my balance by sheer willpower. I assumed that would be the end of my problems.

Not a bit of it. I sorted myself out, readjusted my hanging bags, grabbed the overloaded roll-aboard, and started down the endless corridor to the train. By the time I got there, I was cursing myself for not having called for a wheelchair. With noticeable lack of dignity, I reached the train and was surrounded by extremely large and loud Canadians, obviously all from a tour group. They pushed into the three cars. I begged them to let me board, pleading that I was about to drop. Somehow, with their help, Kate and luggage struggled aboard just as the doors closed.

Off we went, slowly, slowly. The train failed to pick up speed. We started up a short rise. Everyone was joking. I started the nursery story, “I think I can. I think I can,” and several people joined in.

The train couldn’t. It stopped. Moans about missing connections. Wry suggestions that we might have overloaded the cars. I apologized that it probably was all my fault, but happy Canadians shouted me down. The train began to roll backwards. It stopped again.

The P.A. system instructed us to exit by the emergency doors. They opened onto a narrow, carpeted catwalk alongside a low wall separating the tracks from the broad corridor. I announced that I would need help. A large Canadian hoisted my suitcases as if they were as light and fragile as a box of eggs, and another large man already on the other side of the wall took it. He waited until I had edged my way along the catwalk and out through the emergency gap onto the corridor.

Then we all had to walk to the next concourse. One of the Canadians grabbed my suitcase handle, over my protests, and took it as far as the next train station. There, the Canadians peeled off to their next flights, and I took an almost empty train on to the Hotel.

It was only a few yards to the elevator. I pressed the button for the lobby floor. Doors opened, and I did not see the reception area I expected. Three men got on the elevator. I asked if they were going to reception, and they said they were. They immediately took us to another wrong floor. By the time we finally decoded the buttons and found reception, we all were laughing so hard that it was a wonder we didn’t shake the elevator clear of its cables.

They had my reservation so, in moments, the charming clerk was handing me my room key and announcing that I should go “out that door, down the escalator, and…”

“No way!” I exclaimed. “I need a room I can reach by elevator.” I gave her a very condensed version of my trials.

With a new room key, I set out and found that she was forced to put me on a floor that was being redecorated. The walkway between buildings and the corridor itself were piled high with furniture. No matter. I found my door and escaped into the tranquility of my room.

April 2001

Alex, María, and I were invited to the Belize Zoo reception for Princess Anne. The Princess is in Belize for a four-day visit, her first since the Eighties.

Our invitation arrived a couple of weeks ago. Alex handed it to me with a strange look on his face. I exclaimed with pleasure, then noted that it said “Kate and Alex Scott.” He and I are long-time patrons of the Zoo, but apparently Alex never sent donations in as “Mr. and Mrs.” so María was not on the master list.

Alex commented, “María would kill to see a Royal!”

I thought I made it clear to him that she could go in my place, if necessary, though I intended to see that she was invited.

I called the Zoo, explained the situation, and asked the flustered young woman to check with Sharon Matola, the Zoo Director and a long-time friend of all of ours. She came back full of needless apologies to assure me that María’s name now was on the list. María was delighted and told me she had given up hope of going because Alex thought I really wanted to go. I do wish my son would listen more closely. María had some unhappy moments without cause. They both should have known that I would cope.

 

We left home a little after 9:00 this morning to reach the Zoo at the appointed 9:45 am. The weather cooperated. A cold front passed through Belize in the middle of the night, bringing welcome rain in our dry season. It cut the dust and cooled the air.

We expected a mob. To our delight, the guest list was pleasantly limited, with enough people to make a good show, but not so many as to make it impossible to see the Royal Guest.

We gathered just behind the Visitor’s Building at the entrance to the Zoo itself. The Governor General arrived first with his Aides. Then, with little ceremony, Sharon escorted Her Royal Highness through the building and outside to where we were waiting. Princess Anne wore a simple white summer sheath embroidered here and there with flowers, flat white shoes, a high-crowned straw hat with colorful band, and of course, white gloves.

We were in the front row and had perfect views until the press cameramen pushed their way roughly ahead of us. Even so, we could see quite well and could hear Sharon’s short speech.

Princess Anne appeared far more relaxed than I expected. I know the Royals all are pros at this public business, but I had thought her a rather unbending sort. She appeared to enjoy Sharon’s speech, laughed in the right places, and seemed completely at ease.

 

Sharon announced that, in honor of the visit, the Princess would plant a mahogany tree near the cage of the red Macaws, just past where we were gathered. Sharon introduced Henry Fairweather, the 90-year-old former government surveyor who has spent his recent years planting more than a thousand mahogany trees in an effort to encourage reforestation.

When they were in position in front of the large enclosure, Sharon called to the Macaws. Lured by the nuts she held out to them, the brilliantly colored birds quickly flew to her, perching on the side of the enclosure and seeming to take a great interest in the goings-on. The Princess was entranced.

Princess Anne peeled off her gloves. Mr. Fairweather picked up the little tree, tore the bottom off the plastic wrapping around the roots, leaving plastic circling the clump of dirt to protect royal fingers, and handed it to the Princess. She knelt down to place the tree in the waiting hole. As she did so, she turned to look back up at the watching Macaws and asked, “Did I do it right?”

Mr. Fairweather spryly shoveled dirt into the hole and stamped it firmly into place.

 

Guests were left behind when Sharon took Princess Anne and her entourage of attendants and Belize Defense Force guards on a short tour of the Zoo. Later I asked the head of the Zoo staff if the animals cooperated by emerging from their jungle-y homes so they could be seen easily. He laughed and said that the staff made sure they would. They fed the animals only half a meal the night before. Sharon carried food with her on the little tour to lure each of the animals to the front of its enclosure when she arrived with Her Royal Highness.

We retreated to one of the large rooms prepared for guests, with chairs and serving tables. Mimosas were pleasantly refreshing. I am not fond of either orange juice or champagne, but the combination is a lovely, light drink. Cheers, a nearby restaurant had catered a light lunch, though we didn’t feel like eating at that hour.

After her Zoo tour, Princess Anne came into the room where I was visiting with friends. (For those of you who have been to the Zoo, it was the small museum and snake display across from the cashier’s cage at the entrance to the Visitor’s Building.) We all stood up when the Princess entered, but as this was not a formal reception, Sharon did not introduce guests.

It was a delightfully informal morning. We all were charmed by Princess Anne. These Royal visits are interesting. Unless there is a reception line—and they are very short for such guests—one feels slightly invisible, but enjoys being part of the show.

December 2001 – January 2002

The high point of 2001 was the Christmas visit of daughter Carli and her delightful husband Tom. It was the first time in ten years that I had my whole family with me for the holidays. Carli and Tom came then to help celebrate my Seventieth birthday. This time they stayed over for my Eightieth. I doubt they will need to come in another ten years.

When Alex and María heard that Carli and Tom were coming, they decided that we must have a party to duplicate the one Alex threw for María’s fiftieth birthday. The invitations asked friends to help celebrate C&T’s visit, Alex’s Christmas Day birthday, and my Eightieth. Alex and María stage-managed everything. All I had to do was enjoy.

The side yard bloomed with colorful marquees and balloons. The air was fragrant with the scent of barbecuing. Guests were a happy mixture of Carli’s high school friends, Alex and María’s friends, and my contemporaries. The weather did not cooperate, but no one cared. It didn’t rain while the guest were arriving, and the few heavy squalls were windless, so we all were snug and dry under tents.

 

My life now would relapse to a gentle tempo were it not for my having succumbed to the charms of Raven, the tiny puppy we acquired after leaving Carli and Tom at the airport.

We had been waffling for a week about whether or not to take her. Raven is the daughter of our Doberman Shadow, who has had a long-standing liaison with Mallory, the Doberman next door. His behavior each time Mallory came into season was so maddening that, in desperation, I had Shadow neutered. A few weeks later Mallory produced 15 of his offspring.

With our “Notweiller” Missy and adored but aging Golden Lab Amber, this gives us four dogs. Fortunately, introducing the puppy into the tribe was not traumatic for any of them. The big dogs seem to be trying to figure out what this bouncing being is, and Raven thinks she is a big dog already.

As I settled down to sleep last night, the dogs began barking furiously—Shadow’s deep bark, Missy’s threatening volley, and the counterpoint of a high frenzy of tinny (two n’s intended) barking from the puppy. The barking continued for a full five minutes as I shook with laughter at the mental image of minute Raven’s bouncing up and down, trying to keep up with her giant friends as she matched them in warning off whatever innocent person or dog threatened to intrude on their territory.

 

Raven is a charming carbon copy of her father. Now she seems to add an inch each to her height and her length daily. The puppy is the delight of our lives, but a volcano of activity.