The Balboa Bay Club.

   I removed this little sketch of Balboa Park while examining old sketches of San Diego where I made my home for five years. The Golden Years was the title of this sketch. I discovered while I got older and wiser, I no longer looked like Robert Redford but somebody quite different. 
   This sketch takes place in Balboa Park, the sight of two expositions as well as home to an incredible zoo. Hope you will enjoy it. This sketch was written in January of 2002.  

    Nobody told me that once young a good looking faces would turn to ears and nose. These were supposed to be my Golden Years but after a cancerous bump had been removed at San Diego's Kaiser, I called them the Rustic Years.
    I woke up at the downtown Y and something told me I should have wallowed in bed. Yet it was Thursday, and the Balboa Bay Club had another dance. The dances were held every-other Thursday so I hurried to get ready for the one o'clock dance. The dances are held at Balboa Park off of President's Way and Park Blvd.
    I took the #7 up Broadway until Park Blvd. It dropped me off at the Cabrillo Bridge, and next to my favorite place to picnic, rest and enjoy the beauty of God's creation. I walked over a bridge and took up residence on a long log overlooking the valley down below.
   A few workers were removing old Rose Bushes and replanting younger ones in their places. . Two weeks earlier, the caretakers and founders of these gardens spent time removing decayed bushes. Some workers removed the dead and planted new one. They were spreading a mix of nitrogen soil around the new plants. It was as if they had a newborn baby and took great pains to give it the nurture it needed. The usual January rain storm  was on the way.
     I made a right turn to another type of garden, one with thorns. The cacti displayed a some of the most radiant colors I had ever seen. Some of the Cactus plants had born blowers while others had blooms ready to burst into fruit in a month or two. I sat on a log and enjoyed the sights of the many arms of God.
    Only an occasional Hummingbird or snake had the nerve to cross my path. My bag of chips and a Chicken-of-the-Sea Tuna sandwich gave my body time to reenergize its battery. A hummingbird looked my way but I quickly tucked the remainder of the meal inside my palate.

The January rain had stopped. Instead a cold wind whipped my face. The weather report had these waves traveling at thirty miles an hour. The freakish weather began last summer. A couple of one hundred degree days made me a fan of the Harbor Sheraton Hotel. The island across from the airport helped me stay alive and beat the heat. I am a fan of Global warming.
   I bucked the westerly winds over the bridge but finally made it to the Balboa Senior Center across from the Prado Restaurant. The Spanish influence was apparent. The Expositions of 1915 and 35 put an influence on Mexican and Spanish design.
   Inside the Senior Center, Selma, a volunteer provided me with coffee and free cookies. A eighty five year old man spoke about his favorite restaurant in Pacific Beach. After about thirty minutes into his monologue, I placed some nuts into his hand to shut him up. It did. Selma refilled my coffee mug. Her 400 pound frame looked like it enjoyed volunteer work at the Senior Center
   The time approached eleven so I said my good-by's and left up towards the Balboa Bay Club. And what a glorious walk. I marveled at the tall Elm and Eucalyptus trees. Hell, I could not see their heads. Up ahead was the Chinese Tea room and the Amphitheater that held the largest organ in the United States.
     The Balboa Bay Club offers senior dancing every other Thursday. The fee is three dollars and well worth it. An old piano sits by the entrance and invites me to play a few old ditties. Across the way is the Hall of Champions. Memorabilia of the greatest San Diego athletes is shown there as well a pictures decorating the walls.
   Inside a glass display case is the red, white and blue jersey of Ambrose Schindler. He wore it while playing in the Chicago All Star Game in August of 1940. Chicago All Star Jersey of one Ambrose Parks Schindler. To the left is a picture of Cotton Warburton his idol, and the football used during the charity game with proceeds going to fight Infantile Paralysis or other children diseases. The writers nominated Schindler as the All Star Player of the Game and the next year he received a trophy and brand new Mercury.
   While inside, I indulge my palate with a brew of chilly soup headed with chopped onions with crackers to the side. The three dollars is worth it. Once with time remaining before the one o'clock dance, I visited the old car museum. I feasted on the hot meal and after wiping off the residue from the table I traversed the lot to the Balboa Bay Club building.
    I envied the pairs who still held hands.  I was still a lone wolf who looked for a sparring partner. After playing a few nifty old tunes on the piano, I said hello to Steve, and took up a seat in the back of the large ballroom.
   As usual, the ladies outlasted the men. One adjusted her ragged black wig. Several removed their walking pumps for dancing ones. No longer do the ladies wear long glamorous legs. Now they are sticks with knots  and blemishes every few inches. Their toes go in different directions and no longer do they walk in a straight line.
   I sit and hope something look-able enters. All I see are long noses and large irregular ears. And I spot Edith whose nose looks as she had been a prize fighter. It resembles Popeye, the sailor man. A few own ears that look like bonnie Prince Charles'. Some have had face lifts, tummy tucks, and their breasts overhauled. Once I danced with a gal whose breast implants got loose and dropped to the floor.
  The best looking gal arrived. The tall one came over and asked me to dance. She does not look her age of seventy, but there are fifteen things wrong with her. But instead of me telling you, let me show you with the blow by blow description of the action.
   "George, don't hold me so tight. You know I can't breathe when you do it. My esophagus clams up on me. That is better. Don't touch me there, please. Thanks. Let's stop for a bit. Can you get me a glass of water."  Maureen has a case of severe dementia. I rate hers a nine with ten the highest. She loses her shoes and seldom cam find her car keys. Sound familiar? 
   At three I ask Linda for a ride to the bus stop on Broadway. To barter, I invite her to the Prado restaurant for a drink or two. She accepts. Linda is somewhere in her seventies. She does not trust men since her husband of 42 years left for Viagra and a different flame to light his candle. She has dabbled in paints and has had her art exhibited inside the Smithsonian.
  The six footer's dimensions are 25-30-25. We sip some wine and she wishes to know how I gave up finger nail biting. She keeps repeating herself like all the farts our age. I had ordered the cheapest of the port wine and two naked glasses of water.
  Time to go, the waiter hands me the check. I see twenty-two on the bill and have a shit fit. I argue and he replies, "The early bird special began fifteen minutes later. Too Bad sucker! I palm him with a ten and twenty dollar bill. Linda drives me to Sixth and Broadway. The 992 bus takes me back to the Y.
  I enter my 204 cell of the Y and look into a small mirror. Two big ears and a long nose smiles at me.