By Charlotte K. Jarmy

Reflections

Do you ever wish you had more than one mind? I certainly do, or maybe to have one that sends the message “This machine is overloaded. Please call back. Your calls are very important to us!” I realize that’s fantasy and only reality programming gets through these days.

One part of my mind worries about our new roses. Are we treating them properly? Is there room for one more - a lovely two-toned coral and yellow, for example? Another part worries that there will be a BART strike just when son Ron starts his new, wonderful job. Yet another segment wants to continue working on my new-old novel, “Daddy’s Girl,” that I set aside at the end of the Gulf War. Since the threat of terrorism hangs over us still, the plot continues to be relevant in its concerns for family relationships that parallel the 10-year-old mess. We were left with an unsolved disease and a dictator still shaking his fist.

The signs that trumpet “End Of Summer Sale” send shivers down my back. Hey, kiddo, I soothe, you really are retired - sort of. My senior writing class starts again Sept. 27, and I can’t stop my mind from searching for new ideas for that lovely group of people. The class is a world apart from the roomful of noisy teenagers, happy for one day in September to greet their friends and display the latest fashions. On that first day when I did most of the talking, I left for home exhausted and wondering if I were really in the right profession.

Then there’s the physical reminder that summer may be on its way out, but my aching back says, “I’m still here, so watch the way you reach for that piece of paper. Take responsibility for your own pain.” Ouch! The other physical reminder kicks in when I walk uphill in San Francisco. Huff, puff, and bang, bang goes my heart. I growl inwardly at the sharp pace of many zipping along, even those in my own age group.

Yet there are times when I can forget these worrisome messages from the interior: watching our hummingbirds fighting over airspace or weeping through a video of someone else’s problems. If ever there was a misnomer, there’s the flick “House Of Mirth,” where a beautiful woman goes downhill rapidly. Would you believe she ends up in total social disgrace because she lost money gambling at cards? “See,” I told Howard, “that would happen to me if I ever learned to play bridge.”

We also saw a French movie, “The Closet,” absolutely wonderful and funny, though you’d never know it to look at Howard’s expressionless face. He laughed out loud one time. At the end, he said, “That was a good movie. I enjoyed it.” Oh well, I can always change my seat to be near others with more normal reactions.

Last week I planned on writing about my experience in the Stanford Sleep Clinic. The irony for me is that my problem of near insomnia was certainly not improved by being wired from head to toe, plugged in and overseen by technicians watching on an infrared camera. I believe I slept three and a half hours. I won’t pursue that topic. It will deprive me of sleep tonight.

How did I get to the end of the page? I never even mentioned our overburdened pear tree, which suddenly demanded to have its fruit picked without the obligatory ripening stage. Nor did I share my distaste for the smiling senator from Modesto who may or may not hold unsavory secrets.

There’s so much to think about, and I have only one mind. It gets so busy, I start feeling sleepy at 10 a.m. while trying to read through the morning paper, all the while listening to Howard telling me what’s going on in the business section. Thank goodness, my regular 4 p.m. nap time is still ahead.

Jarmy’s column is published the third week of the month. Send comments and suggestions to her c/o editor Bruce Barton at bruceb@latc.com.