Nancy Scott, 1931-2005

I learned tonight that one of the dearest figures of my childhood died and I hadn't seen her for twenty years. NAncy Scott was a family friend, at one time the arts editor for the Workers World, and later an arts critic for the San Francisco Chronicle. She was a clever, worldly, generous woman, one of the best friends a child could have. She was the one who commiserated with me about the lack of playmates who understood the things that concerned me: "One day, you'll be walking along, minding your own business, you'll turn a corner, and you'll see: St. Swithin's Day! SOmeone who'll know exactly what you're talking about."

Nancy and her husband John Drake were communists with my parents. John had something else in common with my father: he worked on the railroad, as did John Spier, who belonged to a different party (and explained it to me later). Nancy and John had three kids: Justus, about my brother's age, Robb, about my age, and Ian, somewhat younger. We went to picnics in the park and feasts on the beach together, and when I wanted to do a history of "Bohemia" project for my high schopol civics class (not Bohemia the country, bohemia the old word for hippitude)it was Nancy and John I interviewed. Nancy told me I ought to read Trilby which is the novel that gave us the character of Svengali and the "Trilby" hat. Nancy gave me The COunt of Monte Cristo to read. Nancy introduced all of us to the music of Bob Dylan before he had cut a record. My mother had her doubts before we saw him in concert: "Nancy likes everything that's young," she said. My mother was in her early thirties then, but already world-weary. She also introduced me to M.F.K. Fisher, and her book HOw to Cook a Wolf. Having read a number of interviews with M.F.K. Fisher, I can only really think that Fisher was herself a slight reflection of Nancy.

Later Nancy and John broke up, and she lived for the last thirty years or so with Gene Marine, who I met just the once, a writer as well, who was smart and pleasant too.

I can't describe Nancy's drawling, husky, Colorado-midwestern-accented voice adequately. I can hear it in my mind though, and the laughter that was always lurking in the back of her throat. She was worldly-wise, not jaded but not for an instant naive, ever, too humorous and amused to be called earnest, but earnest just the same. I see in the San Francisco Chronicle obituary that the theater people of the Bay Area adored her for the same qualities I remember her for.

When I was young they lived in a little house in Richmond Annex, and in the kitchen there were various bits of humor and politics pinned and taped to the wall. My favorite was a piece of manila paper, inscribed in red crayon: "And on this Rock I found my Justus (the good RED dragon!)" -- I always thought that was probably a bawdy in-joke for JOhn and Nancy, or maybe it referred to some infant wandering. But "Justus, the Good Red Dragon," is a creature in my heart to this day.

Google fails me: there are Nancy Scotts mentioned online, but none of them are my Nancy Scott.

I am such a procrastinator. I often thought of visiting her again, and didn't, because I am shy and lazy, and now I won't be able to.

Yes, I know, there are bigger tragedies brewing in the world, but I miss Nancy Scott.

The human cannonball flies over the US-Mexico border: is not arrested

For some reason, this was undertaken, not as a protest against the Border PAtrol, but as an outreach project for the mentally ill.

On other fronts, I have made my first apple pie and my first batch of applesauce a full minth before I usually do, and we all know why that is.

This time of year is traditionally when I fade out and fall down on maintaining the garden. The flowers are pretty much done, the first fruits are done, and traditionally I have a month to go before apples and two or three months before pomegranates. I get discouraged because the yard is so dry. But this year, possibly because of the earliness of the apples and the tantalizing not-quite-thereness of the grapes (this being the first year I've had too many coming on) and also possibly because of being underemployed but not depressed over unemployment anymore, I'm prety busy in there. I guess also because of helping Gloria in her garden which is the opposite of mine: rural, sandy, sunny, while mine is urban, clayey, and shady.

Another disheartening thing about this time of year is rose fungus. ALthough it hasn't rained for about three months and it won't rain for about two more, we get these heavy overcast mornings and afternoons and half the time a dew that will wet the ground -- a "high fog" and sometimes even a fog that nadinelet will admit is a fog(she of the Valley origins where a fog is by dog a tule fog, a pea soup fog you can't see past the length of a car in. THis means wet, cool air -- no cold, just cool to lukewarm, and fungus just loves it.

So this year I made up the famous sure-fire home remedy for rose fungus and I have pruned the roses way back and I have sprayed them with the home remedy, which is roughly this:

1 tbsp vegetable oil
1 gallon unchlorinated water
1 tbsp apple cider vinegar
1 tsp Listerine (yes, the famous mouthwash, not mint flavour, just regular)
1 tbsp liquid soap
1 ½ tbsp baking soda
Pump sprayer (large)

I used a different brand of antibacterial mouthwash and I didn't measure.

I just did this so I don't have anything to report: but I originally heard of it from a woman who has perfect roses in a gorgeous garden around and behind the stained glass supply store where we sometime go looking for textured glass for the many eccentric little window things the nice fellow puts into the interior walls and cabinets. I have also been feeding the garden with "Elinor's VF-11," a locally-made product that all the ladies in the dentist office rave about (though I haven't seen incredible lushness yet) and I used a box of Sul-Po-Mag, which usually makes a difference.

And I have pulled a muscle from reaching up high for summer pruning and apple picking. As usual.