Goodbye 2010

          Tonight Unity Church of the Hills is having a Burning Bowl ceremony but I’m too sick to go. As my flight from Dallas to San Antonio landed Monday night my ears did not unplug and I experienced terrible earaches like the ones I used to get as a child, from swimming in the ocean.  The last two days of my trip, I had inklings that I might be coming down with something, but I just kept thinking, “get home, get home”.

          On the flight from L.A. to Dallas I sat next to a Pisces woman from Australia who was on her way to Mexico to rendezvous with a man she had known only four days, in Cuba. “But I have very good instincts,” she told me. “And if it doesn’t work out, I’ll just go somewhere else!”

          I found it fascinating that she travels three months a year, and can sleep anywhere. With a twinkle in her eye, she shared tales of some of her harrowing adventures in less-than-friendly countries. She, in turn, called me Earth Mother, after I told her how much I miss my manzanita trees and showed her pictures of my dog and cat.

          As we disembarked I realized that during the flight the lotus pendant I’d bought at Self Realization Fellowship nearly thirty years ago had slipped off me without my knowing it.  I stayed until everyone had gotten off the plane and then went back down the aisle to the bathroom but the pendant was not to be found.  I guess it decided it was time to live on someone else’s neck.

          My seat-mate waited for me and together we went to a bar where I had a shot of tequila, and she had water, and I shared the toasted almonds I’d brought for my journey. We talked about life, death, the afterlife. As different as the two of us are, I felt an affinity for her. There was a time in my life when I flew half-way around the world to meet up with a man I hardly knew. But not anymore.

          The last time I was sick on New Years Eve was in 1982 when Joel  and I went to a party in a freezing cold L.A. loft. I thought I was in love with Joel. I certainly loved his daughter and spending time with them, their dog and cat, pretending to be a family. Almost thirty years later I’m half-way across the country, living in a new state with my family that consists of a dog, two cats and a husband who happily spent the afternoon in the open garage working on boxes for his new speaker design. I sat inside by a sunny window and finished reading, The Weight of Water then took a two hour nap.

          I think today was my turning point and that my body is winning the battle against the virus that courses through my blood.  Tomorrow I’ll take down the Christmas decorations, do laundry and organize my desk. I don’t necessarily need a ceremony to let go of the sadness and worry that has plagued me this whole year. These feelings, like my pendant, will slip away on their own, and before I know it I’ll be smiling again. Funny, but even though my ears are still plugged and I look like crap, I find myself smiling now.  

TABU

As I’m berating myself over the sorry state of my cosmetics, I discover a lipstick I thought I’d used up. Nearly as slender as a cigarette, the shiny black case still had a tiny reservoir, a doll-sized pot, of delicious elixir for my lips.  I apply some with a tiny white brush. Oh, lipstick, I’m so glad I found you. How many months did we enjoy being together, I showing off your glamorous glow and you soothing my mouth? You made it easier to smile.

I don’t feel bad about keeping something that’s almost gone. I remember Tabu perfume.  It resided in a brown leather case, inside the drawer of the speaker my father built, which was next to the dining room table. I loved to open the drawer and see a deck of cards, some yellow pencils, a package of Double Mint gum and the brown leather case that held the nearly empty vial.  I’d slide it out of its case, unscrew the lid and inhale the roll-on tip.  I was transported to an ancient place I didn’t know the name of. Then, when was seven, I saw The Ten Commandments, and  knew it was Egypt.

The night of Heidi’s slumber party – December 31, 1963, I stroked Tabu on my neck. I packed one of the negligees I’d taken from the model’s dressing room. It was floor length, pale pink. The bodice was fitted, with black embroidery. A black satin bow tied the waist. That silky fabric turned my skinny, fourteen-year-old body into a woman.

I remember standing against the wall, by the piano, in the Schway's  formal living room.  Roger Somebody - football player, had broken his nose - was giving me a hickey. I gazed up at the ceiling. The Ventures were playing on the record player. I was happy and limp, breathing in that spicy Tabu, mixed with young man’s lust. It was marvelous,  being wanted so.  

Anyway, I’m glad I found my old lipstick. The company discontinued it – of course! – so I’ll hold on to it a little longer, occasionally visit and enjoy  whatever memory it may retrieve.

Stimulating Saturday

          I was mad at John last night. We’d planned to go see Deborah’s artwork in Fredericksburg and he wanted to go late in the day.  When I suggested we go earlier, he said I had a bee in my bonnet. First of all, I don’t own a bonnet but I do think I should get myself a cowgirl hat pretty soon because my poor old Laker hat is looking awfully worn. Second, there are no bees this time of year. There was a fly in the kitchen yesterday but I killed it with the neon green swatter Diane Bopp gave all the members of our yoga class, about five years ago.

          So I just ignored him, last night.  I watched a little basketball in the bedroom and “Chopped” the show I’ve become addicted to: four chefs are given baskets with four totally un-related ingredients and must cook an appetizer; the worst one is eliminated and the next three must prepare an entrée with a new basket of weird foods; the last round,  dessert has only two and they dash about frantically to get their preparations done in time.  I’ve watched so many episodes lately, that when I eat my own concoctions I turn into the three judges: the woman with sleepy eyes, who looks likes she’s about to eat the chefs; the other woman with a girlish look but cutthroat comments, and the jovial Latino man who is extremely discerning.   After my shows were over, I went to sleep. No reading.

          This morning I got up before John and had a pretty pleasant walk with Walter; we didn’t encounter any other creatures, except for a man in a golf cart looking for his two missing little dogs who ran away last night. Walter was friendly, let his head be petted.

          When John came into the kitchen in the morning, I left to check emails.  When he’d gotten his breakfast and taken it into his office, I got my breakfast, then washed my hair.  Now that I was clean I was ready to communicate with him. I called his business line.

          “I’m going to go to Market Days,” I said, “Would you like to go with me.?”

          “I’m just about to jump in the shower,” he said.

          “Then how about in an hour?”

          “Ok.”

          Sometimes I feel like a little girl with my disapproving father, when I go out with John.  The Lincoln has a lot to do with it. A lot different than how I felt driving in the 1968 Caddie with the top down! And different than the shiny black Taurus with spotless red interior, the first years we were together - all those romantic business trips. My favorite was the red F-150 truck. It was pretty, but masculine. When I sat next to him it felt like we were on a living room sofa, gliding along above the road . . . but again, I digress!

          We ended up having a pleasant day. The low angle of the sun cast lovely long shadows. It was cool in the shade but toasty in the sun. I chatted with many vendors at Market Days, which is held monthly, except January and February, on the courthouse grounds. I came home with half-a-dozen business cards.  We ate a big old brisket sandwich (cold bun! why they don’t keep some in with the warm meat, I don’t understand).  I was happy to meet a  woman who volunteers to trap feral cats and get them spade.  By the time we left, music was playing, but we were on our way to Fredericksburg and couldn’t stay.

          By now John had become more talkative and more fun to be around. The drive to Fredericksburg was calming, as always. The wild grasses have turned beige, and parts looked like the Saranghetti. But mostly it was just relaxing - wide vistas of rolling hills.

          Fredericksburg was teeming with shoppers. Four-lane

Main Street

is crammed with little shops and restaurants. I was reminded of the stream of tourists in Las Vegas crowding the Strip. I had the same reaction here as I did there: no desire to join them. Luckily, Deborah’s art was far down the main drag where things opened up and there were trees and less people.

          The gallery is a separate building that is usually used for catering events.  I loved being there!  There were four women artists, three local and one who travels the world. Deborah’s work was my favorite. The others were wonderful and I was appreciative of their skill and liked much of the subject matter, but I didn’t have the same emotional reaction to their work. Deborah’s paintings are alive.

          It was invigorating to be around so much beauty – the paintings, the sculptures – all those colors and textures; and the women themselves.  It was inspiring to be around such prolific, creative women! Plus, two of them were tall and Deborah’s husband is tall and I realize how much I love to be around tall people. John says it’s because of my father, who was 6’3” most of his life. Maybe that’s part of it, but tall people are just so much more elegant, than us average height humans.

          Of course we didn’t buy any of the art. We’re starving artists, ourselves, in a way: I, the poet; John the speaker wizard.  But it’s ok. I feel like the homeless person who sleeps on the beach, under the stars, appreciating the salt water scent and sound of the waves more than the “successful” people, locked in their houses with the windows closed.

Growing Roots (the book)

          I just spent an hour poring over Growing Roots, The New Generation of Sustainable Farmers, Cooks and Food Activists by Katherine Leiner, with breathtaking photographs by Andrew Lipton.

          This is a gift from the author, who I’ve known since I was ten years old. Because we’re so broke, I asked her if she would send me a copy for Christmas. I wasn’t embarrassed to ask this of Katherine, because she has always granted my requests. She’s been the most reliable, comforting friend I’ve ever had. She was there for me when I thought my parents were getting divorced, when my first boyfriend broke my heart, when I was confused and didn’t know what I wanted to do with my life.  She’s still there for me, when I feel vulnerable, or scared. She always listens patiently, does not pass judgment and offers simple suggestions to get me back on track.

         

          I knew Katherine had been working on this book a long time. After all she was going to interview people all over the United States. The travel alone seemed exhausting.  I knew the book would be good, because all of Katherine’s books are written and edited to the highest standards.  I knew it would be interesting to read.

          But I had no idea how gorgeous it was, until I felt its heft in my hands. I didn’t realize that I, too, would feel a fondness for the individuals who dedicate their lives to producing the most delicious, healthful foods.  The darling young couples, their rosy cheeked children, the beautifully composed photos with their rich saturated colors!  And the recipes, contributed by each interviewee, amazing! My mouth watered as I read.

          After leafing through each page, I stopped to read the last interview in the book. My heart swelled to see that Katherine’s daughter – a fellow Taurus like myself – has found her calling living and working on a farm.  From starting seeds indoors in the harsh Vermont winters, to participating in the butchering of their livestock, this funny little girl I knew has become a thoughtful, hardworking, woman. She understands the cycles of life and death and her part in it.  And she loves it!

          Bravo Katherine! It is with such pride that I spread the word about your magnum opus.  The book is stunning and I can’t wait to read all the interviews and try the tantalizing recipes.  Thank you for this gift, dear friend.  It’s perfect.

Student Acrostics

I tried the Holiday Acrostic lesson on my 4^th grade students.

I read my poems and then gave them copies and asked if they could find the secret. One girl found it. Then everyone “ah-ed” when they saw it.

The children were rowdy. One of the boys makes any excuse to get up and walk around the room. I spend most of my time telling them to stop talking or stay in their seats.

However, some kids really got into it. Those who finished first got to do a second draft, which I cut out and pasted on card stock. Then they could decorate the page and take it home.

Here are three examples of the students’ work. The first two are by girls the last is from a boy. 

Can you guess the secret word?

December 25 is Christmas Day. I don’t like

Eggnog. It is gross. I have a friend named

Caroline. She loves eggnog. She also loves

Ornaments with purple and red ribbons. I

Really, really love decorating my house.

At my aunt’s house I got to decorate a lot.

Time on Christmas is nothing, just waste it.

Is Christmas fun to you? Yes, or no?

On Christmas I love opening presents.

Nothing in the world is better than the

Saying, “Christmas is love.”

Sparkling hats are awesome. They’re

Pretty and make me feel

Artistic and every time I wear them I

Run around with joy. I run around and

Kick off my shoes. No one knows I

Like them. I try to keep it a secret.

It’s really hard to put them away after I wear them.

Nothing in the world makes me more happy.

Getting new sparkling hats is more awesome than

Having a basket full of candy.

Anyone who would give me one would be one of

The coolest people on earth.

Bob loves Christmas because

All his family gets to

Come over. Bob’s family comes from

Oklahoma and some from

Nebraska, even really weird

People Bob doesn’t even know come over.

Isolated from his dirt bike Bob

Especially loves to have family over on Christmas.

P.S.

 One girl said, “What’s your name again?”

 I told her she could call me Miss Gowland.  “What’s your first name?” she asked.

"Mary Lee. You can call me Miss Mary Lee if you want.” 

 Someone else piped up, “Can we call you Miss California?”

 I said, “Sure!” and waved like I was in a beauty pageant. From then on I was called, “Miss California!”

Holiday Poems - Examples for my students

I want my students to write Holiday Acrostics tomorrow

so have written these two as examples:

Cards are my favorite part of the holidays. I love

Hearing from friends who live far away, being

Remembered and not just by email but holding

In my hand their envelope, looking at their

Style, the color of the ink. Everyone’s handwriting

Tends to have a personality of its own. I really like how

My friend Jane writes. The letters seem to dance

And she makes weird h’s. It looks like the words could

Skip right off the page!  Her writing makes me happy.

November is when I used to plan our New Year’s

Eve parties. We called it “New York New Year’s Eve”. The
Withrows were always invited, as were the Smiths. Every 

Year I’d decorate the house with lights, and get dressed in

Evening clothes, oh, not jewels or a long gown, but for me

Anything other than jeans is dressing up! Was it 2004 I

Remember? when we all danced in the garage, Lesley’s huge

Smile as she bopped around, Lynn was there, and Robbie as

Evidenced in the photos. I miss my friends! I hope some will

Visit me, and we can laugh and have fun like we used to when

Everyone lived within visiting distance, not ½ a country away!

A Good Cry

          Yesterday, after I posted my depressing blog, I took Walter for his walk. When I came back, I poured myself a drink and the phone rang. It was my mother.  I admitted to her how miserable I was, missing my friends but that I hadn’t been able to cry about it.

          “There’s nothing worse than dry tears.” she said. What a wonderful phrase. It summed up exactly how I felt: all bottled up with grief.

          When John first let me know that we would be leaving Coarsegold I took my usual walk and sobbed the whole way. I stopped to stroke the manzanitas, admire sunlight coming through their canopy, gazed out over the elephant-like mountains and felt that my whole being was crumbling.  After we moved, I sat with Walter in the patio and cried because I missed the rabbits. But I had not yet cried because I missed my friends.

          Back in the 1980s I used to listen to Farley Malorus, a radio astrologer. At the time I was dating a Scorpio man. I called in to the show and asked if perhaps my attraction to a water sign was because I didn’t have any planets in water signs in my chart.

          “I bet you don’t cry much.” he said.

          “No, I really don’t.”

          “Ah, Mary Lee!” he responded, “You must learn to cry. Crying is orgasmic!”

          You can’t tell someone to cry. Plus, there are different kinds of crying.  When I was in first grade and didn’t want to go to school I would cry, scream, and kick as my father carried me on to the school bus. This was very different from the tears I shed when I heard that Martin Luther King was killed.  The first was a selfish, angry cry. The second was joining in the collective grief of society.

          Recently I shed many tears watching Dancing with the Stars. These were tears of joy and pride in the accomplishments of the contestants.  I often cry when I hear beautiful music, or I hear of something bad happening to an animal. Yesterday I asked my mother, “Should I watch a sad movie or something?” 

          “Yes!” my she said.  Then she told me that after my father died she didn’t cry for a long time. She just couldn’t. She felt terrible but tears would not come. Then my niece brought her a photograph of my dad, one that she had never seen, taken by someone else. As soon as she saw it she started to cry.

          Telling me this story, her voice cracked and that was all I needed. My own eyes filled up and the tears began to run down my face.  Before I knew it I was reaching for a Kleenex. “Hold on,” I told her and as I set the phone in my lap I blew my nose, a big honking clown-like blow. The tissue was soaked.  “Did you hear that?” I asked her, “That was my sadness coming out. Thank you mama!”

          After that I did feel better. John and I went out to dinner. I got a great night’s sleep, waking with Audrey cuddled up against me. The streets were empty when Walter and I took a new route up the hill, passing two herds of dear who scrutinized us with their big wet eyes. It was a beautiful morning.

Christmas Presents

          The first Christmas presents I remember buying were ordered from the back of a magazine: a nifty wooden tray with indentions where my father was supposed to drop his keys, wallet, spare change (he never used it); and a bracelet of colored stones for my mother. She must have sent the money in for me, deducting it from my allowance. How else would I have managed it?

          Favorite Christmas presents I received vividly stand out in my memory: the doll hair-salon with its black and white checkerboard floor and pink plastic sinks that used real water; the little cast iron pioneer stove; my first, and only, microscope.  But the most favorite gift of all was the bulky, red-orange, v-necked, cable-knit mohair sweater that was all the rage in 1963. Orange was my favorite color, the color of the papier mache cat exotic Syrah, from Pakistan, gave me. I think my mother met her in a German language class they were both taking at Santa Monica College.

          Orange was the color of fresh-squeezed juice from a Valencia orange and the wild nastursiums that bloomed along our creek.  And that mohair was so plush, so unlike the hard surfaces of our modern house, with walls of glass and floors of terrazzo. I longed for something soft, and that sweater was it.  I’m sure it made me look like I was being devoured by a big hairy monster, but maybe my helmet of teased and sprayed hair somehow balanced it out.

          Looking around my house I see gifts from friends spanning our 30, 40, even 50-year friendships.  How well my friends know me! I treasure the lovely Chinese bowl from Katherine, the antique pitcher from Marie, the English tea pot from Joan.  I love to wear the soft purple top from Jane, the embossed black velvet scarf from Karen, Lynne’s custom made dichroic glass necklaces.  I treasure books from ex-boyfriends, even though I have no idea where the men are now.  Memories are abstract but gifts are real.

          Which is why I’m sad that this year I won’t be buying presents for my friends.  Yesterday, running errands, I allowed myself to browse in Pier One. I inhaled deeply the musky incense and wandered around touching things: jewel-colored humming bird ornaments, ceramic measuring spoons, silky place mats, smooth wooden boxes. I started to think, maybe I should buy gifts, but then thought about having to package the fragile items, the cost of postage and the Suze Orman voice in my head said, “NO!” So I mustered my self-control and left the store without a backward glance.

          Then, I thought, “I should at least buy some token gifts for the little boys I know,” so I stopped in at Dollar General.  After a few minutes browsing the toys I became light headed and thought I was going to faint. I couldn’t faint in a store! “Keep walking!” my inner voice said. I walked around the store, feeling dizzy and thinking, “Maybe this is a heart attack!”  but I just kept walking. I got in the car and pulled out into traffic, thinking, “Just get home!”  and a wave swept over me, as if I were melting. A panic attack.

          I made it home. I laid on the couch with the cat. I did not have a heart attack. What I have is heart ache. That we’re broke. That I’m so far away from my friends, that I didn’t get the job I applied for (it’s ok, it was 22 miles away and I’d rather work closer to home), that Poetry Out Loud will happen without me, both here and in California, that everyone says I’m doing so well, “getting out there” but I feel this huge looming, scary void.  My philosophy that you must visualize the life you want fails me because I have no idea what I want for the rest of my life. All I know for sure is that there will be even more sadness as we all get old, sick and die! And my lovely treasures that I value for their beauty and for the friends who gave them to me, will just end up in the trash, or on a dusty shelf in some dingy thrift store. 

          Or, wait! Maybe I won’t be cremated. Maybe I’ll stipulate that I be buried in a coffin crowded with my knick knacks, festooned with jewelry, wrapped in scarves, and packed in tight with crumpled letters from my dear, sweet, funny friends and family so that they are mine, for all eternity.   

         

Week of Women

          I began the week visiting Deborah, having a delicious, fresh salad on her deck with her longhorns peacefully sitting nearby, the new calf toddling on it’s skinny legs. Our conversation wove from Santa Monica to Texas, new friends and old. I remember sitting next to Deborah in junior high, watching how easily she sketched and now, she is a mature, successful artist, whose work touches all who view it.   I can’t wait to attend her upcoming show.

          Tuesday I went to the writing group which I’ve come to love. Each person has such a distinctive voice and writing style. Nine women, two men.  I read my blog entry about the river and one fellow said, “What’s a Coarsegold pool?”  It was decided that if I’m writing for a broader audience than just friends, I need to explain such things.

          Wednesday I returned to Daniels Elementary and had a much better session with my 14 fourth graders. I sat down and asked them, “When you read a book, what do you like about it?” and so we could talk about what “good” writing is. This helped tremendously when they worked on their alliteration stories. They added more detail, made more things happen.

          Afterwards I went to the library to sort and shelve books and ended up talking to Michelle – mostly listened - about teen angst, love, loss, and growing up. What a fascinating woman she is!

          Thursday morning was really cold – 22 – but had warmed up to 35 by the time I left for Fredericksburg at 8:30 to interview at Ignite Education. It took 31 minutes to travel 25.7 miles.  The woman who is leaving is screening applicants (she had a stack of resumes an inch thick) to replace her, which may be one full time, or two part-time people.  I would like to work part time so I can continue to teach.  We’ll see if I get a call back.

          That afternoon I went to have my roots bleached. I like my new hairdresser but didn’t think to ask her to towel-dry my hair, thus I spent an extra $30 for blow-dry styling that I’ll never be able to do myself. I don’t have the patience, let alone manual dexterity to operate a dryer and brush at the same time. If I wear my glasses, they get in the way. If I take them off I can’t see what I’m doing.  I don’t have a mirror to see the back of my head. When I use the dryer it’s to quickly get as much water out of my hair as I can and I’m left with a big bushy helmet of hair.

          Friday I met Friends of the Library to set up the Christmas Tree and ended up being the one scooting around on my butt, putting on the lights. It took an hour-and-a-half for 5 women to complete the task, as the only male in the group went to the store to buy more lights then said his wife wanted him home by 2:00. (We think he went golfing).

          I ran around to various stores trying to find one more set of white net-lights to cover the big juniper bush in front of our house.  White lights were sold out so I bought colored ones and John put them up. I put up the one set of whites I had, over the awful bars (that we usually keep open) in front of our front door. 

          The worries of the week, which I will not mention here, seemed to dissolve when I took Walter out to pee before bed, and saw our meager little light display. Not because they “rage against the dying of the light” but because they remind me that under life’s pain, and worries, and fears, a small light within each of us silently, eternally glows.

Falling in Love with a River

         I’m falling in love with the river, the Guadalupe that flows through Kerrville. I thrill when I approach the bridge high above its flat green surface.

          I remember sliding down onto the San Raphael Bridge after a long peaceful drive up the valley, feeling I was about to take off. If I opened my window and extended my arm, my fingers could graze the bay.

          I’ve always loved water. From my first wading pool, on

Overland Avenue

, where I would sit for hours, watching cars go by, my three-year-old legs extended before me, Queen of the Sidewalk, in my liquid throne.

          I loved the crisp cold water of the creek that still flows through Rustic Canyon, a reliable backdrop to so much loss, lush with watercress, and the nightly noisy symphony of frogs.

          However, the ocean, where I spent so many years of my life, was like a huge parking lot where no one was allowed to park,  except little fishing boats, that bobbed harmlessly on the enormous skin. It was so gigantic, I had to concentrate on the meandering shoreline, or I’d feel  lost. The view that took my breath away, driving down the California Incline, was not the ocean, but the way the Malibu Mountains rose up, and formed the north part of Santa Monica Bay, the feeling that some of that huge ocean was contained for us, creating beaches where we could go to get away from the city. I did love moonlight on the water, though, when I’d drive home from Peter’s workshop in Malibu, that stretch where you feel the city is still very far away, lights on the pier so pretty, glittering like rhinestones above the water’s velvety black.  

          In Coarsegold in my big blue pool, my magic tank, my private pond, I’d float alone, gazing at the vaulted sky crisscrossed with contrails, hummingbirds, and dragonflies; water bugs swam around me like curious pets. I was not alone after all. But there was always the smell of plastic, or worse a recent dose of chlorine.

          Now, here I am, living near a river that’s wide enough to soothe me, contained within banks, so as not to overwhelm.  Come summer, I’ll venture in. But for now, I’ll let it woo me, through winter and rainy spring.

Gratitude

          John surprised me Wednesday: he went to the market and brought home fresh salmon, asparagus, two Cornish game hens, green beans, a yam, a bag of charcoal and a peach pie. “You can decide what you want to cook tonight, and save the rest for tomorrow.” He told me.

          I gave him a hug, “Thank you honey,” I told him and immediately I knew what I wanted to do. I’d cook the game hens for Thanksgiving and we’d have the salmon that night.

          Years ago we brought back from Santa Monica the beautiful red ceramic smoker that was in my parents’ backyard. They no longer used it and wanted it out of their way.  It had no grate, it became just a decoration by the front door.

          I was surprised that John had even brought it with him to Texas, because, as I’m finding out, he threw away lots of things I thought he would bring, such as ice packs, out door chairs etc.

          The house we rent has a vacant lot next door, and beyond that the next house has just a blank wall, so it’s pretty private when we sit in the open patio. We can still see plenty of houses on our the street and the alley way – everything’s wide open – but there’s not a lot of activity, so it was nice to sit on the half-wall with Jane kitty and John who oversaw the cooking of the fish.  We waited as long as possible to turn on outside lights, enjoying the pink, cloud-streaked sky.

          One of my favorite memories is of sitting outside with John in the backyard on Quartz Mountain, one summer, with Walter and Jane at our feet, thinking how fate brought all of us together to form a family; and how dependent we become on each other - animals rely on us to feed them, we trust they will love us in return. I’m always aware, in these moments, how fleeting life is and feel gratitude rise up in me that I’m able to “own” this man, this dog, this cat, for the amount of time that is allotted to us.

          Dinner was delicious. Thanksgiving day I made salmon cakes for lunch and prepared the game hens. I made mashed potatoes, roasted yams, green beans, and John cooked up a tray of biscuits. I lit a candle and we sat in the small kitchen, face to face, not on the couch facing the TV as we usually do.

          I read John my list of Things I’m Grateful For, and the list of Things I Want to be Grateful For (our Unity Church assignment for the week) but I could not get him to state what’s in his heart.  I guess he’s grateful for me, but sometimes I wonder if he thinks his life would have been happier, or easier, or smoother if we had not met. Would he have found a woman who did not have dreams of owning a big house on lots of land. Is it my fault we got into debt?

          After the dishes were done, we each had a piece of the scrumptious peach pie and then we retired to the living room to watch “Night of the Iguana”. What a great movie.  I was no longer sad that we had not been invited to anyone’s house or that my friends and family are so far away. I was content, grateful and full, in body and spirit.

Cravings

          Maybe it’s because the weather has been so mercurial here lately that I’m having such intense food cravings.  Saturday night I wanted barbecue. “I’ve been here two months!” I told John, “I want some Texas barbecue!”

          I remembered the barbecue we had in Houston, back in the 90s: succulent pork, juicy sausage, chicken that fell off the bone. I’d recently seen an ad for a local barbecue joint here, and suggested we try it.  When we got there the lot was empty except for one truck.

          “I’m not going in!” John insisted. “If there’s no one here, that’s not a good sign.”

          “They’re all at the parade!” I told him. We’d just driven past the festivities – tree lighting, Santa, carolers – at the county courthouse.

          We decided to drive a little further and checked out a fish restaurant. I wanted to see the menu before we were seated. No clams – too far from the coast. (Note to self: when in LA order a bucket of steamed clams!) I told the waitress that I was in the mood for barbecue and how we’d driven by the place that was empty. “They’re all at the parade!” she said, so John agreed to go back.

          As I sat in the family-friendly, brightly lighted restaurant, with Wheel of Fortune on a TV in the corner, over the bread/pickle/onion station, I dove into perfectly smoked brisket and felt my body melting into my chair. The sauce had lovely citrus overtones. I liked that a cop was at the table next to us, his gun visible; and that a family with a tiny baby and a toddler was gnawing on ribs. What had gotten in to me, the three-time vegetarian who can go weeks without wanting to defile my digestion with the suffering of fellow mammals?

          Then, yesterday, at HEB, I stood before the olive station, transfixed. How long had it been since I’d had a Greek salad? I loaded up on marinated olives, feta, sweet-spicy red peppers.  In the refrigerated section I found a case of figs, my favorite!  At home, in the evening, standing at the kitchen counter, with a glass of wine, I could almost taste the salty air of the Mediterranean as I experienced the tart, bitter, salty flavors. Dr. Oz  would be proud of me.

          Then, tonight, I decided to make a tuna casserole, accompanied by frozen baby lima beans.  I chopped some of those sweet-tart peppers and crispy celery and added it to . . . yes, I admit, a can of generic mushroom soup. I cooked egg noodles, and tossed them with the soup/veggie mixture, added one can of white and one can of light tuna and shook Tabasco over the whole thing.

          Now it’s time to eat. I hope when I get to the kitchen I’ll still be in the mood for extra-salty, highly processed dinner and not a Parmesan crusted chicken breast or a big bowl of slurpy soba noodles.

Thanksgiving

          I don’t like Thanksgiving, the forced feasting, the mandated

excess. 

I’ve written tirades against it for years. After all, this year will be my 61^st third-Thursday-in-November, and although I don’t remember all of them, the memories that come to mind generally feature someone getting embarrassingly drunk, arguments, break ups, stomach aches, greasy pots and pans to clean up afterwards.  And even if my personal day is pleasant, there’s the clogged grocery aisles, travel mayhem, too much TV, radio and newspaper coverage on how to cook a turkey, that I just want it to be over with.  But wait! The next day is Black Friday which ushers in the Shopping Season.  Yuck and double yuck.

          So, I’m going to share a poem about one Thanksgiving that was really wonderful: the time my entire family came from Los Angeles and San Francisco to Coarsegold, the second year John and I were married.  Here it is.

THANKSGIVING 1994

Thirty-five years ago we all fit snugly in

one small blue Mercedes that took us through

the drizzly continent of Europe

where we each got sick

and had to take odd local remedies

poultices, mustard packs, grated apples

small blue pills.

Now we are in two cars:

my mother, father and I share the Ford Explorer

with my husband who smoothly drives these mountain roads

so we can admire the autumn hues.

My grown niece follows in her red BMW

with her half-sister and my sister in back

and her boyfriend beside her, fiddling with the radio.

When we get to Nelder Grove it’s cold enough for gloves

but my sister is comfortable in purple zories.

She has no problem with the needle-strewn path.

“This is nice!” she whispers in the shady forest.

I wish she could carry the stillness with her

back to San Francisco and the noisy neighborhood where she lives.

Lauren up ahead does pirouettes in army fatigues.

Delicate fourteen-year-old fingertips the only indication

that a young girl resides in those oversize clothes.

My father, the atheist, all in white

            spotless!

says “It’s spiritual here, like a cathedral.”

The sheer age of the giant sequoias impresses him

not to mention their size.

And mother, who at seventy-three is still girlish

with her perky hair and springy gait, is thrilled

that the family is actually doing something together.

Later, at dinner, I pretend not to hear

when she hugs my husband and says,

“We love our son-in-law!” For I am the catalyst

who has coaxed my family from their coastal homes

to journey to the mountains and sleep in alien beds.

Soon my niece and her boyfriend appear

weaving and bumping into one another, newly in love.

I go from person to person, chatty, non-confrontational,

the preceding week’s hysteria now past.

We are all better for being with trees.

We are soothed and renewed,

surprised by our delight:

this is our clan.

Amazing Cat Story

          Yesterday afternoon John went to the post office.  When he came back, he walked into the kitchen with a look of surprise on his face. “Guess what happened to me?” he asked, eyes sparkling.

          “You got a ticket!” I guessed.

          “No!” he said. 

          “You ran over a deer?”

          “No!” He didn’t want me to guess, at all, he wanted to tell me what happened: he drove the truck to the post office, a little over three miles, going 45 mph, the speed limit.  He checked his mail and returned.  He decided to drive up the street to see if the original house he wanted to rent was still available.  As he slowed the truck he heard a cat meowing.  He listened but could not figure out where it was coming from.  He continued to drive home, about 25 mph.  When he pulled into the driveway he heard the meowing again.

          He opened the bed of the truck, but it was empty. More meowing. He got down on his hands and knees and looked under the truck, and there, sitting on a support was Jane! 

          For those of you who don’t know Jane, she was dumped on the side of the road by some neighbors, in October 2001. When John saw this, he came home and told me about it. It just made me sick. A few hours later he came to me and said, “Lets go back and see if that cat is still there.”

          We went back to the spot where the cat had been dumped.  I got out of the car, squatted down, and called “Here kitty!” She came running out of the bushes and jumped into my arms.

          “Now what do I do?” I asked John.

          “Get in the car!” he said. And that’s how she became our cat.

          We told a friend who knew the neighbors and she reported back to us that they had recently found the cat, kept her a few days, then decided they should take her back where they found her.

          But a few weeks later I was giving some neighbor girls a ride home and asked if they wanted to meet Walter, my new doggy, who we had also recently rescued. When the girls saw Jane, they said, “Hi Cooner!”  They knew her as their neighbor’s cat, not a cat that had been recently found.   We figure the reason they dumped her was, (1) they were moving and (2) she does not get along with other cats.   When we moved to Texas John brought her in the U-Haul. She sat on the seat beside him and slept with him in his hotel room at night.  I had hoped that she and Audrey (our other rescue cat, who is as sweet as pie) would get along and both be indoor cats, but Jane ran and charged Audrey, so she lives in the garage and outside, and comes in the house for brief visits, when Audrey is locked up in a bedroom. Recently Jane’s been running off a male cat who pees all over the neighborhood.

          When John told me about Jane’s latest adventure, I rushed outside, got down on my haunches and called.  She jumped down from under the truck and came to me, purring.

          “Check her paws, see if they’re burned.” John said. Her paws were fine. “How did she know to not jump out when I was at the post office? She didn’t start meowing until I was in our neighborhood.”
          “She’s a smart kitty!” I said. I picked her up and kissed her. “Just think, if she had fallen out on the highway we never would have known what had happened to her.”

          “I wonder if she’s ever done this before?” he asked.

          “Who knows!” I said and let her down. She walked into the garage and laid down in a patch of sunlight as if her trip to the post office was no big thing. 

First Week Teaching

My mind is a jumble. Haven’t blogged for so long. On the way to writing class Tuesday I got a flat tire. Waited until afterward to call AAA. The cute tow-truck driver had moved here from San Luis Obispo four years ago. “Everyone’s getting out of California,” he said.

While the tire was being changed I walked into Walmart and got a $15 haircut ($18 w/tip).  I decided not to mention it to John and was surprised when the next day he said, “Did you do something to your hair?”  I started to say, “Yes, I got a cheap haircut, it’s all choppy and uneven, but it will grow out.”  But he stopped me half way and said, “I like it.”

I wasn’t nervous on my first day of teaching. I had been, before I picked up the rubric and examples of Level 4 writing. Here’s a sentence that caught my attention:

When the TV show was over I went back into my brother’s and I’s room to see how Trey was doing.

My brother and I’s!!!   I was flabbergasted. What teacher would let a kid get away with not fixing such a glaring grammatical error?  Had anyone even read this?  I took my red pen – flashing back to when I was nine, in Europe, and my class sent me letters that I loved correcting – and went through several of the state examples. Then I just stopped reading.

I told my mother about this and she said, “Keep your mouth shut!” which I did to a certain extent, only telling friends. Izabel said it wasn’t good to get so upset, it drained adrenaline. So I just took a deep breath and decided to rely on my own common sense and experience.

I entered the fourth grade class, in session, and waited until the hour was up. The teacher read the names of students who were to stay and work with me: ten girls, two boys.   

The children had not been warned about my coming and were only told that it was a privilege to get to work with me, a privilege that could be rescinded if they did not behave.  I started the alliteration exercise and the teacher left.

As anyone who has taken my writing workshop knows, the alliteration exercise is quick and fun. But it gives me a good idea of each person’s personality, writing skills and style.

This group was so slow that only two girls said they were finished. Some had barely written two sentences.  So, next week I’ll have them edit, expand and do final drafts. For the girls who said they were finished I’ll throw some more words at them, or tell them to add dialogue, or something. 

Last night (Thursday) John and I went to a Chamber Mixer hosted by Dell Sheftall, the jeweler I interviewed.  It was a lovely affair, more of a block party, with shops open and food tables from various area restaurants. We got there late – because I had to walk Walter – so there wasn’t much food left, but I did get to introduce John to Dell, and Morgan, the publisher of the Chamber magazine. We also missed a choir performance by students of Schreiner College but were there for the prize drawings – nice prizes! We didn’t win.

The MC asked if any new business owners were there and wanted to introduce themselves. A woman came up and said she had opened a specialty tea shop. I thought, how can anyone make a living selling tea?

“I’ve missed Texas!” John said, standing in the cool night air, amid the throng.  “That’s my favorite color,” he said looking over the top of one of the two-story buildings.  To me it looked like dark navy blue. I would not  have considered it a color worthy of mentioning.

Which just goes to show how differently we perceive the world. The sky that he saw as his favorite color was, to me, just a scary black night that I’d have to navigate – I was the designated driver - gripping the steering wheel, worried about animals running out in front of me, squinting into oncoming headlights.  Next time I’ll drink and he can drive.

Today's Poem - "Dusk"

I lost my battle with the garden hose

it's pretzel shaped in the dirt

a thick green rubbery mass

that refused to be a circle for me

even though I coaxed it

invited it

then wrestled it

into submission.

I won the battle

with the garden hose

it no longer

snakes around the car

half wet in the puddle

of his washing

my plaid-shirted husband

in the Texas dusk.

No one else on the block

does anything outside

well, Hilton gets the paper.

I saw him once emerging from the garage

boxer shorts

a big white hairy bear.

I didn’t let him know

I saw him

I kept my eyes

directed down and didn’t

look up until I heard

the garage door close.

At the Library Book Sale

          On Tuesday I got an email from a friend, asking me to forward it to eight women who have touched my life, and who I thought would participate.  I was also supposed to make a wish and in four days let her know what happened. Well here’s what happened:

          It was difficult to choose eight women, even though I have 613 people in my email address book, and most of them are female.  I wanted to pick women who check their emails daily and would take a few minutes to comply. By responding to the originator, we could track who went along with “the fun”.

          Three of my eight responded that they passed the message along. One said she couldn’t do it – she was on her work computer. I didn’t hear back from the others.   

          Perhaps this is the time to state my wish, which is the wish I always make: to get out of debt.  I know this is a vague wish and that there was no way that it could be achieved in four days unless we won the lottery; but since moving to Texas I don’t think John’s even bought a lottery ticket.  Perhaps I should have had a simpler wish, such as, “I wish to find a good book to read.”  - which I did - or “I wish that Walter and I don’t encounter any snappy little dogs on our walk today”,  something that had a better than 50/50 chance of happening.

          The fourth day was yesterday, Saturday.  I was scheduled to cashier at the Friends of the Library book sale from 2:00 – 4:00 p.m. Unfortunately the sale was a dud, with far less books sold this time. But several other things occurred.

          First, I was asked if I’d like to join the board, come January. This is a formality, but I was glad of it anyway, because I had already let it be known that I would be willing to fill a vacant space. 

          Second, the fellow I cashiered with turned out to be a very interesting fellow: compact, white haired, wire-rimmed glasses, pressed long sleeve white shirt, khaki pants – he had the look of a retired professional, in this case an academic. His field: biology. His specialty: turtles!  And how did he choose turtles?  When deciding on his post-graduate work at Tulane University, he remembered the day - he was nine - that he witnessed a huge snapping turtle being pulled from the lake (or was it a river?) where he and his family were vacationing in Arkansas.  He had a book at home about turtles so he knew its name!

          They say that something we experience with great emotion is more deeply etched in our memories.  This must have been the case with him. I gave him a few anecdotes about my experience with turtles: the tortoise my sister found in a vacant lot that became my parents’ beloved pet; how I couldn’t find my turtle food when I was eight and my turtles died; and I mentioned Benjie’s book Far Tortuga, about a little turtle who survives a myriad of near-death encounters.  He in turn explained that the snapping turtle has something in its mouth that waves around, tricking fish into thinking it’s something to eat. The fish swims in and ZAP it’s crushed and swallowed.  By the way, turtles don’t have tongues.

          The retired professor has also traveled the world so we shared experiences of Hong Kong, China, South America and California.

          Third, a stately woman, with her hair in a neat bun, wearing a black wool jacket and gray slacks came to the table with an arm-load of books, mostly cookbooks. “I’d like to come to your house!” I said, to which she replied, “My husband doesn’t like to eat out.”  She also had several literary fiction books and for some reason I blurted out, “Do you read the New Yorker?” She said she did, so I wrote down the name Frances Hwang who wrote the wonderful story “Blue Roses” in a recent issue. Before I knew it we were exchanging cards. She’s a Pre Law Advisor at Schreiner University and wanted me to know about a conference next May, Women in Contemporary Society, Preparing to Lead the Future.  As I tucked her card into my purse, I felt I’d been given a little gift.

          Fourth was when a woman in a black dress arrived. I commended on her cat brooch.  “I’m a dog person!” she began, and told how she had never liked cats, had two wonderful dogs (that have since died) and somehow she found, or was given, a cat that she simply adores and she’s now a crazy cat lady.  Her dress had cats on it, too. She was introduced as a woman who speaks many languages, so I said Bon Jour!

          Some people you just like, right-off-the-bat, and she is one of them. It turns out she’s the architect who’s donating her time to design a new building for Friends of the Library. I asked her if she likes to write.  Soon I was hearing about the two books she wants to write: one on her prized dogs, the other on golf. Golf rescued her from a workaholic existence. Living in New York City, she passed a building on Chelsea Pier that had an exterior wall removed, creating four levels of a driving range. “Like in Japan,” I commented.

          “Yes!” she exclaimed, and pulled up a chair.  I listened, rapt, to her husky slightly accented voice, as she extolled the sport which – as a former athlete (I can’t remember all the sports she rattled off) she had thought was not even a sport at all, just “a lot of fat middle-aged men bending over a ball.” 

          “So I studied,” she said.

          “Do you mean you practiced?” I asked, “or did you read books?” 

          “I studied! I have a mathematical mind.”   

          “And golf is angles. . .” I said.

          “Yes!” she said, her eyes shining.

          We talked until it was time to close up.  My wish of getting out of debt did not get answered in four days. But I came away feeling a wonderful sense of fullness: I was given stories, the ones I just shared, plus other little tidbits, direct from their sources. The teacher in me hopes I can get the avid golfer to put her words on paper, so that she can inspire others. But that’s my wish, every day.