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.  

Baths

          When I realized that John was taking Walter out for his evening walk  - to try out the new Gentle Leader - I took advantage of their absence by running a bath.  

          Sitting bolt upright, my legs extended the length of the oval tub, took me back to memories of the tub at Hightree where I lived from age 6 to 18.  It’s hard to even consider it a bathtub, more like a shower with a high rim, one corner cut out for a seat.  Certainly one could not lie down in it. After that horrible date with Michael Wellman in 1966 (I was sixteen), I sat in the tub and cried. I remember thinking, “I’m a slut now”.    He had taken me to a “friend’s house” where no one was home. A guest house in the back yard had a radio and a mattress on the floor. Mike had brought beer.

          I was a virgin who had dated one of his best friends, Bruce, for a year and a half. I had been in love with Bruce and we’d “fooled around” but not gone “all the way”.  I was so naive. I thought by saying “stop” Mike would. But he didn’t. He ripped my brand new hip-hugger bell-bottoms. They were white with little olive green flowers.

          When the awful experience was over he drove me home in his teeny Fiat. I went straight into the house, ran a bath, sat it in and cried. I didn’t tell anyone.  I considered it my fault.

          Two years later I was in love with Marc. I’d just started smoking pot and didn’t know my limits. My parents must have been out. Marc and I took a shower which should have been sexy and fun but I was overcome with emotion and stood under the running water sobbing. After he left, I called my sister’s friend Linda, who came over to console me. Thus began our tumultuous friendship.

          In 1970, in San Francisco, Tom and I were staying with my sister in the basement of the mansion on Broadway. Tom and I hadn’t had sex in months, believing that celibacy would preserve our “precious bodily fluids” (Dr. Strangelove) and make us more creative as poet and songwriter.  The night before he left for LA to see if he could get a record contract (he couldn’t) he decided to make love to me in the tub. I remember the honeycomb tiles and thinking, “Why is he doing this now?”

          In 1992, when I married John and moved in with him, the house had a big sunken shower. A few times I tried to plug up the drain and lie in an inch or two of water.   One day the doorbell rang. It was the woman who had built the house, come to see how it was. I let her in and then said, “I just have to ask, why didn’t you include a bath tub?”  She said, “Because we didn’t have children.”  I found that so odd. But I know many women, including my own mother, who does not take baths.     

        When John and I built our house in 2000, I looked at various tubs. I wanted one in which I could lie as flat as possible and completely relax.   I visited showrooms but most of the tubs were like the one we have now now where you’re supposed to sit up.  Finally, online, I found a Kohler with a slanted back.  I was debating between 5’6” or 6’ when Ed the Plumber called and said, “I need to pick up the tub tomorrow. You need to tell me which one you want tonight!” The tub had to be brought in through the window opening, before the windows were installed.  Which did I want, 5’6” or 6’?  I chose the six-foot cast iron tub.

          It was too long. I should have gotten the 5’6” like Katherine has in NY.  Still, I loved my big tub and the 2” green tiles I selected that John said looked like they came from a 1950s Russian hotel. I’d put my bath pillow behind my head and – in daylight - gaze out the window at the manzanita on the hill, the bright blue sky behind it. Closing my eyes, I’d let my arms relax and float. My entire body – organs, bones –became  buoyant, nearly weightless.

          Before John and Walter returned I shaved my legs and pumiced my feet, which I don’t like to do in the shower, teetering on one leg.  I emerged from that bath relaxed and rejuvenated, filled with affection for my husband and dog who gave me the gift of time alone for that ancient, primal, sensual experience: a bath!

 

Tuesday

Feel like I’m operating on three wheels. Getting sick? Throat kinda scratchy.  Nice walk w/Walter at Kerrville-Schreiner Park this morning. I even - don’t tell anyone! - let him off the leash for a bit, but all he did was what he usually does, stand and sniff and then run in spurts.

 At 9:30 a.m. I went over to the Hill Country Center for Cancer Care and interviewed a cute oncologist, who had attended UCLA medical school in the late 80’s, for the Kerrville Area Business magazine.  I stayed on point this time and the interview ended up being only 600 words (need 800).

The interview I did last month (the issue is out now) was 1300 words. But Dell Sheftall is a true storyteller, I could have written a book about him! (Maybe I will?)

Got an email from Club Ed asking me to proof the text for their catalogue and realized, oh crap, that the day, and time, I wanted to offer my class is the same day that Daniels Elementary wants me to work with their 4^th graders. So back and forth with emails trying to find a different day or time. The Club Ed class won’t begin until February. I’ll start at Daniel’s next week.

Highlight of the day: conversations with two girlfriends, one in Fresno one in Sonoma.  Thank you Alexander Graham Bell for inventing the telephone!

Going online to read the Sierra Star, I found that Carmen George, a young girl I taught is now writing for the paper!  Several years ago I was allowed to picked a Student Poet Laureate of Madera County and I chose Carmen. I found her on Facebook and wrote to her and she wrote back. It warmed my heart!

Phone message from my mother: she wants to start a blog! Bravo, Alice. I’ll try to explain it to her. 

Walter was naughty on his afternoon walk.  I saw a woman up the street with a black Cocker Spaniel and thought we should turn around but just then he decided to poop, in a rock-filled yard. (Many of the houses around here have white rock yards, or portions thereof, to conserve water, etc.) After he pooped he kicked rocks all over the street. So there I was, trying to grip the bag of poop in one hand, pick up rocks in the other, and hold the leash while he strained to get to the Spaniel. The woman walking just smiled as she, too, tugged her dog along.

I figured I’d keep on in the same direction since she passed me going toward

River Hill Boulevard

. But, naturally, she doubled back, so we encountered each other again.  This time, after we passed, a man just getting out of his car called, “Looks like your dog’s walking you!” which is a comment I’ve heard before and don’t appreciate. “Yeah, well,” I just called back. I’d have thrown my hands in the air, but I was holding a bag of dog do in one and the leash in the other.

I’m sure everyone’s getting sick and tired of hearing about Walter’s walks.  So here’s a promise: I won’t write about them anymore. Unless there’s an improvement, because somewhere deep in my heart I keep hoping that one of these days he’ll be a good doggie.

Discombobulated

          I’m finally starting to remember my dreams again. It’s been two months. I used to write them down first thing in the morning. I’d look outside and check the thermometer on the half-wall that reminded me of a pier. The dark-stained railroad ties had the delicious smell of creosote; and the silty DG (decomposing granite) reminded me of beach sand. It was a comfort. Made me not miss the beach so much.

          Often I’d glace through my dream journal to see if there was a pattern, or if certain people appeared over and over. My favorite part of dreaming is being reunited with old friends. When I packed to move I called Katherine to ask if I should bring my dream journals from 1985  and, because she was driving, Andrew answered her phone and advised me to bring them. “You can always throw things away later,” he said.

          So, because of the two-month gap in dream recollections, I feel like a big part of me is missing. You’d think I’d be happy then, to dream of roller skating. But it’s left me discombobulated.

          In the dream I’m skating over a bumpy, porous surface, a sort of concrete.  I’m enjoying myself but realize that this is only a dream, and that when I wake up I still won’t be able to skate.  I feel as if the message is: just because you think you can do something, you can’t.

          So I woke depressed.  I slogged through the morning.  This whole dog-walking thing has got me down.  Our walks used to be a communion with nature. Today I saw two ladies in long terry-cloth bathrobes fetching their newspapers. The one on the other side of the street, in baby blue, seemed embarrassed to be caught in such private attire, so I averted my gaze and focused on wrenching Walter from whatever he was attempting to ingest.

          But to the woman on my side of the street, in a long brown robe, I said hello. It looked like it might be a struggle for her to reach down for her paper, so I slipped in and handed it to her and saying, “Here I’ll get that for you.”   I wondered how I must look to her, with my Laker hat, big old brown jacket and thread-bare light blue jeans. I should not have worried what she thought of me because she said, “I’ve seen you walking this handsome dog before,” and extended her hand which Walter warily sniffed. 

          I’m surprised how many women have commented on what a good looking dog he is, when to me he’s such a scruffy, disheveled mutt.  Maybe it’s because his muzzle is getting white that he looks distinguished.

          The worst part of the walk of course is the pooping. Because of my  extreme aversion to carrying a bag of warm, redolent poo, as soon as Walter’s done his business, we turn and head for home.  Walks are now 15-20 minutes as opposed to 30-40 “back home.”

          Then there’s the problem of where to store the poop until Saturday, trash day.  I’d been keeping it in a heavy-duty zip-lock bag in the freezer, but, understandably, John nixed this idea. So today I bought a diaper pail.  Supposedly I won’t bowl over when I open the lid to make each deposit because of the special blue plastic bags.  We’ll see.

          The rest of the day was a blur: meeting with teachers and the Principal, about what I’m supposed to start doing next week, left me completely miffed. Thursday I’ll pick up the “rubric” of what they want me to teach to Level 3 kids – ten to twelve 4^th Graders. The goal: get them to Level 4.  Whatever the heck that means! I’ve always designed my own curriculum and often come up with ideas at the last minute.  This will be a big change but if I have enough time to play I hope I’ll be able to supplement with more interesting material, if what’s supplied is boring.

          Tomorrow, Tuesday, I’m to interview a Radiation Oncologist at 9:30 a.m. This time I must keep to the questions the magazine wants me to ask and not get sidetracked.  I better get a good night’s sleep. No discouraging dreams, please! 

Yogurt

         

Occasionally when I was a little girl my dad would do the grocery shopping. I loved to go with him because he would let me buy something new that I’d never had before. I was about six when I tried – and loved - picked herring, or what I called “Harry Pickle”.

          Yesterday I bought a new kind of yogurt: Siggi’s Icelandic style skyr strained non-fat yogurt. Oh my God, it’s heaven on earth.  Thick, rich, not too sweet, sweetened with agave nectar, - hmm, isn’t agave used to make tequila? - no gelatin. And as it says on the inside of the label (which peels off easily so you’re left with a pristine white cup that I’m dying to find a use for), “We source our milk from family farms in New York state where the cows are not injected with any kind of growth hormone and graze freely when weather permits.”  How can I not love these people?

          I remember when yogurt was a “health food” and my dad bought clear glass jars of plain Yami Yogurt at the health food store in Pacific Palisades, next door to Lyle Fox Gym where he worked out, and the first gym I ever joined.  I, like my dad, enjoyed the biting taste, which was similar to buttermilk that he taught me to drink sprinkled with salt and pepper. Yum!

          My friend Katherine’s mother was “into” healthy foods before it was fashionable, too. After school, going to her house, my favorite treat was plain yogurt with dark purple grape juice and wheat germ.

          Katherine and I were in Mrs. Herbst’s science class where she used her bully pulpit to educate us about nutrition. “I don’t have white sugar in my house!” she told us. She was a bit like Julia Child, quite tall, with an expressive soprano voice. I was fascinated, learning about vitamins - particularly the Bs which are dependent on one another. I bought books by Adele Davis so I could use the tables in the back to track my intake of protein, fat, carbohydrates. In those days we were told to eat 70 grams of protein a day, and that breakfast was the most important meal.

          Because I had access to my parents’ studio and cameras and loved to dress up, Katherine and I made a card for Mrs. Herbst at the end of the semester. On the front was a picture of the two of us in leotards, slouched, frowning, stomachs pushed out. We mussed our hair and put dark circles under our eyes. “Before we took your class we knew nothing about health,” the caption said.  Inside was the “after” photo with us standing straight, perfect posture, hair combed, smiling and the caption  “Thank you!” I loved that teacher.

          Soon yogurt became a popular food.  At the liquor store across from State Beach, we’d buy strawberry yogurt and eat it as dessert after out hamburgers and Cheetos, which we rationalized must be good for us because they were made with cheese.

          In a few years I’d be a long-haired flower child living in Mount Shasta.  I’d drive an hour down to Redding and buy whole-wheat flour to bake my own bread, oats to make my own granola. I’d eat maple sugar or carob candy and drink Yerba Matte tea. No meat! Lots of sprouts.

          Nowadays I’m still concerned with what goes in my mouth and am glad there is a huge variety of foods to choose from. I’m one of those women who stands in the aisles reading labels, putting back more than I buy. I’m grateful to my parents and Mrs. Herbst for raising me right, and friends like Katherine with whom I share a love of good, wholesome food. I’m proud that she is working tirelessly to bring information about this subject to the “greater world” in her new book Growing Roots, The New Generation of Sustainable Farmers, Cooks and Food Activists. Check it out: www.growingroots.info

The Women in My Life

          I’ve been thinking about women who have helped me in my life. Today I’m reflecting on the period 1990-2010.

          As a newcomer to Oakhurst in 1991, I planned to go to a meeting of the Eastern Madera County Arts Alliance to see if they would sponsor me to teach a creative writing class. A group of us stood shivering outside the library, waiting for the person with the key to arrive. But whoever was supposed to have gotten the key hadn’t.

          “I live just around the corner,” I said,  “We can go to my apartment.”

          There wasn’t enough seating for everyone, so some had to sit on the floor but I distinctly remember Nancy Clute, the director of the Madera County Arts Council, sitting in the middle of my couch, in a red wool dress.  Nancy came up with idea for the PACES program – (Presenting the Arts to Children in Elementary Schools) – that was funded until just this year. She would eventually encourage me to teach in the PACES program and after she was killed in a car accident, her replacement Dr. Pamela Beecher was hugely instrumental in helping me work in both County programs as well as Rivergold Elementary; she would eventually hire me to write the Arts Council quarterly newsletter and together, for four years, we worked on Poetry Out Loud.  She has been a great promoter of the arts and artists, working tirelessly to raise funds to keep programs going and now she, too, is leaving. I know she will be sorely missed.

          Another woman who I met at that meeting in my apartment, Lynne, became one of my best friends. As an art teacher we shared a love of teaching, but we also loved to have fun together: hiking, dancing, entertaining. She brightened my life for eighteen years and she still does, from afar. When I feel down all I have to do is put on one of her beautiful dichroic glass necklaces and I feel her love and laughter brighten my mood.

          In 1991 I became secretary of EMCAA and we changed the name to Mountain Arts Council.   A new organization was formed shortly thereafter, Vision Academy of the Arts.  I became secretary, then President and worked with Jackie Byers, music teacher and arts promoter. For years I taught creative writing in the wonderful “Arts Around the World” summer art camp she developed.  I weep to think that I’ll never again be a teacher in that great program, or watch the kids at the end of the week put on their show, with Jackie at the piano. . .

          When I was new to Oakhurst I offered a free one-day writing workshop at my apartment. Roz, a teacher at North Fork School, called and asked if I would come talk to her class. I did, but I also made the kids write. She then was able to hire me to do a residency in her class and another class. I really had no idea, before this, how much I would love teaching children. Years later Roz would attend my adult workshops. She is not only a great teacher, but a great student, who writes delightful poems.

          I am so grateful for the “women of the mountains” who shared their time and talents with me: Carole, my acting teacher, who brought me back to the stage and Liz who directed me in three plays.  Barbara shared her knowledge of birds and wildlife, sushi and art with me.

Diane – ah those pies! and your elegant poems; Robbie, your celestial voice!; Pat – entertainer extradinaire, thank you for all those parties!; Julie, my Scrabble pal; Izabel my spiritual mother who still keeps me on track from afar.  Plus, the PTA presidents, principals, teachers, and office staff who trusted me to teach your kids.  Thank you!

          Yesterday, my dear friend Karen who I met in1984 in a poetry workshop in L.A., called to tell me she’s been offered a job that sounds perfect for her.  I was so thrilled I embarrassed myself by not being able to shut off my tears. I’ve known and loved Karen through her years as a poet, teacher, artist, gardener, print and book maker – everything she does she does perfectly. Every day I look at her paintings in my home and feel honored to have such a darling talented friend.

          The fact that Karen has found the right job, after a tough time being unemployed, gives me faith that there are people “out there” I’m still to meet,  who will be a joy to work with. For, I’ve found that the basis of so many of my friendships (including the Sand & Sea years 1977-90, or even further back to my school days in the Duprees) is working together at things we love.  I can’t wait to be part of a team of creative women again!

           

Latitude

I’ve always loved looking at maps.  Everywhere I've ever lived I've had maps on the walls. I often look at my globe. I have a map of Kerrville on our refrigerator, which helps me understand where I am when I go out and about in our new community.

A lot of my friends asked how far south we are. I decided to look it up.  As I did I got curious about what other cities are on the same degree of latitude.  I tried to include cities where my friends live, so you can find yourself (or perhaps your favorite city) and see where it is in relation to other places on the globe.

I’ll start way up in Alaska. Remember these are degrees north of the equator and I rounded off so some may be a teeny bit further north or south of the ones on the same degree.

61 – Anchorage AK

57 – Inverness & Aberdeen, Scotland

55 – Edinburgh, Glasgow, Moscow

53 – Edmonton, Liverpool, Dublin

52 – Berlin, Amsterdam, Warsaw

51 – London, Calgary

50 – Krakow

49 – Vancouver BC

48 – Paris, Vienna

47 – Ulan Bator, Seattle

45 – Portland OR, Montreal, Milan, Venice, Ottawa

44 – Minneapolis

43 – Florence, Nice, Toronto

42 – Boston, Detroit

41 – Rome, Chicago, Barcelona, Istanbul

40 – Salt Lake City, NY City, Madrid

39 – Bejing, Indianapolis, Denver, Reno, Kansas City

38 – Washington DC, Lisbon, Louisville, Athens

37 – San Francisco, Seoul, Coarsegold, Durango CO

36 – Algiers, Las Vegas, Tulsa, Nashville, Fresno

35 – Tokyo, Oklahoma City, Memphis, Kyoto, Albuquerque

34 – Osaka, Los Angeles, Ventura

33 – Atlanta, Phoenix, Baghdad

32 – Dallas, San Diego, Tel Aviv

31 – Shanghai

30 – Austin, Cairo, Kerrville

29 – New Orleans, Houston, San Antonio, Lhasa,

28 – New Delhi, Chihuahua, Orlando

25 – Miami

23 – Havana

22 – Hong Kong

21 – Mecca, Honolulu, Cancun, Hanoi

20 – Puerto Vallarta

19 – Mexico City

18 – Bombay

14 – Manila

13 – Bangkok

10 – Ho Chi Minh City, Maracaibo

9 – San Jose, Costa Rica

Where we are in the time zone affects what time the sun rises and sets. It's been strange to have the sun set just before 7:00 p.m. this late in the year and even weirder to get up in the dark and watch the sun rise at 8:00 a.m. But of course, this will change  when we turn back our clocks this weekend.