POETRY & POLITICS

          Last week, on John’s birthday, we got a brief rain shower which took the temperature from 99 down to 80 and made it possible to enjoy a lovely dinner on the deck of the Pinnacle Restaurant in Comanche Trace, a nearby golf-course development. Thank you neighbor Bobby for a delightful evening.

          Other social engagements included lunch with my friend Deborah and dinner with next door neighbor Dottie.  I took Deborah by the Kroc Center and she loved the yoga room with its wooden floor and mirrored wall. The next day she met with the fitness manager about teaching a class in Nia this fall.  How fun it will be to take her class!  I remember how I loved Kim’s aerobic dance class in the 80s when we’d bop around to Annie Lennox and the Cars . . .

          Dottie is an upbeat octogenarian who lives next door half the year; the other half she lives in Colorado. She looked so pretty in turquoise.  Speaking of our elders, I’m enjoying my friend Jane’s mother’s book Everyone’s Good for Something about her life growing up in Minnesota in the 1920s and 1930s.  What we would consider hardship, such as  no indoor plumbing, were simply facts of life. Doing laundry was a big  production, from boiling water in huge vats on the stove to hand-wringing. Only when there was a hard freeze did they hang clothes in the basement, otherwise in winter they’d let the clothes freeze-dry.

          I joined two Texas organizations last week. The first is the Poetry Society of Texas.  They offer one-hundred writing contests, each sponsored by an individual or family. For example the Scott Carle Memorial Award ($100) “offered by Barbara Ann Carle of Friendswood, in memory of her son, for the best poem about the loss of a family member.” I’m going to submit “Losing My Father.”   Another is the Grayson/Logan prize ($100) “offered by Budd Powell Mahan of Dallas for his animal companions, for the best poem of 50 lines or fewer that includes or is about an animal. Any form.” For this I chose “Two Cats Watching” written in 1994.

          It’s painstaking and tedious but a must if I want to continue being a published poet.  A benefit of pulling out old work is that with fresh eyes I see things that I want to change. Many of my poems are long, so having a line limit – most are limited to 25, 32, 36 lines – makes me go back and see what I can cut.

          The other organization I joined is the Libertarian Party of Texas. I became a Libertarian in 1992 and ran for state senate in 1998, in California’s 12^th district.  At the time John and I were working in an office on Highway 41 so I contacted local Libs and had them come sign my petitions, which waived the filing fee. However, my district covered five counties, so I relied on people I’d never met to get signatures for me. When I showed up at the election office I discovered that the fellow from Tuolumne County had not turned in all his petitions because, supposedly, they’d blown out the window of his car!  I had to pay about $80.00.

          The process is different in Texas. If I want to be on the ballot I simply submit my name to the party.  Also, party affiliation is determined after you’ve voted – so you don’t have to choose when you register.

          As there was no chairman in my county, I’ve volunteered to be it. Once the head of the party returns from South America, and he approves me, I’ll have access to names of local Libertarians. Then I’ll plan a get-together, probably at a local restaurant.

          Many people think belonging to a third party is a waste of a vote. I used to think this too. I was raised a Democrat and never thought of changing until I met John and found that Republicans weren’t the close-minded, money-grubbers I’d been led to believe. I listened to what he had to say – he was raised believing that Democrats were greedy bastards – and then took a look at the platforms of each party.

          I found that I agreed with the left on many social issues but with the right on fiscal issues. In sort, I’m of the mind that the whole political system has become entrenched with professional politicians beholden to “special interests” – corporations on the right, unions on the left.

          I spent two days reading the Texas Almanac, realizing I needed to understand not only the political process but how we got here. The first thing that impressed me is that the Texas legislature meets only every other year, for six months.  Occasionally a special session may be called. All legislators earn $7,200 a year. Plus about $100 per diem. 

          There is no initiative process like in California but there are proposals to amend the state constitution.  I believe there will be twelve proposed amendments in next year’s election.

          I found the history of Texas fascinating. The five points of the Lone Star represent the five flags under which Texas has been ruled:  Spain, Mexico, the Republic, Confederacy and United States. It was interesting to find that there was a huge rift when it came to the Civil War. Most of the state did not want to join the Confederacy and did not endorse slavery. However, the eastern cotton-producing part of the state relied on slaves and since that’s where most of the money was generated, they won. Still, there were many abolitionists in Texas and from the early years education for blacks was a priority.

          I have five proposals out to teach starting in late August.  I’ve never liked the hot summer months when I’m away from “my kids” and this year is no exception. I was touched that one of my students in California sent a message that he missed me this summer at Vision Academy of the Arts.

          Now it’s time to hit the gym. I’ve started riding the exercise bike because afternoons have been too hot for a proper walk. At least mornings are pleasant, high 70s, so Walter and I can take a half-hour to amble through the neighborhood. With his nose he checks his “d-mail”  while I listen to NPR and nod to the deer who stare at me with their big eyes. Today I was happy to see a big, long-eared jack rabbit gamboling through a dry meadow. 

WALTER

    

          Today is the tenth anniversary of finding our dog Walter.  John and I were working for Rosedale Products, in a strip mall on Highway 41 in Coarsegold.  I was on my way to Goldmine Pizza to buy some taco soup. A man I’d never seen before said, “Is that your dog?”

          I turned around and saw a medium-sized, black-and-white dog  following me.  I said, “No. I’ve always wanted a dog but my husband doesn’t like dogs.”

          The man said, “Well, he sure looks like he wants to be your dog.”

          I looked at the dog. He panted up at me, ears slightly raised, deep brown eyes imploring.  I switched directions and led him back to the office.

          Nan’s desk was to the left of the front door. Mine was straight ahead behind a line of black file cabinets. I had a view of the creek. A white soji screen created a bit of privacy.

          To the right of the front door was Cyndy’s old couch, covered with a pink and blue sheet. The dog jumped up on to the couch.

          “Who’s that?” Nan said, getting up.  The dog licked her hand when she petted him.

          I told her I’d found him and was going to the market to get him some food.  I returned ten minutes later. The poor thing was famished. He was also thirsty, lapping up two bowls of water.

          I phoned my friend Pat, who fosters dogs and cats for the local SPCA. She came over. “He’s a good dog,” she said, sitting on the couch beside him.  I had hoped she’d take him home with her, but she already had six cats.

          The funny thing about memory is that I don’t remember John’s comments about the dog until that evening, even though his office was right there too. But with his door closed he was in a world of his own.

          I must have taken the dog home in the back of the Explorer. Or was it the Jeep? I drove him to our house on Quartz Mountain, which was only a year old.

          I tied the dog up in the patio with a clothesline. I hadn’t yet learned that he chewed through everything except metal.  It was a warm summer night.  John had his shirt off.  I said, “I didn’t imagine myself with this sort of dog. I thought I’d have a small, brown, female dog, not a big mutt.”

          John said, “You married a mutt.”

          “So, do you want to keep him?” I asked John.   He must have said, “He’s your dog,” because even after ten years he has not brought himself to like the dog. I named him Walter, after Walter Matthau a favorite actor, who used to be seen ambling down Chatauqua to State Beach.

          When I’m out of town and John takes care of Walter, he throws sticks for him in the “side yard”, the vacant lot next door, instead of taking him for walks.

          I have mixed feelings about the dog. He was a lot more fun when he ran free every day. It was such a delight to watch him gallop on the open trails, head high, smiling.

          Now Walter spends most of his time lolling on the floor within eye shot of me.  At six o’clock he tugs me from bush to bush on our blistering hot afternoon walks.

Culture Shock

        

          I’ve lived in Texas less than ten months and already when I go back to California I experience culture shock.

          A week ago I made a trip to the Golden State.  This time I had a direct flight from San Antonio to LA, via Southwest. Three hours. Standing in line at Hertz I chatted with a male flight attendant from Qantas who was on a twenty-four-hour layover. He was headed to Venice beach. By the time we got to the front of the line, a twenty minute wait, the guys in back of us said, “You two can go.”  They thought we were a couple!  I said, “Oh, we’re not together, he was just willing to listen to me!”

          The Nissan I got stunck of cigarette smoke but I couldn’t face going back inside. I drove to my mom’s house, via Lincoln, stopping at Albertson’s to pick up provisions.  The drive from our house in Texas to the San Antonio Airport is sixty-five miles and takes a little over an hour. The drive from LAX to my mom’s is nine miles and also took an hour.

          My four days were a whirlwind which I will not go into. Suffice it to say that nothing on my list got accomplished. However, because my mother kept saying, “If you’d just let me trim your hair . . . you have such a lovely neck . . .”  I surrendered, went to Supercuts and got a haircut.  At least I did one thing that made my mother happy.

          I promised I would not bitch in this blog but I must mention that the first night I laid awake until 2:30 a.m. listening to a frog.  At first he kept repeating, “Anthony! Anthony! Anthony!”  and later, “He has to take a crap, he has to take a crap.”   I woke up at 4:30, which is 6:30 “my time”.

          The entire trip I was sleep-deprived but at least the hottest it got was in the mid eighties, not 100, as it’s been here. This is the worst heat and drought south Texas has seen in decades.  Good citizens that we are our lawn is completely brown. Soon all lawns will be brown as water restrictions become tighter.

          But getting back to what makes Texas different.  Here’s one thing:

when you ask most people where they’re from, they’ll tell you the city. If you ask a Texan where they’re from, they’ll say Texas.

          In California the distinctions between geographic locations is so distinct.  The North feels superior to the South.  The coast feels superior to the Inland Empire. I remember my own father being proud to say, “I never go east of Sepulveda!”

          This is not the case in Texas.  If you’re from Brownsville or Houston,  Dallas or Austin, you’re treated as an equal. Likewise I notice that blacks, Latinos, Asians or Middle Easterners are Texans, first and foremost.  There is more racial tolerance.

          Likewise, even though Texas is a very Christian state, people here are accepting of varying religions.  The largest Hindu temple in the US is just outside of Austin.

          And then there’s the pace.  True, in the big cities people seem to be in more of a hurry, but most of the state is rural or small-town.  More often than not I get behind a driver going under the speed limit, not over.

          In L.A. I knew I couldn’t handle the

Pacific Coast Highway

at rush hour, so I met my friend Debby, who I’ve known since kindergarten, at her apartment in the Palisades, and she chauffeured me and our friend Geri up to Malibu for a four-hour yak fest with Heidi and Mary Ann.  I had a great time breathing in the fresh sea air and reminiscing with friends.

          John picked me up at the airport on Sunday. I thought we’d stop in S.A. for dinner, but instead we decided to return to Kerrville and have dinner at Billy Gene’s, our favorite restaurant.  Just looking out over the Guadalupe River to the hills beyond settled my heart.

          And then it was home for a reunion with the animals who all forgave me for abandoning them. John was a good daddy, taking Walter to the park, or throwing sticks for him, and caring for the cats.

          Before I knew it I had two writing assignments: on Tuesday I interviewed an ex-pro golfer and on Wednesday the new President of the Chamber of Commerce.  Since then I’ve typed up first drafts and emailed them for corrections.

          Plus, and this makes me really happy, I’m lining up teaching gigs for fall.  Mondays I’ll be offering a class through Adult Ed on memoir writing; Tuesdays I’ll be teaching in an after school program at Art2Heart; Thursdays my poetry class will resume (at my house) and Friday I hope to be teaching at a small private academy.

          Little by little I’m making connections. Slowly but surely I’m settling in.  Six more weeks I’ll be working with children. 

          Hooray, hallelujah, it’s so good to be home.

Happy 4th of July

          My first July 4^th in Texas. Don’t know if we’ll go to the parade. Probably won’t go to the park to see fireworks. This is one of the few towns that’s having a municipal firework display.  Many towns across the country are just too broke and here in south Texas, where the drought drags on, individual fireworks have been banned because of fear of fires.

          I remember the bluffs in Santa Monica catching fire one year and the traffic was bumper to bumper. It felt like a war zone. I watched from the window of my apartment as fire crews climbed down from

Ocean Avenue

to extinguish the blaze. Revelers in convertibles threw beer cans and bottles out of their cars. 

          I’d spent the weekend working at the Sand & Sea club and watched the firework display on the Santa Monica pier with a young Nick Cassavettes and his friends.  His parents John Cassavettes and Gena Rowland were members.  She’s one of my favorite actresses. I remember once when he called with a question about his bill. “Mary Lee from the Sand and Sea,” he said.  I spent fourteen years working on the beach and most of the time it was the perfect job, but Fourth of July was always exhausting.

          Living on Quartz Mountain we would stand on John’s deck and look out toward Fresno and Clovis at dusk.  Then one of us would say, “There!” and point.  We could see tiny dots of red, yellow, and green, for the towns were over thirty miles away.   One year we went to Bass Lake and sat in a little boat with friends. The lake basin filled with smoke and again I felt an unease – noise, smoke, explosions – and was glad when it was over and we could go home.

          Even as a little girl I didn’t like the sparklers my sister lit. I’d  threatened to call the police. I’m such a party pooper.

          The best thing about 4^th of July is that, like Thanksgiving, its non-religious and non-sectarian, for everyone.  I plan to watch the HBO documentary tonight “Citizen USA” (I think that’s what it’s called) about legal immigrants.  I was sickened recently when I read that the INS accidentally notified thousands of hopefuls that they had been chosen in a lottery to immigrate. People sold their homes, their businesses, their properties. Then they were told it was a computer glitch – the lottery picked only from the first few days of applications, not the full thirty, or whatever. Whoever is in charge is completely heartless. He or she should honor their mistake. Period.  But no.

          Yesterday on TV, I heard George Will say that it’s crazy to admit foreign students to American colleges and then after they’ve gotten their degrees deport them. Why not let them stay? We have a shortage of American students getting advanced degrees in medicine, science, etc. Which, of course, is another troubling matter.

          This last week I’ve heard so many stories from friends and family, or read in the paper, that made me think the world does not run on logic but primitive emotion.  Are we all just little children inside, selfish, pouty, inconsiderate of others?

          I think I’ll spend the day pondering my dream: I’m holding on to John’s back, while he swims across a mountain pond.  When he puts his head underwater I’m afraid he won’t see where we’re going. My feet touch bottom. I can feel smooth rocks.  Then I see the green power box and know we’re at the shore. We hike up to a building that’s all lit up – oh, this is part of a hydro-power plant.  The big room is empty but for a reddish rug. Outside a man in cowboy boots dances. I see him through the big windows and dance, too.  The young woman has left her baby outside. She’s smoking a cigarette. Now the dancing cowboy is showing someone around. This is a resort. I wonder how long we’ll stay?