Today's Poem

HELL TO PAY

There's hell to pay in heaven today

A council has been called

Someone's ass is on the line

The Creator is appalled

He stands before our multitude

With anger in His eyes

It's rare we see this attitude

From one so mellow and wise

"Who decided to take these lives

Small children and their teachers?

Some were only as young as five

With complexions fresh as peaches."

Silence hangs like a London fog

We've all become so meek

I look around, we're shy as dogs

No one wants to speak

"Tell me!" God shouts and pounds his fist

"I need to understand."

Slowly I start to raise my wrist

And then I raise my hand.

"It was I," I say, and rise from my chair

I'm pierced by looks of derision,

Mouths drop open the angels stare.

"It was I who made the decision.

"I'm tired of bodies mangled by war

Battered and bruised and starved

I'm tired of AIDS victims covered in sores

And people mangled in cars

"I'm tired of junkies and teenage ODs

And old farts, long in the tooth

I'm tired of smelling the stench of disease

I wanted the sweet scent of youth."

After I speak I sit back down

My chest is heavy and tight

"Ach," says God, "you stupid clown.

Go, get out of my sight."

My shame is heavy as I leave

And no one follows after

But in the distance I perceive

The music of children's laughter.

Sidewalks

         Over the course of sixty-three years, I've lived in a lot of places. I've loved something  about each of them. The canyon where I grew up had lots of trees, a creek, and was close to the beach.  Coarsegold, where I lived for twenty years, had magnificent views of the high Sierras, the San Joaquin Valley and the Coastal Range.

          In the fall of 2010, when I had to say goodbye to the beautiful house my husband John and I built ten years before, I knew nothing would ever replace it. We'd chosen the design, the site, how to situate it to take in the best views, yet not compromise the mountain. 

          I had several months to take "goodbye walks" through my manzanita grove. I still think about those beautiful smooth-barked trees. In the spring they are covered in clusters of pale-pink, bell-shaped flowers that turn into sweet, apple-flavored berries in the fall.  Raccoons, coyotes, my dog and I loved to eat those "little apples" which is what manzanita means.

          Because we were moving to a town, I knew I would miss the rabbits that came out at dusk and the coveys of quail that skittered across the road. I had been living a rural life for twenty years. Our mailbox was two miles from our house. The closest market was seven miles away. I drove between fifteen and thirty-five miles to teach in after-school programs.  I knew there would be benefits to living in town, but I wasn't sure how I'd adjust to "civilization" after having complete privacy for so many years.     

          Then, one day it dawned on me. "I want to live where there are sidewalks," I told John. 

          I didn't mean the noisy strips of concrete that line Wilshire Boulevard in Santa Monica. (Although, when I lived in my condo in the late '80s, I did most of my shopping on foot, coughing when a bus spewed disgusting fumes.) I meant a quaint, old-fashioned sort of town, with a town square, and shops in buildings that had been around for more than a hundred years.

          Last Saturday night, after dinner at the Branding Iron at the Y.O. Ranch resort – a restaurant reminiscent of the 1960s with a high-ceilinged, muffled dining room, white tablecloths, and heavy silverware – I asked John if we could drive by the courthouse. Earlier in the evening there had been a parade that culminated with a holiday lighting ceremony.  I wasn't sure what to expect.    

          He found a place to park a block away and told me he was going to use the restroom at Azul, where he goes to listen to music at least once a week. I said I'd meet him back at the car and set off toward the courthouse.

          I could see a small crowd and hear an announcer talking on a stage lighted red and green. I hurried as he called out, "Are we ready to see some lights?"  And began to countdown, "Ten . . . nine. . . eight. . ."

          Just as I stepped onto the grass, lights came on: red, green and white strands wrapped around trees, Frosty the Snowman,  Santa and his reindeer, candy canes, wreaths and over on one corner, a wooden manger scene.  The crowd "oohed" and clapped. 

          "Let's go see Santa!" a teenage girl called to her friend and the two of them, dressed in shorts, darted past me.

          I meandered through a multiracial crowd: young parents with toddlers, elderly couples with canes, middle-aged men and women, boys and girls clutching red-and-green light sticks.  On stage, a female County-Western singer, accompanied by a guy strumming a guitar, began to sing.

           I headed back toward the car but walked past it, looking in shop windows.  I passed the historic Schreiner house, now a museum. In Azul, I found John talking to the bartender.

          "This is Doug," John said, and Doug and I shook hands.

          As we left the bar, walking up the basement steps to the sidewalk, I felt a huge affection for my new hometown. 

          Kerrville is the perfect place for me.  It may not have spectacular views of mountains or the ocean. I don't run into movie stars in the supermarket, like I do when I'm back in Pacific Palisades.  (But I have had breakfast with Kinky Friedman.) It's simply a friendly, unpretentious place to live, with parks and a river, wide-street neighborhoods where herds of whitetail deer greet me each morning. We have shopping malls, tons of churches, theaters, and cafes. And yes, well-maintained sidewalks in the charming, revitalized, historic section of town.  

Halloween 2012 (An Alphabet Poem)

Ah, what a beautiful afternoon, Halloween, golden light, just

Before sunset, cat sitting in the window (I had to wake her up

'cuz she was napping, missing out on this gorgeous

Day) and the stinky dog (he rolled in deer poop) completely

Enervated, fast asleep. Today we averted a small catastrophe. I

Found Walter on the porch, hunkered down, he couldn't

Get up, I thought something might be broken, but what

Happened was his choke collar was stuck in the slats of the deck.

I can't figure out how that happened.  He was freaked out,

Justifiably. He'd been there a while and was so hot, panting.

"Keep calm," I assured him, stroking his head. I went inside

Looking for John.  I knew he'd be annoyed, but I hoped he

Might have lock cutters, so we could cut the chain. He said

No, he didn't but he'd see what he could do. I went back out and

Petted Walter's head. I said, "John will help you. Just keep

Quiet."  I had horrible visions of him strangling himself. John

Returned with a screwdriver and a hammer. Under the

Stairs, he found the problem, gave one quick bang and

Ta da! Walter sprang up and rushed to the door

Unharmed. Thank God!  I hate it when I have horrible

Visions of bad things happening. Once you think something

Whether it's good or bad, it seems to become part of your memory,

eXactly like it really happened. I can still hear Walter's little

Yelps, see him pinned there, panicky. I wish I were more

Zen, not re-imagining my dog, dead, strangled, on the sunny deck. 

Election Season

Narrator

Joining us now is APR correspondent Niles Overblown. Niles, tell us the latest on the flip-flopping allegations of congressional incumbent candidate Melanie Squatblatt.

Overblown

Thank you, Jeremy. Last week at a congressional town-hall debate Ms. Squatblatt said she was in favor of farm subsidies for family-owned farms. She said that contrary to what the Supreme Court ruled, '"Corporations are not people. Family farmers are people."  She went on to mention her meeting with the Burnedout family of Dungtown who have been growing asparagus for seventy-five years. Let's listen to what Congresswoman Squatblatt said:

Squattblatt

I grew up on a farm in Poor Me County. I remember milking cows, rain or shine. I remember my mother's red hands and my father's stooped back. Back then we were proud of our muddy truck and out of style clothing.

Now family farmers are being thrown under the bus. Federal subsidies keep afloat Monsanto and Con-Agra while families like the Burnedouts struggle to keep Spam on the table. This must change! We must not abandon our asparagus farmers. We must offer a hand to what I like to call The Backbone of America. We must close loopholes for big corporations so that they crumble like drought-stricken fields.   

Overblown

Today a group calling itself Citizens for Candidate Credibility released a video of Ms. Squattblatt, purported to have been recorded at a family dinner in 1965. Let's hear a clip.

Child's voice

Eeeewww!  That's disgusting. I'm not going eat that.

Adult female voice

You are going to sit there until your plate is empty young lady. I don't work sixteen hours a day so you can turn your nose up at my cooking. Right, father?

Adult male voice

Pass the potatoes.

Child's voice

I hate asparagus. It makes my pee stink. I'm not going to eat it. I don't care if you punish me. I refuse to be abused!

Adult female voice

I just hope that when you have children they make you as miserable as you make me.

Overblown

Citizens for Candidates Credibility sites this as an example of Ms. Squattblatt's flip-flopping. After years of denigrating asparagus she is suddenly supportive of the very people who harvest this niche crop. In order to offer fair and balanced reporting, I have her opponent Martin Notsosmart on the line. Are you there Mr. Notsosmart?

Notsosmart

Yes, Niles, I'm here. It's always a pleasure to talk to you.  Let me say that I have always supported small farmers and still do. I also support companies such as those Ms. Squattblattt impugns, because they employ thousands of hard working Americans. We cannot afford, as a people and a nation, to continue to outsource jobs to China and India where workers live in squalid conditions. It's immoral and adds to our trade deficit.  I say, America for America! Asparagus for all!

Overblown

Thank you, sir. Unfortunately Ms. Squattblatt did not return out calls. For APR this is Niles Overblown.

Narrator

We turn now to the issue of immigration . . .

          

Standing In Line

     This week thousands of people stood in line to buy the I Phone 5. Some people even paid to have a person stand in line for them. It's been so long since I stood in a line. I'm trying to remember . . .

          My first recollection of standing in line is when we lined up after recess at Canyon Elementary School. I think I was probably first in line, eager to get back to the classroom which, for me, was far more interesting than the playground.  I hated the sadistic activity of dodge ball and discovered early on that if I stood stock-still and got hit right away, I could spend the rest of the time talking to my friends, or teachers, until it was time to go back in.

          When the Alex Trebek version of Jeopardy debuted in 1984 I drove to Burbank to try out. I'd watched the Art Fleming version in elementary school and was happy it had returned. My officemates at the Sand and Sea Club encouraged me to try out.

          I remember standing in a long line of potential contestants, along an outside wall of a sound stage, in the blazing sun. I wore my black spaghetti-strap sundress and a pale peach rayon cover-up. Eventually we were herded inside to sit at long tables facing the Jeopardy set. First we watched a video of Alex welcoming us. Then we took a written test.

          While the scores of the written test were tallied we watched a rerun of the show. Then names were called and the herd diminished. Those of us left were congratulated and told how to conduct ourselves for the next round.

          Three at a time we were called up. We were given the sort of bell one rings at a hotel reception desk. I haven't seen one of those bells in years and wonder if they're still made.  Before us, behind a long table, the Jeopardy staff stood with stacks of flash cards representing topics.  

          I remember being flustered, when I rang in too late, And when I rang in first, I didn't know the answer to a baseball question.  One of the Jeopardy staff gave me a dirty look, as if to say, "Calm down, lady!"

          It was a humiliating experience and yet I still watch Jeopardy nearly every day, believing that it will keep me from getting Alzheimer's.

          Since then, I really can't remember standing in a line, except, of course for the short lines at the market where I enjoy seeing what people buy.  There have been times that I like the look of the person in front, or in back, of me and I'll strike up a conversation. There are other times that I'm awed by what people buy. I'm always happy that I didn't inadvertently get someone else's purchases.

          Although, one day I did accidently get a bag that wasn't mine. It had three Lean Cuisine vegetarian entrees in it.  I called the market and told the person who answered. She said I could bring them back if I didn't want them, but they'd just be thrown away. So I kept them, and enjoyed them, and felt bad for the person (I'm sure it was a woman) who got home to discover she'd left a bag of groceries behind.

AN ENCOUNTER WITH OUR NEIGHBOR

          In September 2010, when we moved to Kerrville from California, we rented a little "patio" house in River Hill, from a sharp-as-a-tack octogenarian who owns many Kerrville properties, and even has a road named after him.

          Last month we moved to a larger house with a yard. We miss many of our neighbors – our walks, dinners, John sharing his home-grown tomatoes –but we're glad to have more space and privacy.

          A few months ago, during the primary election, I saw that a sign had been stuck in our next-door neighbor's lawn. I knew Dottie was in Colorado so I decided to call her and ask if she'd given permission for someone to put the sign there. I told my husband, John, what I was doing.

          When I spoke to Dottie she said that her neighbor on the other side of her, Sue, had probably put it there and it was no big deal.

          I went outside and found John talking to Hilton, our neighbor across the street. John had the election sign in his hand.

          "It's okay," I said, "I called Dottie."

          "Did she tell you she doesn't like your dog peeing on her bushes?" Hilton snapped.   

          "No," I said, surprised.

          "And he pees on mine too!" he said.

          John retreated.

          "And Parks (he used the last name of the widower at the end of the street) lets his dogs pee all over my plants, too," he said, showing me his manicured little shrubs.  I couldn't see what he was talking about.

          "I’m sorry," I said. "I'll try to keep Walter off your plants. The only time he might do this is when we're waiting to cross the street and there's traffic coming and he can't wait."

          "And you're not supposed to run a business out of your garage!" he fired. "I don't think they should allow rentals in this neighborhood!"  

          His fury shocked me. He knew when we moved in that John has a home office and that I too work mainly from home. As a hobby, John designs stereo speakers and likes to have the garage door open, weather permitting, because the garage has no windows.  No one ever complained. In fact the elderly widow on the other side of us once told him how much she enjoyed seeing him work with wood, because it reminded her of her departed husband.       

          Plus, I'd had lunch several times with Hilton's wife, and two other neighbors. We'd all attended a party down the street. We exchanged Christmas cards. I'd collected his mail and newspapers when he and his wife were out of town. Once, hearing John hadn't been feeling well, he'd even brought over some delicious leftover soup he'd made.

          Feeling attacked, I countered, "Well, you know what bothers me?" I asked feeling my temper rise.

          "What?" he said.

          "That cowbell," I said, pointing up at a giant wind chime hanging from one of his beautiful trees. "When I want to sit outside and enjoy the afternoon it clangs, clangs, clangs!"

          "My wife put it there," he said sheepishly. "Maybe I can move it around to the back," he suggested.

          "That would be a good compromise," I said, and went home.

          What I didn't tell him was that the floodlight he has over his garage (in spite of there being a street lamp right across the street from him) shined directly in our windows.  I hung heavy curtains in the bedroom and put a Japanese screen inside our front door so the light would not shine in our eyes when we watched TV.

          I called Dottie again and told her I was sorry my dog had peed on her bushes and would try to prevent it in the future.

          "Oh, is he peeing on my bushes?" she asked.

          "That's what Hilton said," I told her. 

          A few days after our encounter, when I went outside one evening, I was startled by a blaring radio.  Hilton had installed a motion detector that lit up and blasted loud radio when it was activated. But I was nowhere near his house.  This contraption stayed up for several weeks until eventually he removed it.

          But he never did move that wind chime.

          Now he's called a meeting with the board of the homeowners' association and our ex-landlord. He intends to accuse our ex-landlord of renting to "bad tenants." John will go to the meeting. 

          The day we moved in to that little house in River Hill, I remember the first thing Hilton told us: that the previous tenants were terrible. "They parked their cars all over the street!" he said.

          How glad we are to get away from this busy-body who, when he leaves his corner house, drives slowly down the cul-du-sac to see what's going on. A retired superintendent, I can imagine him lording over school boards. I just wish he'd find some other way to express his need to bully.  

          By the way, in n addition to trying to get the homeowner's board to not allow our ex-landlord to rent his house, that miserable little man is trying to get speed bumps installed on Riverhill Boulevard, even though there are already stop signs on almost every corner.

ONE OF THOSE DAYS

          Sunday was a great day – church, lunch, poetry, music, food, friends, great discussions, a beautiful sunset, and football on TV. Then why did I feel so lousy Monday?

          The day started out okay. I woke up as always before dawn and luxuriated in bed until light seeped through the blinds.  It was cool enough to wear the long green sweater Jane gave me, when I took the dog out. I greeted the herd of deer that are now getting used to us and enjoyed our twenty-minute walk around the neighborhood.

          But after breakfast something happened. All my energy left me. My brain felt dull as putty. So I drank coffee. But this just gave me a headache. So I took an Aleve. I forced myself to strip the bed and used all my strength to pull the clean lower sheet over the mattress.

          If John didn't work at home I might have crawled back into bed but I could hear him on the phone, then going in and out of the house so I slouched into my office and plopped into my chair. The hours ticked away.

          At four I drank another cup of coffee hoping it would clear my head for a 5:30 meeting at the Nature Center. I grabbed my folder and headed out. With ten minutes to spare I decided to run into CVS for milk. I could leave it in their fridge during our meeting and not have to stop on the way home.

          When I got to the check out I could not find my debit card. I had some change but no cash.  I took everything out of my purse. No card. I moved aside so the checker could help the customer behind me. Not finding my card I apologized and went to my meeting.

          I sat down at the table, took off my sunglasses and reached into my purse. My eyeglass case was gone. Did I leave it at home? 

          I tried to concentrate on what the chairman was saying but my mind kept going back to the missing debit card. Where had I had it last? Oh, it must be in the pocket of my jeans.  I'd checked the bank balance earlier in the day and found no suspicious debits. Yes, it must be at home, with my glasses.

          When I got home I checked my closet. I went through the pockets of the jeans I wore on Saturday when I went to HEB.

          "I bet it's in the car," John said.  This just made me mad.

          "I always put it in the same place. I would not have left it in the car!" I snapped.  I poured a glass of wine.  I drank half in one gulp.

          John went out and started searching the car. I looked on the shelf where I leave my glasses. The case wasn't there. I went into the bedroom, which was dark because I had on my sunglasses.  I turned on all the lights. No glasses.

          Then it dawned on me, I probably left them at CVS when I took everything out of my purse.  I called and yes, my glasses were there. 

          The sun was setting. Too dark to drive in sunglasses, plus I'd just drunk half a glass of wine.  I went outside and found John vacuuming the car with a disapproving look on his face. I wanted to rip the plug out of the socket and silence his favorite monster tool but instead I yelled over it, "My glasses are at CVS!"

          But where was the debit card? Think, Mary Lee. You went to HEB on Saturday to pick up John's prescription and got tangled in the sea of families clogging the aisles. It took forty-five minutes to do what would usually take fifteen.  I remember saying to the checker as I left, "Remind me never to shop on Saturday afternoon again!"  She just smiled and nodded.

          I called HEB.  My debit card was in the lost-and-found.  I went outside to tell John.  He waved from the car and backed out of the driveway.

          I went inside and swallowed the rest of the wine.  I sat on the couch and turned on the TV.  What was pink looked orange and faces looked sunburned.

My mind was clearing. Did this mean I'm an alcoholic?  Or was my body finally finished processing the MSG from my Sunday Chinese lunch?  Or did I contact West Nile Virus from the mosquito bites I recently got when I naively thought I could enjoy early evening on our deck?

          John returned with my glasses and a half-gallon of milk. I thanked him, glad I have someone to come to my aid when my brain or my body fails me.

          

ALL MOVED IN

          Finally we're almost settled in: family portraits and beloved works of art cover the walls, The Joy of Cooking,  which I took from my mother's kitchen when I left home forty-four years ago, is crammed on a shelf with other cookbooks I never read. The dog and cats adjusted immediately, didn't skip a meal or lose any sleep. But I don't feel like I'm home.

          There's a melancholic feeling in this low-ceilinged house. Each room has a single window. In my office the fierce, late-summer sun is amplified by the front yard's white rocks. White light, like a slab of ice, intrudes into one side of the room but does not make it into the dark corner where I sit.

          The weight of what I left behind is heavier than my beaded Indian tapestry which I probably should have hung on the other wall where light would have bounced off its tiny mirrors.  Where it is the deep colors blend into a muddy dullness and nothing sparkles.

          The weight of what I left behind calls for burial, mourning, remembrance. My teaching, which sprang to life eighteen months ago, has trickled out and died. Oh how I loved those Thursday mornings when I packed my satchel with a new lesson and headed out to hear what the students had written that week. Sitting at the front of the class I felt like I was on a ship, sailing into each writer's story, carried along on their memories and emotions.  Afterwards I felt  full of gratitude that an idea I presented created stories and poems that brought tears to our eyes, made us sigh, made us wonder.

          In that tiny office on Rogers Circle I completed my memoir. I relived the first twenty years of my life, revisited photographs, did research on the internet, re-read my calendars, called and questioned friends.  I brought back to life my father, family friends, my first husband, my first true love, my first psychedelic friend.

          In the Rogers Circle house I wrote the monthly profile for the Kerrville Business Magazine.  In the ninety-minute interviews, each person opened up   about their heartaches and triumphs. I remember when the octogenarian jeweler described how the army recruitment office was packed, a line around the block, the day after Pearl Harbor was bombed. He and his college friends were told to go home, the army could not process so many men. I had to ask the old man for a Kleenex, I was so moved visualizing the passion of those young men.

          In the time I lived at Rogers Circle I found Unity Church.  During that first meditation tears streamed down my cheeks because I knew I had found my spiritual home.  

          In our two years at that house my recently widowed mother went through a series of "helpers", doctors, psychiatrists. She had hallucinations, gave thousands of dollars away. Eleven months ago she broke her hip, spent a month in rehab, moved into a posh assisted living facility, and suffered a series of strokes, bladder infections, cuts and bruises. She spent a month crying every day until hospice took over and put her on Zoloft.

          At Rogers Circle I knew who I was, a writer and teacher with an elderly mother; new to Texas, every day seemed full of possibility. Now I feel like I don't know who I am. Of course I know I'm a wife and daughter, sister and aunt, mother to my pets, friend to good friends far away. But who am I to myself?

          I squint out the window at the enormous prickly pear, magnificently malevolent in the blazing sun. Proud, invincible, it seems to know who it is.  Here inside I look at cherished objects from my past and wonder what heartache, what happiness, will fill this house and make it become home.

Apropos

My hands hurt from packing. Next Monday movers will take another "small" load to the new house. This week they took eight bookcases and boxed books which I've started to unpack at the new place.

A week from tomorrow will be the "big move." After that we have a week to come back and clean, and take whatever else is left.

Sometimes I wish I was more like my friend Pat who recently sold almost everything she owns before she moves to Florida. Or like my friend Karen whose immaculate, uncluttered house makes me feel calm.

Today, packing my oak filing cabinet I found a folder whose label had fallen off. Inside: "Poems 1990," a neat, three-page, hand-written list and the originals. I got a kick out of the first one which speaks to me almost twenty-three years later.

NEW YEAR'S DAY

The first day of the year

the first day of the new decade

the first time I feel good

since I got back from Reno.

I dream about Liza

who looks like Divyananda

ruddy and spiritual like

a wild northern animal

genuinely heartened

by snow.

Today in Venice, with everything

the color of sand

including a dubious vagrant

in worn-out clothes

everything is ornamental

with the look of something

soon to be thrown away.

I want permanence.

I'd like to stir my tea

with this same spoon

fifty years from now.

I want something that lasts.

And since it isn't you

I'll find it in possessions

small enough to be carried

wherever I go.

I still have that spoon, and possessions too heavy to carry alone. Plus a dog, two cats and a husband. The life I always wanted. I know of course nothing is permanent.  Which makes me love them all the more.

HOUSE HUNTING

          Yesterday I looked at a house for rent. The ad said "4/2, secluded with gorgeous hilltop views." The owner warned me about a steep driveway. He did not tell me the drive was unpaved, full of white rocks and deep ruts, or that it went up and down, then up again, to a hilltop of dry scrub, caliche and a dismal pre-fab house.  True, the view was unobstructed, and looked out over miles and miles of same-size rolling hills. 

          I greeted the owner in the driveway, as a workmen carried a door out through the narrow laundry room entrance. A woman appeared in an orange tank top, her orangey hair pulled back in a messy pony tail.

          "I'm so embarrassed," she said folding her arms tightly across her chest. "I'm not wearing a bra. I have shingles." She indicated a patch of angry skin below her collarbone.

          "I'm so sorry," I said nearly gagging on the smell of stale cigarettes.

          "The previous tenants left their dog in the pool," the man said. "My ten-year-old daughter cleaned it out."  I saw what he was talking about: an above ground cement pool with a deck on one end, set back from the house with no yard in between, just rocks.  "They trashed the latticework, too."  Shreds of thin wood strips dangled in the air.

          "That's a shame," I replied.  I took a tour: little dark rooms that appeared unfinished.  Purple paint on one of the small bedroom's walls looked like tempera, with no sheen at all.

          "You can paint over this if you want," the woman said gesturing toward a pink and yellow peace sign and several 1960 style flowers stenciled into the wall.  I nodded.

          I followed her husband up steep brown-painted wooden stairs with no balustrade. "I took it out," he said, "I didn't like the way it looked.  I held on to a sticky, wooden, wall-mounted rail. 

          The upstairs rooms were cramped with muddy looking carpets and unfinished wood-plank balconies, too narrow to hold even one chair. Screens on the doors were loose in their flimsy frames.  The "Master" bath had fixtures from the seventies, a sad little sink and dirty shower.

          I reluctantly held on to the grubby railing as I walked back down into the dark kitchen. I said having no garage would be a problem because my husband needs a place for his workshop.  I bid the couple goodbye and bumped down the driveway. When I got to a place where I could pullover, I called John and told him simply, "P.O.S."

          Today I ventured out again to look at another house, $175 a month more than yesterday's. I met the owner in the back yard where he and two workmen are installing a privacy fence.  He's a cute guy, mid forties, in shape, with clear blue eyes; but my own eyes went directly to a magnificent tree.

          "Is this a sycamore?" I asked, for the multi-pointed leaves reminded me of my favorite tree.  The owner didn't know. He yelled to one of the workmen who said it's a cotton-less cottonwood.  I then noted that the rough bark was uniformly grey, not smooth and mottled like a sycamore. I stroked it anyway.

          "I miss trees," I explained. "Where we're living now, in Riverhill, we have no trees."

          "There's a big oak on the property line," the owner said and I saw it, nicely trimmed at the fence line.  Another big tree complimented my "new friend" as I already felt this tree to be. 

          I pulled myself together and followed him to the front yard, so we could enter the house from the front door which opens into a living room that looks out onto a deck, then the yard. To the right is a dining room and kitchen.  A small passageway with space for washer on the right, dryer on the left, leads to a huge tiled room which I imagined could be John's workshop.  Two windows face the street. A door leads out to the carport.  This room used to be the garage.

          A sunny tiled room faces the back yard, perfect for John's office. Back at the front door a narrow hallway leads to the left: master bedroom and bath, two more bedrooms and another bath.  I called John to tell him I like it. He said, "Take it," but I told him we had to fill out paperwork and he should see if the tiled room would really work to build and listen to his speakers. It has a huge echo. "I can put down a rug," he said.

          When I told the owner I was from California he told me he was from Woodland Hills.  He was born the year I graduated high school and is married to a woman only three years younger than I am.  He retired at thirty-five and spends his time maintaining his rental properties and playing golf.  

          When mentioned that he has a friend in L.A. who is a photographer, I told him maybe his friend can help me figure out how to sell my dad's darkroom equipment. He said his friend has a darkroom where his students actually print pictures. I told him my dad's name and he texted it to his friend, to see if he recognizes it.

          The previous tenant bolted in the middle of the night, breaking her lease, but he doesn't feel it's worth pursuing her.  I told him both my husband and I have been landlords and will never do it again. He said sometimes a person who seems perfect turns out to be a terrible tenant, and vice versa. I told him landlords should look at prospective renter's current residencies to see how they live. He said he didn't think that was legal. I said, yeah, but it's like when you date someone divorced, you should talk to the ex.

          Now John is over there having a look. When I left the house this morning I thought I don't want to move, I know this neighborhood and I don't want to stress the animals. But now I'm visualizing Walter sitting on the deck and Audrey climbing one of the beautiful old trees in the yard. I can see John's containers of vegetables and flowers spread around the yard, adding color to an already private, peaceful setting. 

          I see myself out there too, reclining on a chaise, which I'll have to buy. Maybe for the first time in my life I'll be able to nap outside.

          P.S.  John's back. "Start packing," he said. "We're out of here September first." 

HOUSEPLANTS

          I wonder how many of my friends have house plants. I lie in the tub looking at a small Elephant Ear in a plastic milk jug that John got free when he placed his annual Burpee Seed order.  (They also sent him a blueberry bush and a potted palm that are part of his container garden, outside.)

          I grew up in what is now called a Midcentury Modern house, with planters built into the terrazzo floors.  I didn't know until recently that the twining fig that still thrives there had been a houseplant of my grandmother's before the house was built in 1955. That amazing plant twines up around windows and spreads across the ceiling, held up by hooks my dad screwed into the ceiling many years ago.

          In an adjacent planter huge peace plants reach up toward skylights making for a tight squeeze when you come in the front door. The third planter is fallow, but for tiny creepers of split-leaf elephant ears sneaking in from a planter outside.

          The first houseplants I remember, after I moved away from home, are the coleuses Roger and I had in Berkeley in the early 1970s, tropical plants that come in various shades of red, yellow and purple.  I remember a photo of me with long hair, holding Junior, Roger's and my black and white Manx. The hanging coleus takes up most of the frame. The cat "ran away" after we had him neutered. Roger thought UC medical students nabbed him.  I don't know what became of the plant, or the wandering Jew that flourished in a sunny window, or the African violet that used to grow on Roger's horse-trough desk.

          One of my favorite houseplants was a Boston fern. It perched on a white octagonal column.  I used to pretend I was the wind, and ruffle it, then vacuum up the little brown leaves that fell from its fronds.  When I moved from Los Angeles to Oakhurst I gave it to my parents who planted it up in their shady canyon. I always forget, when I visit, to see if it's still there. I got another one when we built our house in 2000. It lived for ten years in my sunny bathroom. My darling Abyssinian Amber, who was strictly an indoor cat, used to lie under its feathery fronds. I think this somehow satisfied her primal instincts.

          When I met John, in 1992, he had a small corn plant that had belonged to his mom in Iowa. He took it to Texas where it lived many years, then to California. It lived with us in YLP, then Kirk's house, and our house on Quartz Mountain, where it sprouted new growth.  Now it occupies a window in the dining room.  I love stroking the sleek long leaves, when I give it a drink, every week.

          We had over forty houseplants when we moved from California. Most of them found homes with friends. John managed to bring six with him in the U-Haul. The vegetable garden was left behind, as were the natural plants – wildflowers, trees, shrubs, and vines that I miss daily.

          I'm learning to love the trees of Texas, the flowering crepe myrtles, and the gnarly old oaks.  Outside the post office a sycamore struggles to survive. The top is dying but new sprouts push out from lower limbs. I wish I could be in charge of this tree. I would get someone to trim it and fertilize it. I would ask that the grass around its base be weeded and watered.  I would like to sit under that tree and gaze up at the sky. But judging from the window that's been boarded up for six-months and weeds sprouting in the planters I know my wish to see the sycamore thrive is just a dream. 

Early Fourth

          So much of my time is spent sitting: reading, writing, re-writing, researching.  I'm learning that I need to get up every hour and move. Otherwise I'm just a bundle of aches and pains.

          I was thrilled to find the yoga teacher I like has returned from maternity leave. I went to her class Tuesday and Thursday. She sits facing us. Behind her a big window looks out onto Kroc Center's three swimming pools. A sheer blind dims some of the light coming in, but through it I can make out little wet children, fat people in wet tee shirts, and fat women in bathing suits enjoying themselves in the hot Texas sun. Every so often a gigantic bucket spills a waterfall into the kiddy pool, and happy shrieks punctuate the air.

          On Saturday night John and I had dinner at the Guadalupe River Club for the first time.  I always thought it was a "dive" but John went there recently to listen to live music and said it was okay, so we thought we'd give it a try. I liked it. We sat on the large wooden deck, high over a grassy bank on the river.  Silvery clouds obscured the setting sun.

          "This feel's like Hawaii," John said."I know you've never been there. . . as an adult."

          I'm glad he amended his statement because I very well remember bailing water from a catamaran when I was eight.

          I enjoyed my gumbo and salad and shared John's Guinness.  On the way out I thanked the owner, who was watching baseball at the bar. It might be fun to come here in winter to watch a football game . . .

          We left at about 8:15.  A firework display was planned for dusk. John decided to find us a good place to watch, which turned out to be the post office parking lot.

          He backed into a parking space and opened all the windows, including the tailgate. While we waited for the sun to set we saw more and more families arrive. Many set up chairs on the grass. Little children played with red, white and blue light sabers. Someone had their radio tuned to an oldies station. "Little Latin Loopy Loop" filled the air.

          John reclined his seat all the way back, leaned back, pulled up his shirt and put his stocking feet on the dash board. I decided to see if Penney's across the street was still open. Maybe I could pee.

          Being out of the car I got to see the whole, magnificent sky, blazing yellow and pink. As I headed toward Penny's the first firework went off: BOOM!  I felt like I was shot in the chest.  Instinctively I put my hands over my ears. BOOM! I turned and headed back to the car.

          I passed a Latino family with a lot of children. I looked at the youngest one, about two, a tiny, frail little girl.  I wanted to grab her and run for cover. I kept walking, holding my hands over my ears. Finally I reached our car.

          "Can we close the windows?" I asked John through the open window.

          "No!" he said emphatically. So I kept walking.  I walked to the side of the post office and sat on a curb. I put my hands over my ears. BOOM!  My chest hurt. I thought I might throw up.

          Stop it, I told myself. Get a grip. I looked up just as the dark night sky was filled with blinding light that pierced my irises, searing my retina.

          I tried to take deep breaths. Every explosion felt like I was being shot. A thought dawned on me: in my last life I must have been killed in battle. Probably World War I, from the way I was feeling. Where was my foxhole?

          Then the wonderful realization struck me: the post office is always open! I opened the door and entered the cool, impersonal, institutional, fluorescently lighted building.  Ahhhh. Safe!

          I spent the next half hour sitting on a table in the lobby of the Kerrville Post office listening to muffled pops of the patriotic display outside.  My feet dangled as I took deep breaths and reminded myself it would be over soon. I thought about my dog and cats at home, glad they were far enough away from this madness.

          I've always hated the Fourth of July. At the age of three my nine-year-old sister tried to get me to see the beauty of sparklers but I just threatened to call the police if she lit one in our back yard. When we moved to Rustic Canyon I hated having to go down to State Beach and sit in damp sand for the fireworks display on the Santa Monica Pier. In my thirties, working at a beach club, I dreaded the drunken crowds and burning bluffs that filled the foggy air with smoke. 

          I continually try to like this holiday.  One year John and I went to Bass Lake with a friend who owned a boat.  I remember floating in the murky water, with the stink of smoke and how it settled over the lake. When we finally got to head back to our cars, I felt like a refuge.

          When we lived on Quartz Mountain, John and I would stand on our deck and watch tiny red, blue and green pin pricks appear, then disappear, thirty-five-miles away in the San Joaquin Valley.  Above us the sky was clear and still, punctuated only by a bat flittering past - the way night is supposed to be.

I Finished My First Draft!

        I wrote the last sentence of my memoir, Posing for My Father, this weekend. I had wondered, when I started, how I would end it. John Irving says he knows the end of his story before he begins writing, and writes to the pre-determined end.

        I've written about my life for many years, but mostly in poems. In 2007 I decided to write a prose piece for Valley Writers Read in Fresno. They want half-hour length stories, which meant about fifteen pages. I chose to write about State Beach a unique one-block-long strip of sand in Santa Monica.  I had fun selecting music for the breaks.  When my dad listened to it, he said the music was too loud.

        The next year I wrote about a trip I took with my family when I was nine. I had my tenth birthday in Paris. This became "Europe on Five Dollars a Day" and was recorded in 2008. 

        The next year I took two poems I'd written and expanded them to tell the story of how my mom thought it would be fun to pretend to be strippers and do a dance for daddy, "because he photographed a stripper today."   The story is called "Daisies", which is what my mom pinned on a black velvet ribbon and tied around my six-year-old chest.  That piece aired in 2009.

        In 2010 my father died and my husband and I moved to Texas.  Having so much geographical distance from California gave me a new perspective on my upbringing and I decided to take those three pieces and expand them into a memoir that would end when I left L.A. for the first time, in 1970.

        I am not a "two-page-a-day" writer.  I write in spurts, usually about fifteen pages at a sitting.  The next day I edit what I've written. Then I may not write for a week.  I do research, re-reading my calendars and old letters, looking at pictures, looking things up on the internet.  I love that I live in a time when I can so easily fact check.  I hope this adds interest and dimension to my story. For even though I'm telling a story unique to my life, I know many people will remember where they were when, say, JFK was shot, the Watts Riots happened, or we heard about Charlie Mansion orchestrating the horrible Tate/LaBianca murders.

        Now long ago I went to a writing conference and met my neighbor who has also written a book. We decided to proof reach each other's manuscripts. Her book is a charming story of her parents' courtship in 1926. I'm enjoying it immensely.  But I'm only half-way through because it's over 600 pages.

        My book on the other hand is about 250 pages of text and will include another 100 pages of pictures, I hope.  I'm now trying to find an agent. Today I filled out my first query form, which I think is a terrific idea. It forced me to be succinct and think about why people would want to buy my book over all the others out there.

        This fall I'm offering an Adult Ed class called "Get it done!" about how to finish and submit and/or publish your book.  I should mention that I got my first book published when I was nineteen because my parents took photos to illustrate my poems.  Without the pictures and their connections at Crown Publishers it never would have happened.  I'm grateful to my parents for setting me on my path as a poet/writer. Each of my subsequent books was a very different experience.

        I'm looking forward to seeing my book through to publication, and I'm already thinking about the second part of my three-part autobiography. Many of the people I've loved are no longer on this planet. Writing about them is a way for me to spend time with them again remembering the happy, sad, scary, or weird experiences we had together. 

I Volunteer at Riverside Nature Center

          Third graders from Nimitz Elementary descended from the bus and converged around me. I held a sign with their teacher's name on it. I felt like I was greeting someone at the airport. But as we began moving through the nature trail, I turned into a curious ten-year-old.  The short-grey haired nature volunteer led us to a Bald Cypress, which was about a foot in diameter, the lowest branches just above my head. Around it a circle of bricks indicated the circumference of the largest Bald Cypress in Texas. 

          The nature instructor asked the children to stand on the bricks. Twenty children went about three-quarters around it. I wanted to know how old that big tree is, where it is, and what its diameter is.  She didn't know. I'll have to find out.

          We followed her through the butterfly garden and saw a patch, about as big as bedroom carpet, that had not been watered – see, the drought is still with us.  I took pictures, trying not to let any of the kid's faces show, because we did not have permission slips from parents.

          A plant specialist gave us a lesson in identifying poison ivy. Don't confuse it with baby box elder which looks exactly the same when it first comes out of the ground.

          I helped herd the children into a classroom where a young woman with shoulder length brown hair, from the Upper Guadalupe River Authority (UGRA) talked to us about Aquatic Invertebrates (water bugs).  My favorite has always been the dragon fly.  But I learned about Damsel Flies and other insects that lay eggs in water. Their eggs become nymphs which look nothing like their adult selves. One day they crack out of their nymph bodies and emerge as a completely different looking creature. They pump up their wings and off they go!  Dragon flies live only "one season."  I remember the big-eyed dragon flies in Coarsegold that took drinks from my pool. I loved how they zigged and zagged across the summer sky.

          Then we went outside and looked at actual, real critters captured from the river by a gangly young man from UGRA in ironed jeans and wire rimmed glasses: tiny fishes, crawfish, water scorpions, and even an invasive Asian Clam about as big as a thumbnail. Makes me think differently about swimming in the river. I sure hope I don't get bitten by a "hot fire" bug!

          I conversed with a smart little girl in a pink top and black skirt. She reminded me of Darla from the Little Rascals, with her dark bobbed hair, bright eyes and little button mouth.  She expressed real interest in everything, unlike most of the kids who went where they were told but didn't really engage.

          Our last stop was inside the Nature Center where a dark Latino man with a big belly, wearing a plaid shirt, told us he was with the Parks and Wildlife service. He had set up a long table that held various skulls. Behind it photographs of dangerous wild creatures stared out at us: mountain lion, javelina, wild pig, bobcat, badger, skunk, fox, coyote, opossum etc. One panel had venomous snakes: coral, cottonmouth and two types of rattlers.

          He talked mostly about what to do if you encounter a dangerous animal in the wild – he advised that we use our walking sticks to fight off an attacking beast and if we got bitten by a rattler, stay calm and walk back to where you came, unless you have friends that can carry you.

          The precocious little girl seemed to know most of the answers to his questions. She said she watches a nature show for kids. Hearing information and remembering it are two different things.  The little girl impressed me by how much information she retained.

          Now, remembering my day, I'm ashamed to realize how much I don't remember. This is why I usually take notes. Writing things down helps commit them to memory, and the notes are always there for you to refer back to.

          My two hours zipped by. The rain that had been forecast didn't come till late in the day. The morning was cloudy and mild, a perfect day to learn about plants and critters. I was sad to leave after the school bus pulled away and we volunteers waved good bye to each other and headed for our cars.

          When the rain did come, later in the day, John was out washing the cars. He came inside and said, "Soft hail!" and handed me a white pellet of ice. I popped it in my mouth and looked out the window. What looked like white marbles were bouncing off the vacant lot next door.  It only lasted a little while and by the time I took Walter out for our before-dinner walk, the sun was shining on puddles in the black, steaming asphalt.   

TIRED SUNDAY

Rare for me: got up, walked the dog then went back to bed.  The smell of pancakes roused me.  Threw chopped pecans and banana chunks into the batter John had made. Ate. Read the San Antonio Express. Back to bed. Read for two more hours, my friend Paula's manuscript. She's the woman I met at the writing conference, who lives two blocks from me.  Then got up and edited more chapters of my book, Posing for My Father. Paula has motivated me. Before I met her I wrote when I felt like it, edited or did research when I didn't feel like writing. But now, with her asking for more chapters, I'm pushing myself like a real writer.  

Also tired from the roller coaster ride my team has me on. I assumed the Lakers would get killed by Oklahoma. First game was a total route. Next game they lost by two points. Then they rallied in the third game. Last night they were so hot in the first half.  I willed myself to stay awake until midnight only to have them lose in the last few minutes.

I still miss players who've been traded to other teams: Jordan Farmar, Sascha (playing in Europe), Ronnie now plays for the Heat. Derek Fisher in a Thunder uniform breaks my heart.  Tomorrow night I expect the Lakers to lose, so the season will end for them. Then we have the long boring summer to get through.  Then Dancing with the Stars ends Tuesday. One-two punch. Bye-bye basketball. Bye-bye dancing.

Wednesday I make a trip to see my mom. I feel like I've already lost her. She is a shadow of her former self. I dread seeing her in person. At least over the phone I can try to remember how she used to look, my now tiny, frail mama.

But I'll get to see girlfriends, too. I love my friends and miss them. I'll miss my cats when I'm gone and my doggy.  Last night I took him out to pee just as the game was starting.  Bobby, our neighbor, was coming down the block with a flashlight and his two dogs, Midge a wiggly shitzu and River, a docile sheltie. They are the first friends Walter has ever had.  As Bobby and I chatted the leashes got all tangled.  He agreed to take Walter on their walk, so I could go back to the game.  Bobby's going away for three weeks. We'll miss him and his dogs.

As I said, the game was great for the first three quarters. During half-time I flipped over to Saturday Night Live. Mick Jagger was hilarious! When I first saw him I thought he looked like a caricature of himself. He has such a big head, small shoulders, skinny legs and big feet. But he was very funny playing characters and doing various accents.

I listened to an Oldies station tonight, when I walked Walter before dinner. So sad to hear Barry Gibb died, and right after Donna Summer. What fond memories I have of their music. Meet the Bee Gees was the first stereo album I ever bought, in 1967.  When I taught aerobics in 1983 I used Donna's "She Works Hard for the Money" as my opening song.

I hope I have enough years left in me to finish my entire autobiography. For now volume one takes me up to when I left L.A. in 1970.

Wait! I hear cats caterwauling . . . .  Back inside now.  A black and white long-haired cat who I've seen pissing on neighbor's bushes, was lying on the pavement near Jane, who sat by the front door. Inside Walter and Audrey were trying to peer out at it.  I went outside and it got up but didn't go far. I asked what he was doing.

He said "nothing, just hanging out."  I let him sniff my hand. Pink nose. Pointed face. Weird eyes, the "second lid" showing. Sick?  I told him we had enough cats and walked him away from the house. He flopped on the pavement. I petted him. Kind of skinny but not starving.

I picked up Jane and carried her through the house to the garage. Walter and Audrey wanted to get out and check out the trespasser. I had to hold Jane and close the garage door; I didn't want her running away.

There was still food in Jane's dish. So the stray cat can't be too hungry.  I washed my hands and returned to my writing. Whose cat is he? Ours now?

No Bean Sprouts, No Bread, No Butter

Tonight John and I went to dinner at the River's Edge, Tuscan Grill to celebrate my birthday – he was out of town for it last Sunday. The restaurant juts out over Guadalupe River, which after our week of rains, is gorgeously swollen and wide. To our delight, silver, grey and blue clouds obscured the sun so the light was soft and easy on the eyes.

        I was thrilled to see a ginger-sesame salad with bean sprouts, Napa cabbage, etc. on the menu, because I have not been able to purchase bean sprouts in the two markets I frequent. When I asked the produce managers, they both said "We don't carry them anymore, they go bad too fast." 

        This is a major hardship for me, who craves all things Asian, especially in times of stress.  It's true, even in California I had a hard time finding really fresh, crisp sprouts and when I did I celebrated – the white shoot, the firm green mung bean. Yum!

        So I asked our darling young waiter if it was true, were there really bean sprouts in the salad? And if so, could I talk to the chef and find out about his source? Could I perhaps purchase bean sprouts directly from the restaurant?

        He looked at me as if I was crazy but said he would find out.

        The only California Chardonnay on the wine list turned out to be too oaky for my taste and not nearly as good as the Kendall Jackson reserve I have at home. But, oh well.

        John ordered a steak that was supposed to come with a side of veggies.  We drank our wine, admired the view and waited for bread, which never came.  A different waiter brought our meals.  No bean sprouts in my salad.  John got a big square plate with a steak on it and a side dish of zucchini and yellow squash swimming in a garlic cream sauce. 

        "May we get some bread?" I asked the new waiter.

        "It's in the oven, almost done," he replied.

        A while later our waiter returned. By now I'd eaten about a third of my salad and John had made headway into his steak.

        "You're right," the waiter said. "The owner's here. His wife ordered the salad last week and asked why there were no bean sprouts."

        "Because we live in a bean sprout free zone!" I replied. "The markets don't carry them."  He didn't know quite what to say to that.  "May we get some bread?" I asked.   He left and I said to John, "Maybe I should become the Bean Sprout Lady of Kerrville. Certainly there's a need. Think of the health food stores and Chinese Restaurants."  But then I thought about my kitchen full of cat and dog hair, and this week, "little anty things" as John calls them, crawling all over the sink.  They're little teeny ants which he says will go back outside once the ground dries up. There's no way the health department would give me a license to grow bean sprouts for sale. Still, I might just start sprouting beans for my own use. After all, we have a whole truck garden growing in our patio . . .

        The waiter returned with a little basket of bread. "I'm sorry but there's no butter. Well, there's butter but we're out of ramekins."

        The bread was good, real sour dough with a crisp crust and warm soft center. I tore of a chunk and shoved it into my mouth.  When he brought take-home containers and proceeded to box our dinners at an adjacent table, I made sure to not let him take the bread away. I opened one of the containers and tucked it into a corner.

        When we left the restaurant, the sun was just setting. A sliver of orange appeared over the river. John drove us a little ways down Guadalupe Street until we came to a small dam. "Stop here!" I said and opened the window. The sound of rushing water filled the car.

        I noticed pretty white wildflowers, long stalks with six pointed petals. I got out of the car and picked one. I brought it back into the car to look at.

        "We have those growing in the side yard," John said referring to the vacant lot next to our house. I don't remember seeing them. I got out and picked four more.  He poured bottled water on a napkin and wrapped it around the stalks.

        Next to the dam is a little park with a path along the river. "The best time to come here is between nine and ten o'clock at night John said."  I have no desire to be out a after dark, but I did think about asking my writing teacher to come here with me after class Tuesday, because it's only a block from where we meet.  I wonder if I'll remember to ask her.

        John dropped me off at home and went to Azul to listen to music and analyze the handwriting of one of the waitresses.  I was bummed out when I found out the Laker game wouldn't start for another hour.  I'm so sleepy, how will I stay awake?

        I trimmed the wildflowers and stuck them in a tall shot glass. Then,

putting the food away, I opened one of the containers and found the bread.  I spread butter on it and stood in our little rented kitchen watching teeny tiny ants meander over the Formica counter top. The bread tasted like San Francisco. Delicious.

FALLING IN LOVE WITH TEXAS

          I, who hate road trips, didn't want this one to end, it was so beautiful. I've missed the California landscape something fierce these nineteen months living in Texas.  Sure, I get to see the ocean on my trips to Santa Monica, but there's nothing I love more than a really broad open landscape with far away mountains containing the vast space in between, such as the Salinas Valley or the San Joaquin Valley when the mountains are capped with snow.

          No snow here, but lovely vistas of rolling cedar covered hills and plenty of yellow and orange wildflowers.  The landscape changed dramatically when I got "way out west" and poor Fort Davis is barren and dry. Two huge wildfires are raging and the air in the evenings smelled of smoke and created eerie sunsets.  I was amazed by the variety of types of mountains – one looks like a loaf of brown bread, then a few rolling hills, then steep bluffs like a thousand Buddhas standing side by side. Then out of nowhere a cone shaped mountain looks like fine black coal poured into a perfect point.  John says it's because the land "makes a transition" there, whatever that means.

          Aside from the beauty of the views I enjoyed the well maintained highway (Interstate 10 most of the way, then south on 17/118). Not one pothole or any cracked pavement the entire way. Every white and yellow line looks as if it were painted yesterday. The speed limit is 80 most of the way (I went 75) and the left lane is for passing only. I bet this results in less wear and tear on the passing lane and saves money on repairs.

          My favorite sign is triangular shaped and says, "Drive Friendly."  Instead of "$500 fines for littering" (or more) which I saw all over California, here a simple "Don’t Mess With Texas" or "Littering is unlAWFUL" seem to get the message across because I saw no litter the entire way there and back again – 770 miles round trip.  

          I liked everyone I met at the conference. Thirty-six attended.  I'm thrilled that a dynamic woman, originally from Minnesota turns out to live two blocks from me! We're going to proof read each others' manuscripts.

          I had many deep conversations on topics of religion, philosophy, the state of our schools, books, writing and personal tales.  Writers love to share ideas so there was never a lack of topics to discuss.

          Of the three presenters my favorite was Mike Blakely, singer, songwriter and historical novelist. He's married to a beautiful, graceful young woman (horse-woman, hunter, yoga teacher) who sings with him. They're an adorable couple. I fell in love with both of them and danced to Mike's music, the last night, under the stars, after our dinner and reading.

          The emphasis on sell, sell, sell by one of the presenters I found a bit off putting, especially since her genre is true crime.  The third presenter writes mysteries so there was way too much death for me.  I found our "Haiku Hike" Sunday morning to a local Catholic cemetery enlightening. I've never walked around a cemetery before. Turns out many writers get inspiration there.  The contrast between a well maintained grave with elaborate, shiny marble headstone, festooned with artificial flowers and messages like "we love you grandma" contrasted with plots that were completely neglected.  One couple, born in the mid 1930s both died on 1-1-70. Car crash on New Year's Eve?   It's always sad when a child dies before their parents.  One big family plot had grandparents, parents, sons and then "Baby Grace now an angel." The cool desert air seemed full of grief from all the tears shed in that dusty graveyard.   

          The grave I liked best consisted of a mound of real purple flowers book-ended by two small trees. In the middle, a small white statue of Mary and a simple marble slab with the woman's name.  Except for a few lone wild flowers poking out of the dirt, these were the only live flowers there.       

          Most of the people at the conference live in Alpine, a small town about 25 miles south of Fort Davis.  Fort Davis, Alpine and Marfa (which I did not visit) are "artsy" and are served by a great public radio station that I got to listen to for two full hours on my drive home.  If it weren't so damn far from everything I'd like to live there, but the closest airports are seven hours away and the same goes for big hospitals.

          Now, writing this close to Midnight on Sunday, with my dog dozing at my feet, Audrey snoring under the dining room table, and John fast asleep, I feel like Coleridge who wrote, "the inmates of my cottage, all at rest, have left me to that solitude that suits abstruser musings. . ."         

          Perhaps a crossword will slow down my brain. Or maybe I'll just go to bed and lie still, letting the images of the vast Southwest play behind my eyelids. In my imagination I'll stretch my arms all the way from horizon to horizon touch those bizarre, beloved mountains.