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.

READING POETRY AT RIVER POINT

        I volunteered to read poems to the residents of River Point, a new assisted living facility just a mile from our home. At one time I'd thought about bringing my mom from Santa Monica and situating her there, so I could visit her every day, not just talk to her on the phone. But that's not going to happen. My mom is living at Ocean House in Santa Monica, across the street from the beach, where she can feed the seagulls every day.

        So today when I arrived at River Point I went into a small activity room, with a lovely view of acres of wild green grass bordering the Guadalupe River, and spent time with two new residents: Louis, 96 years old, the same age my dad would be if he hadn't died two years ago, and a woman in wheel chair whose name I forget.

        Both had just moved in three weeks ago. They participate in any activities that get them out of their rooms. Louis was dressed all in blue. Until a few months ago he was still golfing, then suddenly his left leg got weak and he couldn't walk. He uses a wheel chair now and asked for a pillow, to sit on a regular chair. "Because you're bony, like me," I said which made him laugh.

        The heavy lady was on the phone, so I waited until she was done, and leafed through a magazine. I have trouble focusing my ears when there are other sounds going on around me.  Louis waited patiently. When the lady hung up she apologized, saying there had been "another death in the family."

        I told them I was a poet and read several of my students' poems. Then I read them "The New Colossus" by Emma Lazarus, the poem commissioned for the base of the Statue of Liberty.  After I read it Olivia, the activity coordinator joined us and we had a discussion about ancestors.

        Louis' great grandparents came from Germany and settled in Texas several generations ago. He had many interesting stories to recount. Olivia added her own story – her father's family included a freed slave and a slew of red-haired Irish; her mother's family is Mexican and part Native American.

        Olivia had to run off to do something and so I told Louis and the lady in the wheel chair about how my parents met and married in 1941. Louis and his wife were married 70 years until her passing last year. 

        Olivia returned and took me into the "Memory Care" wing which is for patients with Alzheimer's and other forms of dementia. There was no small meeting room just a big open space with horrible acoustics.  She situated me in a chair and the residents gathered around me. One woman said she was a retired English teacher, so I said, "Sit by me!"

        One of the women had a caregiver. The rest seemed to be on their own. Some were in their own worlds, but others were able to focus on me. A man in a red sweater rolled his wheel chair up close, as he had a hard time hearing me. I had a hard time too. The workers were talking so loud, I had to practically shout to drown them out.

        I decided to read "The Spider and the Fly" because it's dramatic and I enjoy playing the parts of the spider and the fly. The retired English teacher knew many of the lines.

        Then I read my "Ode to My Stapler" and the fellow in the red sweater said, "I don't understand why you're here and what I'm supposed to do."

        I said, "I'm the entertainment! I'm supposed to entertain you!" and a woman across from me who had been staring vacantly looked me in the eye and chuckled.

        The retired teacher liked my poem but the man in the red sweater asked again what he was supposed to do.  I chose a few poems by students from a CPITS anthology. These were more "poetic," meaning less linear and didn't follow a logical progression. I think the residents liked them.

        But the workers on the phone and talking to each other were just too loud. I got up and told them, "This isn't working out, I can't yell over you."

        I was disappointed that they didn't say they'd try to be quiet. I told the residents I'm going to a writers' retreat in West Texas next week and I'll tell them about it the next time I come back.

        The retired teacher said, "That's lovely." I squeezed her arm and bid adieu to my audience.  Outside the wind was whipping. The last of today's rainclouds were vanishing, leaving the sky a bright, shocking blue. 

Too long since I wrote a poem, days flap by like pages of a book

one night two young men show up and go to work on my computer

like veterinarians about to put my beloved pet to sleep

my presence not welcome as they talk to each other in

words I don't understand, like they've swooped down from another planet

to perform surgery and I'm as embarrassed as if they'd seen me naked

and were repelled, not that they haven't seen this all before

another silly woman wanting to save her emails

documents that should have been deleted ages ago.

I pace the house, try to eat and watch TV but I keep trying to hear

what they're saying to each other. I want to rush in and tell them

to go home, leave everything as it was, and eventually I do, I tell them

I'll figure out the rest on my own.  Exhausted, I go to sleep dreading morning

and sure enough everything's different, I'm lost, disoriented, bravely

sniffling my tears as I navigate the maze of my life in words and numbers.

Unfortunately there is no more Microsoft Money, which for ten years

tracked every cent we've earned and spent. It's gone. Bye bye.

I go to Office Max and purchase Quicken, remembering that I used it

before, figuring it will do, but now I see it connects directly to my bank

sucks up the transactions and categorizes each purchase so

it appears we've spent our entire month's budget on beer.

Perhaps in John's perfect world. I spend several hours

good naturedly correcting the silly mistakes.

I press "save" and yet when I return three days later we're back to

the end of last month, why did all my work disappear?

I want to yell at someone so I yell at my husband who says,

"Welcome to my world" and the napping cat opens one eye, annoyed.

The world is full of danger and disorder. All I want is

for what's in my own, private, personal house to make sense.

Is that so much to ask?