Falling in Love with a River

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

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

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

Overland Avenue

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

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

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

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

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

Gratitude

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Cravings

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Thanksgiving

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

excess. 

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

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

THANKSGIVING 1994

Thirty-five years ago we all fit snugly in

one small blue Mercedes that took us through

the drizzly continent of Europe

where we each got sick

and had to take odd local remedies

poultices, mustard packs, grated apples

small blue pills.

Now we are in two cars:

my mother, father and I share the Ford Explorer

with my husband who smoothly drives these mountain roads

so we can admire the autumn hues.

My grown niece follows in her red BMW

with her half-sister and my sister in back

and her boyfriend beside her, fiddling with the radio.

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

but my sister is comfortable in purple zories.

She has no problem with the needle-strewn path.

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

I wish she could carry the stillness with her

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

Lauren up ahead does pirouettes in army fatigues.

Delicate fourteen-year-old fingertips the only indication

that a young girl resides in those oversize clothes.

My father, the atheist, all in white

            spotless!

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

The sheer age of the giant sequoias impresses him

not to mention their size.

And mother, who at seventy-three is still girlish

with her perky hair and springy gait, is thrilled

that the family is actually doing something together.

Later, at dinner, I pretend not to hear

when she hugs my husband and says,

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

who has coaxed my family from their coastal homes

to journey to the mountains and sleep in alien beds.

Soon my niece and her boyfriend appear

weaving and bumping into one another, newly in love.

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

the preceding week’s hysteria now past.

We are all better for being with trees.

We are soothed and renewed,

surprised by our delight:

this is our clan.

Amazing Cat Story

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

          “You got a ticket!” I guessed.

          “No!” he said. 

          “You ran over a deer?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

First Week Teaching

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Today's Poem - "Dusk"

I lost my battle with the garden hose

it's pretzel shaped in the dirt

a thick green rubbery mass

that refused to be a circle for me

even though I coaxed it

invited it

then wrestled it

into submission.

I won the battle

with the garden hose

it no longer

snakes around the car

half wet in the puddle

of his washing

my plaid-shirted husband

in the Texas dusk.

No one else on the block

does anything outside

well, Hilton gets the paper.

I saw him once emerging from the garage

boxer shorts

a big white hairy bear.

I didn’t let him know

I saw him

I kept my eyes

directed down and didn’t

look up until I heard

the garage door close.