POETRY & POLITICS

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

WALTER

    

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

          John said, “You married a mutt.”

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

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

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

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

Culture Shock

        

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Pacific Coast Highway

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Happy 4th of July

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

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

Ocean Avenue

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

         

Summer Begins

          Finally, last Tuesday, on the summer solstice, it rained.  Lightning and

thunder just as we were trying to fall asleep.  I put a pillow over my head. John

opened the garage door and sat inside watching the rain come down.

          In the morning, the air was fresh and tropical.  But unfortunately the few inches we got don’t come close to making up for the 15” deficit for the season.  An article in today’s paper about a cattle rancher said it’s costing four times more usual to feed his herd because he has to truck in water and hay. And the poor animals have to suffer in the heat. 

          My own ass is getting flabby because it’s too hot for an afternoon walk.  I’ll have to start riding the bike, or walking on the treadmill at the gym. For now I’m doing arm machines 3x a week.  I love the gym atmosphere. It’s brand new with high ceilings, soft music, plenty of space.  I love the contrast of little old ladies and muscular young men, high school girls and middle aged retirees.  When I see someone my age I think – possible new friend?

          Also on Tuesday I found out my writing teacher is going back east for two months.  This is devastating to me.  The class motivates me and the teacher – a writer and editor - gives editorial advice that I sorely need. I’m learning to use more active verbs and keep a folder in my computer of “cuts” – which I simply call “notes.”  Dorothy Wickenden, executive editor of the New Yorker does the same thing with the book she’s writing based on her grandmother’s prose:  “If it’s any good, you’ll find another use for it someday.”

          So, since class will be suspended until September, I decided this is a good time to visit my mother.  I’ve want to help her either find the most excellent, intelligent, sensitive, obedient, non-intrusive, good-humored caregivers, or find her a quite haven where she can enjoy her life, free of worries.

          A tall order I know. But I have the help of my sister and nieces and a score of kind professionals just waiting to be of service.

          Today was my annual check up.  My cholesterol is the same – on the high side, but my LDL is superb, meaning I’m fine. Next: mammogram, then later this summer colonoscopy.  I’m really curious about the “twilight” drug they give and am focusing on that, not the other grim details.

          Well, it looks like there’s a bit of shade now. I’m wearing my new 81-cent knee-length pajama bottoms I got at the Salvation Army Thirft Shop and a $3.88 aqua tank top: my new favorite outfit. No one’ll see me. They’re all inside with the air conditioning on.

Father's Day

I met a wonderful woman this week, someone I hope to work with in the future: Lorraine LeMon, who operates the non-profit Art2Heart, here in Kerrville.  She’s an absolute bundle of energy. When I arrived she was coaching pre-teen girls (and one boy) in one of the dances they’ll perform next week at Schreiner University.  I could barely keep myself in my seat, as I watched her and the kids do their routine.  One of the songs was “Greased Lightning” from Grease, and they were doing the hand jive. I could at least do that sitting down!

          When they broke for lunch Lorraine took me into her office. Kids came in and out. One of the girls forgot her lunch so Lorraine gave her hers.  I’ve been so sad the last few weeks, knowing all those kids at Vision Academy of the Arts are getting together again, doing their art, writing (with Anne?), learning to play instruments, making a huge banner for the lunch room and then, at the end of the week, performing their musical show with Jackie Byers banging away on the piano and, when necessary, throwing out a cue when someone forgets a line.

          I used to walk to my car at the end of the day feeling fulfilled and proud of those children.  Some of them I taught all the way from second grade through eighth, and then worked with them as “helpers”.  It was a long week, tiring, but more fun that I can express.  On the last day with my writing groups we held “auditions” for whomever wanted to read their poem at the show, and everyone got one vote. This way I didn’t have to pick who would perform.  I wonder if Peter spent the entire week working on one story and if Christian is still funny. . . <sigh>

          So, back to Lorraine. I’ll meet with her when Dance Camp ends and see if I can be worked into the programs at her studio. So far it’s mostly art, dance, music, but she’s very open to poetry and writing.

          My big frustration is that Kroc Center did not advertise my classes, so taking the advice of someone at church – “it’s better to ask forgiveness than ask permission” – I wrote a press release and sent it into the paper. I got one call. However, this is from a teacher at a private school, so even though the summer classes may not pan out, I may have an “in” with her and her students.

          Plus, if I don’t teach, I’ll be freed up to travel. And thanks to my generous mother who sent my belated birthday gift, I can afford to go to California. The problem: so many friends to see! Right now I’m looking in to flying from San Antonio to San Francisco, seeing friends there, then driving down the coast, stopping in Cambria, Camarillo, and Ventura, before spending a few days in Santa Monica with my mom, niece and friends; then fly home from LAX.

          I had a pretty good week working on my manuscript. An episode from my childhood sparked curiosity about the psychologist my parents sent me to when I was ten.  Turns out she passed away in 1986. I wish I had thought to find her when she was alive and thank her.  I knew the reason I didn’t want to go to school was that it was boring. But, after a few visits to her she confirmed this with my parents, who then enrolled me in After School French class. As I say in my book, “What could be more fun than pretending to be French, and just talking!”

          I’ve always loved to learn languages – French class in 5^th grade, Spanish all through high school, Chinese 1976-79 and even a Japanese language class I took with Karen in the 80s.  “Su-me-ma-sen!” is what you say to a store clerk and means “Can you please help me?”  That’s about all I remember from that 6-week course!

          We had Japanese food last night with my favorite Nigori Sake, which is the unfiltered, milky kind, served cold. Mmmmmm. So delicious, or “oi-she” in Japanese.

          Now I’m off to Church and potluck afterwards.  I’ll pick up something on the way in. It’s too hot to cook.  This morning was a humid 78 but it’s expected to dry out and get up to 102.  The worst heat wave since 1934. And the drought continues. Met a woman, last night, when I took Walter out, who was banging shoes together, trying to scare away the deer from her garden. I didn’t tell her we’ve been giving them our fruit and vegetable scraps. I know! We should not feed the wild life, but they and the birds are so hungry and thirsty, it breaks my heart.

          Thinking of my father on Father’s Day, appreciating all he taught me, the fun we had and his love of animals. 

PARTY & POLITICS

          Our first party invitation came from the wife of the Friends of the Library  president, who was throwing him a surprise 65^th birthday party. Their house is beautiful, right on the golf coarse, with lots of Asian art.  She had worked like a maniac, while her husband was out of town, to cook and hide food for the party.  A friend kept him at her house after their round of golf, plying him with more beers every time he attempted to go home.

          John and I spent the our first half-hour at the party chatting and eating passed hors d’ouevres.   Turns out the treasurer of FOL grew up in Iowa, so she and John had a lot in common.  At one point I was chatting with John, my husband, John T., Johnny someone-else and John S. husband of the Iowan. 

          Dinner was sit-down buffet – name tags on four tables. The formal dining room held ten, two round glass kitchen tables each held four, and a two folding tables held ten or twelve.  I got to sit with the “darling young boy” – as I kept referring to him, the couple's 35-year old son who lives in Bodega Bay, California.  I loved discussing our mutual love of the ocean. For me the perfect spot to live is Santa Rosa, inland for sunshine, but close to the coast when you need it.

          The party was lovely but loud.  John seemed preoccupied the whole evening, although he said he enjoyed it – reminding him so much of his old Houston crowd.  We were the youngest at the party, except for their son and a granddaughter of one of the guests. 

          “This is the elephant’s graveyard,” John said on the way home. “This is where retired people come to spend the end of their life.”

          I don’t imagine myself dying in Texas.  But I never imagined living in Texas!   I once had an image of myself with braids, in a rural setting, and I fulfilled that the first few yeas I lived in the mountains. I see myself in my later years – say 75-90 – walking down the sidewalk in small town street, shaded with trees.  I wonder where it is?

          Today was a day for reading:  I finished The Autobiography of Ben Franklin, started the Ben Franklin biography by Walter Isaacson, read the morning paper, and several articles in the WSJ.  One, about Egypt was horribly alarming.  The Arab Spring is giving rise to extremists who do not believe Muslims should be ruled by Christians as has been the case in the one Egyptian state that is heavily Coptic Christian. The previous governor was relieved of his position – as all were – when Mubarak was overthrown, and replaced by another newly appointed Christian.  Militants staged a sit-in on the railroad and roads, cutting off the entire region. They do not believe Muslims should be ruled by a Christian. The federal government agreed to put a hold on the appointment for, I think ninety days. When the hold expires . . .?  I’m afraid Americans, in our naiveté think that democracy always promotes freedom. Extremist elements which were marginalized before are now active in the political process. Even those who do not believe in democracy are running for offices so they can change their constitutions and create a Sharia state.

          My heart aches for the women of those countries who are not granted the most basic human rights we cherish.  But with the West crumbling under debt and moral decay (and my Leftist friends might add global warming and corporate greed) I do not feel optimistic that we will return to the halcyon days of our youth. I guess I’m the pessimist, while John is every hopeful that by electing Republicans, things will improve.