My blog for 6/24/2012 Kokopelli

This is the wall across the front courtyard of Muriel's house, which was made by her husband, Clay Walker, who is a well-known artist and sculptor.  Since his ancestry was American Native Indian, he made this wall as a triibute to his heritage.  Clay is now deceased but his paintings are in a gallery in San Diego.

Muriel asked me to paint an electrical box that sticks out in the yard across from this sculpture. This box is 20" x 30" and is on a stand six feet high, making a really ugly yard ornament. It's painted green but isn't disguised at all. So in keeping with the Indian theme, I've decided to use Kokopelli on that box.  I'm sure many people have seen this character, but here is Kokopelli:

He is actually from the Hopi Indian tribe and has been found on earliest petroglyphs on cave rocks.
He is the legendary piper who calls spring in from winter and causes all kind of havoc with his pranks.  He is responsible for spring's rebirth in all is ramifications.

So this box I plan to paint will have a colorful background and Kokopelli will have to be white to blend in with the power meter face and be Koko's head.  Obviously I won't need features on this face. I hope for it to be a faux art mural of sorts.  And if it looks terrible, I can always paint it back to green.

My blog for 6/17/2012 Medal of Honor Winners

While at Riverside National Cemetery in our home town of Riverside, California today to put flowers on my father's grave for Father's Day, we saw signs for the Medal of Honor Memorial and followed them.  Every recipient from every war fought since the civil war is engraved on the wall of that memorial.  Again, it was awesome.

Blog 2 for 6/12/2012 Excerpt from "Chattahoochee Dead"

            Maria stepped into her kitchen from the carport door.  A fragrance she didn’t recognize floated around the room.  It was nice but a little strong.  Hmmm.  Who did that remind her of?  “Emily!”

            “Don’t take your love to town,” almost a whisper, came softly from around the corner to the bedroom.

            Now what?  Not sure she wanted to know, she followed the direction of the voice into her bedroom.  She practically ran into a huge birdcage with a large gray bird staring its bright beady eyes at her.  It said, “Oh my love, you are beautiful. Awk,” in a soft little voice.  She stepped back in surprise and heard something clatter in the bathroom.  A makeup tube came rolling through the doorway.  She stooped to pick it up. 

            Emily sat at Maria’s counter looking in Maria’s makeup mirror, using Maria’s makeup.  “Ooo, cherie, we must find you better cosmetics.”

            “There’s nothing wrong with my cosmetics,” Maria said, then blinked her eyes at her cousin’s outfit.  Emily was dressed in shimmering lavender.  She looked like a glitzy snake.  From neck to shoes she was covered in super thin spandex, her spectacular body, twenty three-inch-waist, thirty-eight-inch-chest, and thirty-four-inch-hips seemingly sheathed in a slick purple balloon.  “You look like an ice cream soda.  Why is a bird in my bedroom?”

            “He’s not just a bird, sweetpea, he’s an African Grey Parrot—tres valuable.  Emily dusted her cheeks with a fat makeup brush.  “He needs to be in a bedroom so he doesn’t get upset.”  She smiled at her reflection, stood up from the little dressing table stool and tossed her black waterfall of hair over her shoulder.

            Fascinated, Maria asked dumbly, “Why would he get upset being in a living room?  Where did you get him anyway?"

            “He’s very sensitive, ma cherie.  I’m off to work now.”  She tucked away the makeup tubes and vials, turned off the bathroom light, and sidled past Maria toward the birdcage.  The bird cocked its soft gray head and said quietly, “don’t touch me,” and blinked its eyes. 

            Emily's giggle hadn't changed since she was four years old.  “Don’t worry about me, I’ll be back late, but I can find my way in." Emily grabbed Maria’s shoulders and kissed her cheek.  “Au revoir.”  She picked up a waiting bag and went out the carport door. 

            Maria sat stunned on the corner of the bed and watched the bird.   "What a peach!" Epifanio blurted.  He made her smile in spite of how she felt. Betty Albee was not even thirty five yet.  Maria wondered again if that hole out in the woods could be involved in Betty’s death.  In a cemetery that could hold any type of dead things, truth be told.  Probably only a coincidence, but what a great place to hide a body.  Maria’s father said there was no such thing as a coincidence.

            Maria was greeted with a conversational, “You’ve been keeping this from me,” when she walked into her bedroom.  She turned to see the parrot hunched on his perch.

            “Lights out, darling,” he said.

My blog for 6/12/2012 Sharon's Peach Cobbler Recipe

1 Cup self-rising flour
1 Cup sugar
1 Cup milk
3 Cups fruit (peaches canned in syrup) mixed with 1/2 C sugar
1 stick butter

Wisk together the first three ingredients

Melt butter in the bottom of an oblong baking dish

Pour the fruit into the dish

Pour the wisk'd ingredients over the fruit

Bake at 350 degrees for one hour

Sprinkle sugar over top when you remove cobbler from oven

My blog for 6/8/2012 ENCHALADA'S DONE RIGHT RECIPE

ONE ROTISSERIE CHICKEN, SHREDDED

EIGHT FLOUR TORTILLAS- medium size
ONE CAN OF BLACK OLIVES, CHOPPED
ONE CLOVE GARLIC
OLIVE OIL
ONE STALK OF GREEN ONIONS, CHOPPED
ONE POUND OF CHEDDAR CHEESE, SHREDDED
ONE POUND OF JACK CHEESE, SHREDDED
1-1½ CANS CHICKEN STOCK REGULAR SIZE
1 REGULAR CAN CAMBELL'S MUSHROOM OR CELERY SOUP CONDENSED
CHOPPED SAUTEED MUSHROOMS (OPTIONAL)
CHOPPED ROASTED RED PEPPERS, ROASTED CHILIS OR FRESH JALAPENO        PEPPERS  (WHICHEVER YOU PREFER AND HOW MUCH YOU LIKE)

Place chicken stock, condensed soup and garlic in blender and process.

Put a little olive oil in an oblong baking dish.

Brush a tortilla with olive oil on both sides, then put some chicken, each cheese, olives, green onions, mushrooms, peppers/chilis on it.  Pour some of the liquid in each enchalada.

Roll the tortilla up then slide to end.  Repeat with the rest of the tortillas.  Remember there are only about eight, so be generous with filling.  Save some cheese and some sauce to pour over top of cassarole dish.

Lay some aluminum foil over the dish without sealing so the top doesn't brown too fast.

Bake at 45-55 minutes at 350 degrees.  Remove aluminum foil about twenty minutes early so the top can bubble.

This is a hard recipe to ruin.  You can add or delete any of the above, use a large dish, use more tortillas, etc.,  and they'll still come out fine if there is enough liquid so they don't dry out.

My Blog 6/4/2012 Chiliquili Recipe

COUSIN RECIPE FOR CHILIQUILES

2 POUNDS OF CHEESE (JACK AND CHEDDAR)

1 MEDIUM CAN AND 1 SMALL CAN OF GREEN CHILIS

3 EGGS

1 SMALL CAN CONDENSED MILK

GRATE HALF THE CHEESE INTO AN OBLONG PAN

SPLIT CHILIS AND RINSE OUT SEEDS IN COLD WATER

DRAIN

PUT CHILIS ON TOP OF CHEESE

GRATE REMAINING CHEESE  ON TOP OF CHILIS

WHIP EGGS AND CONDENSED MILK 'TILL FROTHY

ADD A LITTLE SALT AND PEPPER

POUR MIXTURE OVER CHILIS AND CHEESE

BAKE AT 350 FOR 45-55 MINUTES

My Blog Memorial Day 5/18/2012 A Humbling Sight

 

Today, Memorial Day, 2012, we knew that the Boy Scouts of America, the Cub Scouts of America, and the Eagle Scouts would place individual flags on the graves of all the gravesites at Ft. Rosecrans, so we decided to visit.

The photo shows what it looks like to have over 100,000 gravesites marked with an American Flag.  The flags will come down on Tuesday, so it's just a once-per-year opportunity to see them.  Very a very humbling sight.

My blog for today, 5/23/2012 Back Home Safe

Darrel got a treat today when he looked up to see the USS Carl Vinson pulling into San Diego Harbor with all the sailors dressed in their white uniforms standing along the perimeter railing.  Since part of his job is to photograph progress on the cemetery irrigation system, he always has his camera with him.  The usual morning fog made it difficult to get a very clear picture, but you can just see the San Diego skyline in the background.  A pretty spectacular view.  It makes me proud to see something like this in person--I wish I'd been standing there with him. 

This second picture is closer up but is still difficult to see the sailors lining the deck of this massive ship.

From theSan Diego Union Tribune Newspaper today:

"After back to back deployments and two years of missed Christmases, Valentines and Mother's Days, the sailors of the aircraft carrier, Carl Vinson, returned to San Diego Wednesday morning for a good long rest.

The carrier pulled up to its North Island Navel Air Station pier just before 11 a.m., ending a six month tour that included launching jets for patrols over Afghanistan and working in the Persian Gulf during tense relations with Iran."

My blog for 5/23/2012 The Presidio of California

Next we drove on further south about fifteen miles to Old Town San Diego so we could see again the Presidio of San Diego. "Presidio" means "Garrison Place," and originally was the first location a mission was placed on the west coast, in 1749 by Spanish Missionaries led by Father Junipero Serra. It was built as a fort at that time, to protect the citizens when San Diego was later established. The name "San Diego" in literal translation means "Saint James." Serra was responsible for twenty-one missions being established along the California coastline from Mexico to Oregon.

Today's Presidio Park stands nobly above Old Town San Diego, high on a hill where it can be seen from the ocean and the harbor. However, today's representative was built long after the original settlement was in ruins, by a philanthropic man by the name of Marston, who, over time, purchased the properties surrounding the site. He established trees and shrubs, grasses and ponds before turning it over to the city of San Diego in 1929. The building he built to commemorate the hallowed location now houses a museum dedicated to the preservation of history.

Where California got its name.
Note: In the 1500's a Spaniard named de Montalvo wrote exciting adventure stories about an island inhabited by Amazon warrior maidens. His fictional island was named "California" because its queen was named "Califia."  When the Spanish explorers arrived in the 1600's, they used the fictional name from de Montalvo's story as a reference point, thinking Baja was an island.  They wrote "California" on their maps after the name supplied by Montalvo.  In actuality, the location was Baja California, a peninsula that runs south into Mexico below the mainland we now know as the state of California, USA.  

My Blog for 5/20/2012 The Jewel

Today we drove forty miles southwest to La Jolla (Spanish for "The Jewel," and pronounced "La Hoya") which is a very exclusive (read expensive) area on the coastline of San Diego.  Because the land jumps right up from the Pacific Ocean to about 800 feet in this area, when you get up on the hills, the views of the coastline on the west and of San Diego Harbor way southeast are spectacular.  It's a 360 degree view that usually only hawks and airplanes have.  Our goal was the top of Mt. Soledad (Spanish for "solitude")

This is a little hill of no special historical significance but contention.  In 1913 the people of LaJolla built a 22-ft. tall wooden cross on Mt. Soledad's crest.  Since that one fell down and the next one was burned by the KKK and the third one blew down, they finally erected a concrete and steel version and surrounded it with a sturdy iron fence.  Along the line it was owned by our government and made into a military monument with marble stone walls depicting military personnel over the years from WWI.  Today, individuals may purchase a marble stone with a military person's picture, statistics and service dates for the round sum of $1800.00.  This stone will be added to the walls as best it fits.  The individual doesn't even have to be deceased!   Meanwhile, the 2% of the population who are hate groups have consistently campaigned to have the cross removed which has cluttered up the legal system for about fifty years.  Maybe God has had something to say about that, since the cross still stands, go figure.  It's a lovely, peaceful memorial spot, now attached to a tiny park where a person can go to see the best of the coastline in Southern California, and admire the engraved faces of all those good looking people who have defended our country over the years. 

Those American faces we've been privileged to have represent our country have a permanent privileged view of an American wonder. 

Photos by Darrel Scott

My blog for 5/17/2012 The Leprechaun's Garden

The Garden of Eden, where we live, is home to every flower I've ever seen or heard about.

The leprechaun who owns the place is Muriel, wife of the famous teacher and artist, Clay Walker (unfortunately deceased).  Muriel herself is a retired real estate broker (go figure) who bought the eight acre mountaintop 35 years ago for their personal residence.  The Darrel and I live in what once was Clay's art studio, next to the main house.  Anyway, Muriel plants whatever she wants to plant, regardless of what's supposed to grow and what is not.  So annuals come back every year, bulbs grow next to cactus, golden poppies grow next to hibiscus and jonquils.  I've learned to not question the roses and jasmine sharing a hillside.

I've posted some of my husband's photographs below.

My blog for May 16, 2012 -- An Irishman in the American War with Mexico

I never think about cemeteries as patriotic places...even military cemeteries.  It's so tragic that so many people have died in wars.  But sometimes I come across a memorial of a life that goes far beyond that one dimensional stone and makes me think.  Even knowing what they were doing, they literally gave their lives to their country.

This first stone is Patrick Dooley's.  They didn't know when he was born, but he died in 1910.  He retired from the army, so spent most of his life in service. He came from Ireland and was probably just a kid during the Civil War.  In fact, my husband the history buff says the Irish were drafted in New York to fight in that war because they were starving to death.

The second stone is a memorial for Albert Hunter, (and his wife) who marched 2000 miles from Iowa to San Diego in 1846-47 with his Battalion to fight in the war with Mexico.  I noted they both died in 1847 and of course don't know how they died.  It probably had something to do with the war.  I can't get my mind around walking 2000 miles in 1846 when the roads were questionable.  I suspect they had some transportation, but it was still a daunting task.

The next stone is a memorial for sixteen men who were killed in one battle of the war with Mexico.  These people were all moved to Ft. Rosecrans Military Cemetery in 1848,

after the cemetery was established.  

When the cemetery doesn't have actual bodies because they were lost, as happens when ships are sunk, sections of the cemetery are laid out with headstones. Those stones are placed closer together than would have actually been possible with caskets, so they look sort of miniaturized and have a low fence around them. To see all the stones with the same date of deaths on them is emotional.  The wall behind the big monument is a columbarium--a wall of cremated burials--sort of like a mausoleum.  I call them "spirit mailboxes."  You can see San Diego Harbor off in the distance, with the city of San Diego on the other side of the harbor.

My blog for 5/12/2012 Mmmmm, Beep Beep.

Today I returned from Georgia after a seven day trip in time to have a little adventure.

Abby ran outside on one of her many walkabout trips to the great outdoors to find a quail squatting beside a pickleweed plant.  The quail looked at her and she looked back.  They didn't have much to say to each other, grew bored and parted.  In the Garden of Eden there is little fear if you aren't a rabbit.  Day predators are hawks, night ones are coyotes and owls.

While I was gone the Darrel entered the kingdom of the wildlife.  Two nights ago just at dark he heard a whole pack of coyotes screaming and fighting right outside the door.  They scream so loudly they sound like they're killing each other.   He was concerned about our landlady in the neighboring house, who tends to have no fear since she survived the London Blitz during World War II.  She might easily step into the middle of wild coyotes to save a rabbit from their jaws.  He opened the sliding glass door clapped his hands and yelled to run them off, though he couldn't see them in the dark.  It was too late for the rabbit victim.

Next morning, a two-foot tall roadrunner, came screaming through the patio where Darrel was standing waiting for the Abby to finish her walkabout.  It stopped, looked at him, went "beep beep," and took off in a cloud of dust.  He said he now understands why it can outrun Wile E Coyote.  He hadn't known roadrunners were so big or fast.  I suppose they'd have to be since their main prey is rattlesnakes.  They also like lizards, which is probably what it was after when Darrel found him.  This place is lizard heaven.

That day after work, Darrel came home, went in the house and remembered he'd left something in the car so stepped back outside to find a snake about to slither through the rock wall across the four foot porch.  The critter stopped to look at him.  It was solid black with bright yellow pinstripes.  It made a show of rattling a tail with no rattlers on it. Darrel thought it was too pretty to kill and it told him it wasn't poisonous.  When he looked it up on the internet he found it was a California King Snake.   Those guys kill rattlers, so we're glad to have him around.   

My Blog for 5/3/2012 -- The Lineup

I've neglected my blog for too long, due to all the partying going on in my life.

Friday a week ago, we met with my father's family which is pretty abbreviated.  Interestingly, my four cousins from my father's only sister's marriage, never had children.  They were an AirForce family that traveled all over the world.  At issue is they were stationed in Las Vegas, Nevada during the testing period of the Atom Bomb.  In naive innocence, all the base turned out to watch the explosive testing that went on for so many years before the Abomb was harnessed and capsulated as a weapon of mass destruction.  So, for years, these little cousins stood in their backyard on the base and watched mushroom clouds created by uranium every couple of weeks.  As adults they all have serious physically problems.  It was a conscious decision to not send damaged DNA through to little children.  Most people never have to face a decision of this magnitude.

In any case, I hadn't seen one of the cousins for forty years, and over that time, two of the cousins and my uncle have died under strange illness situations.

This past weekend, a mini-reunion occurred at my brother-in-law's house.  Four of my husband's brothers came to it, and several of the cousins my kids grew up with, and their spouses.  We only had twelve people, but it seemed like fifty since everybody is so gregarious.  The comedians got "on stage" and we all laughed so hard our faces hurt.  At one time their lineup looked like the defensive line for the Green Bay Packers.  Now is not much different.

My blog for 4/18/2012 Dumb Casino Day

So today I thought I'd go to the casino and lose $20.  Maybe make a couple thousand.

I had to wait for the people the landlady sent to look at our floors that seem to have a haze on them I can't get off.  They were due at 12:00.

About ten o'clock I go outside to sit in the sun that finally arrived after seven months of rain and cold.  My landlady, the leprechaun, wandered by (she lives in the big house), then sat down and let me know she was waiting for people to give her estimates on taking down the pine tree that got hit by lightning two days ago, along with a couple of other trees that were endangering her driveway by shoving their roots against its concrete.  She was going to be stuck at home all day and there wasn't much sense in both of us being stuck here, so I could leave and she would see to the floor people.

I took Abby with me to the casino to get her out of the way of the floor people.  By 11:30 the sun was getting warmer than it has been the whole year.  We were off on an adventure.  I went down the roads to the casinos, following signs.  I don't need no stinking GPS, I'd been there three times already.  It's about 26 miles to the one I wanted with the cool machines that pay on five lines and have triple play medallions.  That casino also has a non-smoking section.  It's on the Pauma Indian Reservation.

I missed the first turn, went over the mountain, realized my error, turned around.  My 26 mile trip turned into a 40 minute drive thus far, so I grudgingly consulted my GPS, which took me back over the mountain through what looked like northern Italy.  The most gorgeous land.  For a land lover like me, I was starting to not care if I got to the casino.

Mountainsides flowing with citrus trees and avocado groves glowed in the sunshine.

Okay, so twenty more minutes and I finally found the casino under the tent-covered structure of a tiny casino in the middle of groves.  I pulled into the parking lot that was devoid of any shade trees.  Got out of the truck, decided it was too hot to leave Abby.  Went back and opened all the windows about three inches and poured her some water.  A breeze came up that made the truck comfy, so I looked at my watch to time myself for a half hour before coming back out to check on her.  It was 79 degrees, and by now it was 1:30.

I found my machines and started dumping 45 cent hits into the brazen machines, found one that started paying off a little at a time.  When I reached $40 it was a half hour gone by but the machine was still paying off.  I made myself go back out to the truck, figuring I'd come right back after checking on Abby.

Well, the truck was borderline too hot.  While I sat there thinking I better just go home, the Darrel calls me.  He's on his way home from work sixty miles away.  He wants to come meet me at the casino and can be there in 30 minutes.  So I sit in the truck to wait for him with Abby, trying to decide how I can get back to my machine before it freezes up on me.  I check the valet, the door guys and ask if there is any shade around back.  The answer is no, sorry.

At about 2:00 around a hundred people begin pulling into the hot lot.  So I call Darrel back and tell him I don't think this is going to work because the truck is too hot for Abby to be out there.  With the windows all the way down the breeze is really nice and the truck is really comfortable, but with the windows mostly closed, no.

So the saint I married said, "I'm almost there.  Why don't I take Abby with me back home and you can stay to bleed your machine."  The man has driven about 75 miles, is almost there and selflessly tells me he doesn't need to go inside or make me leave. 

I make a quick dash back to the machine to see what's what and promptly lose all the money I brought and all the money I've "won."  So I go back out to the truck, having spent three hours in the truck, 40 minutes with the machines and the Darrel arrives.  I decide enough is enough and offer to take Abby back so he can stay and gamble a bit.  He likes the poker machines.  He doesn't want to stay without me though, so we throw in the towel.

The shine is off the pumpkin so to speak.  Some days just don't work out the way you have in mind. I'm only down $20.  And a bunch of wasted day.  And a bunch of truck gas (diesel).

My blog for April 13, 2012 The Hunger Games

Since it seems to never stop raining in Escondido this year, we went to the movie to see the latest and greatest according to word of mouth and publicity in newspapers and magazines.

In my opinion this was a horrible movie.  Mostly it was about the premise—that of 24 children being forced under the guise of "patriotism" to kill each other till only one remains alive.  This is supposed to be a reality type show to the death, whereby the whole thing can be watched on TV, including by the parents of the children being killed.  This is an annual event perpetrated as "payment" for the debt of insurgency against the government several years before.  I liken it to worse than a volcano sacrifice to keep the thing from going off and blowing everybody up. 

Then I can't help but get carried away regarding our society being reduced to the basest thoughts held to idealism.  The idea of our young people finding this amoral hogwash to be a valued movie curdles my blood.

A supposed "romance" is laughably cellophane, no matter how one looks at it, and the ending of the show is the very best part.  Will the heroine continue the ruse of "loving" the male lead, or will she dump him at her first convenience since she's now "won" the war and doesn't need him any longer.

Now let me see, we've got lying, killing and stealing for our model movie.  How about cheating?  Ah, yes, the manipulators of the "show" have it in their power to create monsters, aid any of the 24 participants on a whim and kill off anybody who rubs them the wrong way.

I remember very well teaching my children to not lie, to not cheat, to not steal.  In one two hour movie I've been undermined by a much more exciting and glamorous production than the life I tried to give them over twenty years.  Society has been suffering for many years because of writers and producers of products like The Hunger Games.  As movies are manipulated in their roles, they get worse and worse and in fact train our children on brilliant massive screens that values mean nothing.

I've never felt like burning a theater down before.

My blog for 3/30/2012 Elvis Presley.

Thinking about my friend, MJ as I wandered through Barnes & Noble a couple day ago, I saw a book entitled "Baby, Let's Play House, Elvis Presley and The Women Who Loved Him" by Alanna Nash. Since I never really paid a lot of attention to Elvis the Phenom, I picked it up and flipped through the thing.  It's a large book (609 pages) and I figured it would be a smarmy hero-worship tabloid type thing.  However, it looked kind of interesting, so with it being on sale I figured I'd buy it for MJ and verify it was good before I gave it to her.

It's really a super biography of the guy.  The behind the scenes history of his family and what caused him to become one of the strangest, most beloved, charismatic and tragic characters of our age.  It's fascinating and full of info I had never heard, even after his death so long ago.  A couple of outstanding points it made is, Elvis toddled up to the choir at his church when he was two years old and started acting like he belonged at the Pentacostal podium.  Everybody thought it was cute he was acting like he belonged there, so every Sunday he'd do the same thing FOR YEARS.

Also, he was one of those dorky kids in school who everybody got tired of listening to, because he teased girls to death, sang at every school function, and dressed strangely.  He took his guitar with him to school, sang and played out under the trees before he could play and sing.  He wore out "Old Shep" which he'd honed to a fine point to have something to fall back on at the drop of a hat.  He sang it for five years before he moved on to something else.  When his family moved to Memphis, he was so intimidated by the music he heard coming from the honky tonks and porches of the sad part of town that he turned off the lights and practiced in a whisper inside his own house.

His mental age was 14 and he never outgrew it, which is one of the reasons all the girls he loved were 14.  It's also one of the reasons he was so loveable.  I'd thought he was a bit of a pedophile until now. One more thing: All of the girls he "loved" looked just like his mother would have looked at 14.

If you're like me and curious about the way famous people have fought their way to the top, it's a really good read.

•  

My blog for 3/29/2012 Easter Bunnies

Paradise comes complete with bunnies everywhere.  Probably has something to do with the plethora of coyotes we hear at night--I never know what they're squabbling about, but they fight all the time.
Anyway, as you can see by this first picture, the bunny trail runs through some orange trees where bunnies can be found in groups of five or six every morning and most evenings.  Last evening the little family showed up and scampered their white tails all over the trail rooting for tender grass and flower petals.  Then they played chase for awhile and got into a game of "jump."  I hadn't seen this before.  One would run up to another and jump about six inches into the air like its legs were spring loaded, which of course they are.  Sometimes that one would jump three or four times before running around some more.  Then another one would do the same thing.  My mother told me once she'd seen night "dance" that rabbits performed in the moonlight.  My mother didn't tease very much, so I stashed that information in the back of my mind.  It makes me wonder if the bunny "jump" I witnessed has anything to do with the other.  One baby bunny lives under the rock outside the kitchen window (just to the left of the house behind the orange tree in this picture).  He comes out and hops through the flowers just like the pictures of Easter you see on greeting cards.  His hiding place is excellent because since we moved in with Abby, the coyotes avoid coming through the yard.  Abby is not ferocious, she just has planted her signature around the house three or four times a day.  I've found canines respect each others' territory.

 The second picture is a stairway which actually runs down to the grapefruit trees.  Bunnies don't seem to use it very much, probably because it has no shelter from the overhead predators, red tailed hawks, which patrol the area about ten hours each day.  There are also black hawks doing the same thing but not quite so often.  Anyway, the bunnies avoid the stairs.  Lizards seem to like it though.  A pair of them frequent this stairway--I know it's the same pair because it's a mixed marriage of a charcoal one and a rock colored one.  I've tried to follow them to see if they change color on different surfaces, but they're elusive little devils and disappear frequently so I haven't determined that yet.

My blog for 3/22/2012 Monkey Men

Walking Abby yesterday, we happened upon some monkey men--those dudes who climb trees carrying little bitty chainsaws so they can take tall trees down.  We watched with our mouths open because if you haven't seen this process you're missing some awe.  They strap on gravity-defying spikes attached like stirrups to their boots and legs, carry their chainsaws in one hand and start up a tree by stabbing the leg-spikes into its bark.  To the first limb they go, and chain saw it down so they can get to the next limb. It falls like a giant feather/umbrella, then on to the next, chainsaw whining.  A more refined approach employs pullies and ropes to lower the branches.

I first saw a monkey man about 35 years ago, when we moved to Georgia.  California had been about using cranes--expensive ones--at the time and I'd never seen this before.  So I'm driving down Hiway 369--at the time in the middle of nowhere in the spring time, and I see a guy start up a fifty-foot  utility pole like a squirrel.  There were none of the pole rungs I've noticed in the past.  There were no ropes or pullies or cranes in sight--just a guy in a hardhat, shorts, boots, toolbelt with a big "EMC" shirt, running up to heaven.  I almost ran off the road before I pulled over to see how he did that.

I'm here to tell you I've been half in love with EMC guys ever since.

It came to pass we had to have a dead tree removed from our property in Cumming.  The tree removal guy showed up with pullies clipped to his shorts, wearing boots and no shirt, chainsaw whining as he scampered up to the first limb.  I'd always thought it was uniforms on men that captured my attention.
I even found myself eyeballing drum majors from time to time, which are a little over the top in my opinion.  But this episode of guy at home in a tree where he could fall and  break something important, not to mention the possibility of accidentally sawing a couple of fingers off is absolutely fascinating.

It's one of those items, like cliff diving, like hang gliding, like cusp skiing, like rodeo riding that means more in person than on TV.

My blog for 3/21/2012 Canned Salmon

After three days of being canned salmon here in our little clam on top of the hill due to ice?! falling and then snow (in southern California?!) we gathered up our change and went to the Indian casinos.  We found five of them within a thirty mile range, down in the valley of the Laguna mountains.  Harrah's even had a casino out there, which we skirted.  If I'm going to lose money, I'd like a little ambiance while I'm doing it.  Anyway, we found Triple Diamond machines with cherries--cherries are a gambling must--a whole bank of them on the Pala Reservation Casino.  Then we tippy-toed past the beautiful pastry bar, hoping none of the pastries would jump on us, and settled in to lose $40.  Since I went home with $50, I consider the day a roaring success.

Only two scenes to edit for Chattahoochee Dead and the thing is finished.  Then I've got to get some readers for feedback.  It's not a fun job for them because it can't be a straight read to analyze scenes and discuss some of them.  Maybe I'll take my $10 and go celebrate when it's done.

Meanwhile I'm going to try PickleBall tomorrow.  Don't know what that is, but came across a woman who is quickly becoming a friend, who plays this game every Thursday, and who invited me to try it.
I'm as athletic as not wanting to watch football, so I hope I don't embarrass her.  PickleBall seems to be a cross between tennis and ping pong?  At least it's held in a senior center, so maybe I won't fall down.  In the past I've tried many sports, actually played on a softball team when I was a kid, even if I was the last kid chosen when teams were drawn up.

The only thing I was ever any good at was modern dance, but after one graduates from school, that goes away or becomes a profession.  More recently I tried jogging, aerobics, pilates, yoga, tap dancing and even line dancing and now I'm down to basically walking my dog for a couple of miles a few times a week.

PickleBall may or may not be something I'm comfortable doing.  Exertion isn't the problem with me--it's about coordination and strength, neither of which I seem to have any more.  I can only handle so much of feeling like a fool.  So pray for me.

My blog for March 14, 2012 ------ Pots Of Gold

On this St. Patrick's Day, I've been thinking about pots of gold.  About what people live with every day and how all of them are heros.  Every day, every battle for normalcy takes place in everybody's lives.  Of course, "normalcy" really is what we aspire to instead of what we should expect.  But if we don't aspire to our version of normalcy, we drown and give up.

I have a friend who lost her husband, only to inherit taking care of her mother who is incapable of being left alone.  I have a friend whose son has spinal bifida.  His life has been a series of setbacks punctuated by hope for 40 some years.  I have a friend who worked her entire life to retire with her husband.  The day her husband retired he was diagnosed with terminal cancer.  None of their "retirement" plans was realized.  I have a friend who had four children, two of whom died of health issues along with their father before the woman was sixty.  I have a friend who lived with an extremely painful disease for twelve years before being killed in a carwreck alone on an icy road in the middle of nowhere.
Her copious family continues to be devastated.  I have a friend whose husband fights for "normalcy" every day in a frustrating war for balance.  I have a friend whose husband abandoned her when she had his child born with extreme birth defects and for twenty eight years has be unable to function.  That friend recently inherited her mother to care for as well.  She has a job to support the three of them.  In fact every one of these people have supported themselves--none of them have expected the government to do it for them.  I have many other friends who are in similar situations. 

My sympathy is not finite.  I'm not sure about empathy.  As I dwell on my friends' battles and realize the depth of the shoes they wear, I'm touched. I love them.  There is so little I can do for their hearts.  I understand sympathy is part of being glad these things have not happened to me.  That, I'm grateful to say, has not entered my mind. But helplessness is not hopelessness. 

Acceptance of what is may be in looking two minutes ahead, like a child, like an animal really.  In understanding that flower bloomed for me today, with no thought of tomorrow.  Maybe that's what God meant when he said to come to him as a child, without expectation.

Maybe what he meant was to not have expectations of other people, of life in general.  Surely it didn't include having no expectations of oneself.  If I had no expectations of myself then I would not think of other people would I?  I would have no motivation for myself or to do what I can for my people. 

My favorite word as always been "potential."  This means to find the best possible way to develop what we come across in life.  And is the single shining star about children.  A child's gift is a slate of opportunity to be filled in his/her unique way.

Potential is a goal of sorts.  But it's so solitary!  Unfortunately I don't fit well into my friends' shoes with them.  I can't truly be with them when they need more fuel.  Such inadequacy!  I feel like a band aid that will fall off in the shower in a couple of days.  And what I really want is to fix things for them.

The pot of gold is deceiving.  Money? Love? Heaven? Peace? Acceptance? Potential?  All conjecture.  Whatever it is for a person, the road to that pot of gold is a lonely one.

AURARIA DEAD: My blog for March 9, 2012 Adventure in Flying

AURARIA DEAD: My blog for March 9, 2012 Adventure in Flying: I have no idea how many people were on the plane from Atlanta to San Diego yesterday.  It took seven hours to get here through Phoenix, wher...

My blog for March 9, 2012 Adventure in Flying

I have no idea how many people were on the plane from Atlanta to San Diego yesterday.  It took seven hours to get here through Phoenix, where I had a layover of 1.5 hours.  I remember that we flew for 7 hours to get to London several years ago.  The actual domestic direct flight is 4 hours, but most air carriers don't do direct flights for some reason.  Usually I can sit still for four hours without too much squirming, even being afflicted with ADD.  Seven hours push my limit.  It has to do with my rear end being somewhat larger than it used to be, I think.  On this particular flight, with my back against the seat and my knees actually touching the seat in front of me, I wondered if I had grown overnight--if I, like Alice, somehow managed to drink a magic potion making my femurs six inches longer than they used to be.  I must remember to measure myself before my next flight.  I also seem to be wider through my shoulders.  With a big guy sitting on my right as I lucked into an aisle seat, I tried to keep my elbow off the arm rest so he could have somewhere to let his arms fall from his shoulders.  But I nearly lost my left arm when a stewardess careened her cart up the aisle and locked her brake next to my seat where she stayed for a half hour.  The stewardess cart rose to my eyebrow level on my left, forming a wall of slick steel. I had nowhere to put my arm!  I considered holding it up over my head, but instead held my breath and slumped my shoulders forward with my elbows on my tray table.  She stayed a remarkably long time for not serving anybody food.   That's when the man in the seat in front of me decided to relax and lean his seat back.  The tray table jammed into my ribs and tilted upward due to my legs being under it.  In fact, I'm not really sure why tray tables exist any longer.  Anyway, the man in front of me stretched his arms up to the ceiling and hit me on the head when he brought his hands back down.  I remember having more room in my motorcycle helmet than I had when his seat was no longer in its upright position.   Then the man on the window seat of my row decided he needed to use the restroom.  The stewardess was forced to move her cart backward but I had to tell her to move further up the aisle so I and the guy next to me could have standing room for the window seat guy to pass by us on his way the other direction to the two restrooms toward the back of the cabin allocated for the three hundred or so people trapped in there with us.

Sardines have no arms or legs, but are shaped like a green bean.  Their fins retract, though their tails I think are perhaps more stationary than my feet, which can be pointed like a toe dancer's.  I really don't think a sardine of comparable weight to myself would fit on an airplane.  It was not possible for me to lean over enough to get my pen out of my purse which was on the floor, because my feet were entirely too large to move them anywhere.  A sardine tin is not square like an airline seat space.  Maybe if people were not so round they could be inserted into planes like crackers in a stack.  But I have no idea where they'd put their feet.

My Blog for February 23, 2012 ----- The Almost Five Decade Marriage

Today is my wedding anniversary.
My life has been written in era chapters:  There were the dormant years, the discovery years, the awakening years, the reality strikes years, the pinnacle years, the ebb years.  All of these have been punctuated by moments of bliss, of chaos, of clear thinking and of confusion.  But the best thing I could have possibly done is sign on for Sidekick.  Now, did I know then what was in store for me?  Absolutely not--but I did have a pretty good idea it would be interesting, and  had little doubt it would be fun.  I didn't know, for instance, that I'd have to grow up, even if I was only the sidekick.

When I signed on as Sidekick, I'd had the grace to research the Chief.  He'd been analyzed to death, though neither of us knew it at the time.  He considered himself the diamond-in-the-rough, and thought of me as the polisher.  I now see why he thought that, because I'm all about quality control.   Why paint an ugly color when a pretty one is the same price?

But the Chief is in charge of the real stuff that actually takes you somewhere.  He/she has a sixth sense about honesty among the tribes, the horses to get you there, the duplicious paths you should not wander down.  He sets goals and has the ability to reach them.  He knows when a task is finished and when to modify it. 

The treat comes in when the Chief has a twinkle in his eye.  He says things in a way that lifts a spirit.  He sings when he's happy, silly lyrics he makes up or contorts from some clueless songwriter.  It's about an attitude of positive, forward thinking-never looking back-never regreting.  He's really kind of an entertainment center I can always count on to make a day more user friendly and fun.

So when I think about it being 49 years since I signed on, it doesn't seem probable my hard head would accept being relegated to Indian instead of Chief, I who knew everything at age 20.   It doesn't seem possible we're still here, still the same, still so different.  And I wonder what adventure will happen next.  But I do know it'll be interesting.

My blog for February 20, 2012 ----- Finding My Father

Since all men were drafted into the military up through the Viet Nam era, almost 100 percent of our male relatives and friends are eligible to be buried in a military cemetery.  My father who died in 1980 is one of these men.  In the past, I went to the cemetery where he is buried only three times because we could never find his grave.  At the time of his death, my mother was so distraught that she either did not know/it wasn't offered then/or she didn't care to have a real funeral.  So it was pretty grim when I went with her for his interment.  No ceremony, no flowers, no casket, no grass, no headstone.  We were shown a one acre field of bulldozed
dirt where he was supposed to have been buried minutes before we arrived.  A church funeral was attended by loved ones, but when my mother and I went to the cemetery it felt more like a pauper's buriel than a military one.  I was so upset I only went back about six months later, to find there was still no headstone, no grass and nobody could be sure exactly where he was.  At first I spent time angry with my mother for allowing such a thing to happen, then just tucked it into the back of my mind as one of those circumstances over which I had no control so let it go best I could.  About two years later I went back to see if I could find his grave and see the actual headstone.  Again, the VA system was so complicated, and it was a weekend, and there was no help to find it.  So I thought it may never happen.  Finally, 22 years later and with my husband better understand the workings of a VA cemetery, we went back. 

VA has taken a lot of hits lately for the mismanagement of their cemeteries and funerals and they're finally getting a system that at least is possible to work with.  They now have kiosks, which are electronic--rather like an ATM machine. You put in the loved one's name and the number and area location are given, along with a cemetery map which is printed with the information right then.  You take the map with you and you can eventually find the exact place.  Apparently all of the military cemeteries work this way now.  We went to San Diego's Ft. Rosecrans and found some uncles, then drove 100 miles north to Riverside National and found my dad and some friends' plots.

We put flowers on all of the graves, after a lesson in how to do this from some friends a week ago who showed me how at a public cemetery we went to with them.  At issue is the flower stems are too long for the cemetery cups, so one can't just "put" a bunch of flowers there without them looking sad and forlorn, tipping to the side like they were blown over.  One must cut all the stems off by about six inches, (which means bringing a cutting tool with you) then individually arrange them in the cups, which first one must find at the cemetery, as well as finding the water hosebib.  It's daunting to such as I.  Daunting enough it took me 22 years to figure it out.

My Blog for 2/17/2012 Donna Small

Yesteday was the first anniversary of my friend's death from a car accident on ice.  So we drove up to the cemetery a couple of towns away to take some flowers to her gravesite.  It turned into a joyful occasion when her daughter texted me to ask if we were in town.  The kids and grandkids had been painting their father's new house and were going to go to the cemetery after they stopped to pick up some food to bring with them, did we want onions on our hamburgers?

They also brought several bunches of flowersl.  We went to the cemetery office to pick up some of the temporary flower holders because we thought there would be too many for the permanent cup installed at Donna's gravesite.  However, when the kids got there (altogether eight of us), we began eating hamburgers while the girls set about preparing the flowers to fit in the cup.

It was a beautiful cold windy day, if that's not too much of an oxymoron.  Donna's gravesite is fabulous, with the lush green one expects from a cemetery but also with a spectacular flow of lesser mountains followed by bigger ones then monster ones behind those. 

The kids had brought chairs for us old people.  (And here I thought this was a spontaneous mutual support meeting). Darrel took the cup over to the nearest hosebib and filled it with water.  By the time Kate had cut the flowers the appropriate length and added them one by one instead of sticking what came from the corner flower store in that cup (like my husband and I had done), the arrangement looked professional.  The bouquet she made was augmented by some greenery from across the road that her sister, Kirstin wandered over to pick.  Their mother would have been proud of them for their ingenuity.

We sat there with her family on that lovely day eating hamburgers while we discussed flowers and Donna.  What could have been more perfect for my friend? 

My blog for February 10, 2012 ----- The Darrel

My husband, Jesse Darrel Scott, retired from the working world when he was 55.  He started working in cotton and potato fields when he was six years old, the fourth child of nine born to parents who came from Oklahoma during the great depression  His one burning desire was to never see another cotton field for the rest of his life.


His heroes were the confident Green Hornet type of superheros who fought for truth, justice and the American way in the idealistic world of his childhood.  Because of the draft, Darrel joined the army, became a military policeman then took advantage of the GI Bill that paid for college following his service.  A great turnaround with that opportunity for an education occurred in him, and he at first graduated with a Police Science major, which was later modified to include Business.

After being a city policeman/sergeant/detective for many years, he recognized that what he was doing was for only young men and he was getting older all the time.

So he reinvented himself, moved 2200 miles across our great country and became a businessman.  When he later retired, his natural gift went dormant for a long time.  What he had painted on him by God when he was born is leadership ability.  Men will follow him anywhere. 

This job, this temporary job is one he did for thirty years.  The products have not changed significantly.  The procedures for their installation (irrigation systems) have not changed significantly.  He was hired to implement this job, i.e. smooth out all the wrinkles so impatient and frustrated people could manage to work as a team to get the job done as efficiently as possible.

The really interesting thing I've been able to witness in coming to California with this man is the crash course learning that went on for the first few weeks.  The electronic world changed impossibly since he was in business.  The Veteran's Administration's tools have changed, though their techniques have not.  The amount of traffic has multiplied as well.  The California freeway system is entirely different than the one in Georgia.  He knew nothing about procedures for a cemetery, especially a hallowed ground one of military men whose lives have been lost in the service of our country.

Three weeks later, he's implemented electronic devices he didn't know existed.  VA procedures were expected but not explained.  Forget help with the freeway system--the HOA lanes, the HOV convertible lanes, exits, rush hour and local driver techniques.  Cemetery procedures are extremely sensitive and tearing holes in the ground is a very insensitive job done in this environment.  Significant under-researched facilities were on location.  No phones, no office, no cell reception, no restrooms.

Darrel started over.  None of the men knew him.  He's ancient compared to them.  Now 19 men and one woman either call him "dad" or "boss" and all of them designate him to get all the answers for them from the others.

Life is good.

My Blog for February 6, 2012 Another Abby Adventure

The Cavalier King Charles Spaniel travels around with its nose in the dirt, tail high, ears dragging a trail through the dust.  So many smells, so little time.

On our hike yesterday, Abby began staggering, then fell down, twitching pitifully.  My first thought was she'd been bitten by a rattle snake, which in a dog her size (14 pounds) I knew would be fatal.  Panicked, we grabbed her up, running to the house while looking for a bite location on her, which we never found.  Having had experience with poisoned dogs and allergic dogs, I immediately gave her a bowl of milk and the only antihistamine I had, a people size Benadryl.  Then I figured I'd poisoned her myself.  The spasms went away before she got into a full fledged seizure.  Of course it was Sunday—my vet was 2200 miles away, and the closest one had only given Abby a rabies shot a couple of weeks ago.  The local vet's answering service gave me the number of an urgent care vet—the real advantage of living in more civilization.

They told me my 25 mil. Benadryls for people wouldn't really harm Abby and if she'd avoided a seizure, she'd probably be okay.  But to watch for more symptoms and of course to expect her to sleep for 24 hours.

Darrel and I finally decided Abby must have been stung by a bee, a wasp, a centipede or a scorpion.  No swelling has arisen that we can find on her, but what can you see under five pounds of fur? 

I feel very lucky it wasn't a snake that got her, and I have pointed out to her that all those buzzing spring blossoming bushes are only there to do her harm.  And now she has to stay on a leash when we go outside.  Isn't that sad?  But it's better to be confined than dead I suppose.

My blog for February 4, 2012 Fruit Basket

Yesterday we stopped in at Juan's (picture a very tiny apple barn next to the highway) to look at a houseplant hanging by its wire.
We checked out the plant then stepped inside to see what else Juan might have.  What he had was Vista Strawberries, the most delicious strawberries on the planet, (three baskets for six dollars!  Yay!).  He also had longstem flowers which he brought over from the flower fields.  Escondido grows acres of nursery cut flowers for commercial businesses.  Avocado groves line all the roads over the hills, as avocados will grow on a cliff.  They remind me of a trip we took to Greece where we saw olive trees growing on impossibly steep hillsides.  As a matter of fact, the terrain here is very much like Greece and grows all the same oranges, grapefruit, tangerines and tangelos, lemons, limes, limitless citrus.  The Valencia oranges grown in Florida are a whole different animal than the California Navels.  Naturally, since I grew up in the middle of the groves further north from here, I prefer the Navels.

My old friend, Static Electricity shows up from time to time on the Santa Ana winds that blow from the desert to the sea.  Both the desert and the sea are on the other side of the mountain ranges.  We're smack in the middle of the valley between them.  So there is a teeter totter weather issue--the cold ocean air is sucked in by the hot dry desert during the night, then the hot air blows back out to sea in the daytime.  I'm not sure where the name "Santa Ana" comes into play.  I've always thought it was because the winds blow from the desert west into Orange County and a town named Santa Ana.  But there may be another reason for the name.  I will be looking that up on the magic internet today.  Anyway, those winds can rage across Southern California, mounting to 120 degrees and causing ferocious wildfires, the scourge and fear of all the people here.  Most of the time the winds are more tepid and welcome in winter.  But polyester is not your friend when they blow.  Very few people wear silk unless they have nothing under their clothing  they don't want people to see.

We had a party a week ago for Riverside friends we love.  We have three more parties planned as our house is little though our hearth is wide.  I can hardly wait for The Darrel's family to come down (they live further north from here) and my mother's family to come up (they live down by the Mexican border).  My father's family live nearby, so we'll probably see them in the interim.  Unfortunately, now that my husband is a working man again, we're relegated to only weekends, and this one is Superbowl Sunday.

Our new plant looks wonderful on its bookshelf.

* Addendum:  I was half right about the name "Santa Ana" for the So. Cal. winds.  The name is because of the direction of the winds, or some think it comes from a Spanish name meaning "devil winds."  Locals call them "Santana Winds," which fits the "Satan's Wind" description more accurately.

My blog for February 1, 2012 Night Owls

Last night, as I lay sandwiched between the man on the right reading with his night light and the dog on the floor, snoring impolitely, I decided to try out the loft. The loft is at the top of a red ladder, right outside of the bedroom door. In my nightgown and with my dot light in my hand, I climbed up about ten feet. With no standing room, I then got to crawl over to where the bed was supposed to be. Oh yeah, I had a dot light. When I figured out how to turn it on, I reached the little twin bed. Since I'd made it up in anticipation of some grandchild eventually coming to see her grandmother, I was able to snuggle down into its smallish comfort. As I began to doze off, Abby's dog alarm system went off in tune to a coyote just outside which sounded more like a dog than a baying scavanger. Combined with this cacophony, an owl chimed in with it's plantive "who who's". When the coyote ran off, the Abby barks lowered to rumbles and I could hear better, another owl "whootie whooed" way off across the canyon. Next there was a small chorus of whooties all around the house where there are a few trees, including the one off in the distance. Then apparently the owls did a change tree thing and the sounds came from different directions, still around the house. I don't know if this was a weird mating dance, a warning to wandering coyotes, or mating call thing or not, but it is Spring here, so I suspect it's why it took me four attempts to actually sleep. As I wandered to the front of the property yesterday a red tailed hawk screeched at me and flounced out of its nest overhead, flying in circles, explaining the error of my ways while its mate took up his/her own diatribe. I recognized this alarm system as a warning that I was too close to its nest. None of the trees get much higher than about thirty feet tall, so Mr. and Mrs. Hawk had made a nest on the top of a 40 ft. power pole, the better to see further I suppose. I tried to explain to them my innocence. But until I skedaddled away they continued their harangue. Mother Nature is alive and well in Escondido.