My blog for 7/22/2012 Fright Night Chapter Two

This is the traditional cousin camp night where everybody gathers at the end of one day to walk about a half-mile in the dark with flashlights over the neighboring hillside to the old cemetery for Descanso.  It seems that the older boys don't like to do this because they've 'already been there.'  Right.

About thirty of us started off about eight o'clock in at night, on an old roadbed over a gravelly hillside of meadows and olive trees, eucalyptus trees and sagebrush.  First we had to go through a barbed-wire fence, which was kind of daunting for us older people who kept getting stuck on the barbs, but the kids held the wires apart so we wouldn't have to live there forever.

We proceeded very slowly so nobody would trip in the darkness, until we got to the cemetery proper, which holds about 100 people.  Now Cousin Jill, prepared beforehand, said a person's name who was buried there, and everybody scurried about with their flashlights to find that particular person's headstone.  When the headstone was found, the finder received a one-dollar prize, then Jill told everybody about the person in the grave—like the dates they arrived in Descanso, why they came and where they came from, whatever other information she was able to find out about these pioneers.  Then she said another name and everybody scrambled around to find that headstone as well.  She did this about eight times which cost her eight dollars.  The last two people had been killed, one by the other, so the ghost stories started and anybody who wanted to tell a frightening story could do so on the way back in the dark and through the fences.

As we looked up into the creepy trees we found a body hanging, swinging back and forth on his rope.  It was a dummy that the big boys managed to hang in the tree to entertain us on our way back.  That's when a small hand slipped into mine.  Three-year-old cousin Joshua told me quietly..."I'm scared."  Then the "body" dropped out of the tree on to the ground and his head rolled off, so I could show Joshua the body wasn't real and had been put there just to scare us.   Then we found rocks with blood on them that Joshua was concerned about.  But cousin Suzanna tasted the "blood" and announced it was fake so the little kids wouldn't have to worry.

We got back to camp about nine thirty, just in time for the campfire cousin Christopher had started so the big kids could sit around it and the ghost stories could get serious.  The little kids all went to the big cousins and sat on them until they got carried off to their tents as they fell asleep.

My blog for 7/21/2012 Camp Experience Chapter One

My challenge is how to get Cousin Camp into a logical format.  Camp has been occurring for 25 years, so every (McCall) family kid under forty years old has been to this camp.  Kids are welcome, adults are welcome, babies are welcome.  They all know the evolved routine and locations.  The youngest kids learn the procedure from the older ones, who graciously show little ones how it's done.  In fact they often carry the little ones around and help them participate.  This year other than two babies under one year old, the youngest child was 3, the eldest "child" was 18.  Adults from 20 through 75 attended.  The mix was about 15 adults from what we refer to as 2nd, and 3rd generation, and 30 from the 4th & 5th generation.

First of all, there were 47 of us out there for five days.  The Teenage boys showed up the first day for Setup.  They put together seven full size tents for people to sleep in, first come, first serve.  Trees line the creek area and surround the yard perimeter, so tents were under those to stave off the really hot sun.  Average temperatures each day were 91 degrees.  Two trailers showed up.  Mine was one of them.

This unusual set up by Cousin Jill came about because of the bed and breakfast she ran for years.  The parking lot includes semi-hookups for campers/RVs.  We all had limited power (not enough for air conditioning) and water (private well).  I think there are five cabins, (and the main house) also two storage buildings and several huge storage rooms attached to the cabins.

The rustic grounds are set up primarily for Cousin Camp, though it only happens one week each year.  All family parties for those relatively local are held at Jill's.  As are Easter, July 4, Memorial Day.  So things such as trampoline, foosball, pool, are permanent fixtures under canopies—all outdoor because it never rains in Descanso, just inches from the Mohave Desert.  Meanwhile, due to the ex b&b, there are six kitchens and eight bathrooms which each house either storage or laundry, extra refrigerators, etc.  Some rooms have permanent residents now, however, so can't be used.  There are still multiple refrigerators out under the trees. You never know what you will find inside them, and you are welcome to use whatever they hold—ice, juice, soda, water.

The point of Cousin Camp is to get a family of 169 blood relatives to know their cousins, to understand their pioneering history and develop relationships with each other.

Continued tomorrow.

My blog for 7/13/2012 COUSIN CAMP

Tomorrow I am going to Cousin Camp, which is held out toward the desert at a cousin's house on a few acres in the wilderness area east of San Diego by about thirty miles.  This camp draws about fifty of my cousins, and as an adult, entails my participation in whatever job I'm given after I get there, which lasts for one week.  Second generation adults are given jobs, such as being in charge of "food,"
(try buying food for 50 people for a week), "Art" (this person holds continuous classes in art projects such as ceramics, painting, rock sculpture, claywork, etc. for the whole week), "Children" (this third generation adult and his wife take on the project of making sure children's problems are solved with their needs for bathing, teeth brushing, tent issues, bathroom facilities, etc.)  Food preparation is another heading, candy store, sporting games is another, maintenance is another.  Acting and face painting are involved, dancing is in there somewhere.  All in all, it's purely amazing.  I have never gone for a full week before.  The only reason I agreed to attend this year is because I'm taking my little camper trailer.

The main goal of the cousin who originally started this camp was to have children spend a week where there were no rules.  Except the treat each other respectfully, of course.  Kids can eat anything available, stay up all night if they want to.  Wander around in a creek and investigate frogs. Swim for seven days.  (An in-ground lap pool is open for use--complete with life-guard cousins).  Mostly it was to expose children to their cousins many of whom they see rarely--holidays and vacations.  There are no electronics including TV.

Having the trailer doesn't mean it will have electricity, i.e. air conditioning, microwave, coffee pot, etc.  It doesn't mean there will be a week's worth of water for showers or bathroom.  However, it DOES mean I get a BED.  And it does mean I can take Abby with me.  It means there's a chance the chatter of children all night won't affect my sleep.  It does mean I get one pot to heat water on the stove, and someplace to change clothes, clothes to change into as well.  When fifty people converge on one property, it's pretty much chaos, and these amenities are to be treasured.  I'm such a wimp.

No computer access for a week, so I hope nobody misses me.  I will have my Iphone if I have a place to charge it.  This is retro time for a week.  I wonder if I'll survive.

In case I don't come back, adios!

My blog for 7/11/2012 My Family Heros--Yayyy!

This guy with me (below) is my brother-in-law, Richard Scott.  Richard earned the Bronze Star with a "V" for Valor for throwing a handgrenade into a machine gun nest during his stint in VietNam. He was a sergent in the U. S. Army.

This guy (below) is my brother, Edward Wright who earned three commendations, one with Valor, during the Tet insurgency in VietNam in 1968.  Ed was a Lieutenant with the Engineers Division responsible for keeping the roads free of bombs.

And this guy (below with his wife, Noemia) is my cousin, Matthew Binney, who earned the Silver Star in Afghanistan two years ago.  Unfortunately, Matthew was blown up and has been in the hospital until just recently.  This picture was taken at Easter, 2012.

My blog for 7/9/2012 Enzi

This is Enzi, who is the new baby giraffe at the San Diego Zoo.  Enzi was born June 7, 2012 and is six feet tall.  He is so perfect he looks like somebody painted him.

This is Paul Donn, who reminds me of somebody I know.  He is absolutely gorgeous.  Below is Paul Donn sitting erect with perfect posture and muscles to die for.

My blog for 7/6/2012 The Big Bang

San Diego's fireworks are held actually inside the harbor, in the water for obvious reasons.  They're set up on floating barges and can be seen from both the shoreline and all the land rising from the sea right up to the mountain mesas where the towns like National City and Chula Vista, Old Town, etc are located, which are all covered with homes in order to see the harbor and bay view toward the southwest.  So all the fireworks this year, on the 4th of July were set up to go off in four series of explosions, each one after the previous set.  This display was scheduled to start at 9:00 Pacific Time and should have run over a period of 20-30 minutes with a grand finale at the end.

HOWEVER.  The computer literally running the show, somehow had a glitch.  My cousin, who was sitting on his rooftop for a better perspective, had just sat down with his bowl of popcorn to watch the show.  At TWO minutes BEFORE 9:00, he saw the whole horizon light up with one powerful BLAM, as all four barges sent a couple million dollars' worth of delightful explosives into the air over the San Diego Harbor.  It took a grand total of 20 seconds.

I didn't see this display, which was over before it began, but I suspect it look quite a bit like the sky over Pearl Harbor in 1941.

Oops.

My Blog for 7/4/2012 Two Little Stories For America

Good American Morning!

I had occasion to speak with a British lady yesterday, who is here visiting a friend.  We began by teasing each other about putting our flags out for July 4th, hers the Union Jack, mine of course the Stars and Stripes.  Since we don't actually live here in our rental, our permanent flag remains in Georgia.

Deep into our conversation about the differences between our countries, she explained about the command center in London.  This is a complex that reads all of the cameras in  England that are placed on every street, on every corner and has total coverage of the entire city.  It may well extend beyond the big city and into the entire country--we didn't get into that possibility.

My point here is, the Brit police force, commonly called Bobbies, carry no weapons.  This is because of the law in the UK that makes it illegal for anybody to have a gun or rifle for any reason.  The theory is that the cops can take care of the population that has no firing weapons.  But of course, the bad guys are infiltrating the system and do have weapons.

And, therefore, cameras take the place of weapons for enforcement.  In theory this sounds like a good idea to me.  No weapons, no shooting, no deaths, even of those who need to be erased because they prey on society.

I see two major things wrong with this idea.  One is that of course the bad guys DO have weapons anyway, and the second one is--Freedom has been removed from that country.  Big Brother is in charge of everything every individual does inside that country.

This, of course, removes the hypothesis that a free country instills enthusiasm for patriotism--that people will die to defend their freedom.

Thank God I am an American.

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Now, my second story has to do with my French great grandfather.  Aimee Faure, who was born around 1836 in the Basque Country of France (best we can tell), was a twin from a family of a little wealth.  They we sheep herders who spent their time pasturing hundreds of sheep for which Aimee and his brother were responsible to make sure the sheep were safe.  An interesting part comes in here.  Because of the system of primogenture, the eldest son was the only child who inherited land at that time.  If you weren't born the eldest son, then you were simply out of luck in the way of inheriting anything from your family's wealth.

Aimee Faure was the second son, by only a few minutes while his twin was being born.  Aimee knew from the time he was a little child that he would have to make his own way in life.

So one day when Aimee was about 18 years old and was out herding the family sheep, he got the wild hair (which may still be in the DNA?) and herded his family's entire group of sheep into the town (a considerable distance away) where he sold every one of them.  With the money he got for the sheep he then bought a passage on a ship going to America and left France forever.

This story tells me it is worth even the treasure of having a family to have freedom.  Aimee's future was unavailable if he'd stayed in France.  Exactly what would he have become if he had not come to America?  He didn't have the freedom to become anything at all.  He was not cast in a system that would keep him poor for life.   As it was, he at least was able to marry and take care of a family after he got here.  And he was not beholden to anybody.

God Bless America.

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.

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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.