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.

January 30, 2012 Life On The Mountain

My cousins invited us to a picnic/birthday for their mother (deceased) at the family cemetery on Saturday, so we drove for 2 1/2 hours to El Centro (a bit of truly ugly desert) to the oasis green cemetery in the middle of all that ugly.   We all took food, chairs, table, flowers, and parked under the trees to sing happy birthday to my Aunt Jeanie.  We ate fried chicken from Nancy, Bar-b-que chicken from Suzie, and chicken wings from Jill.  Corinne brought a desert to die for.  We had pasta salad from Julianne with a carrot cake that was heavenly, deviled eggs, etc., etc., etc.  The sainted husbands hauled tables and chairs out and set them up for us.  Some of the kids came too.  The sisters ran tests for the kids of where to find headstones belonging to other relatives, for which they got paid pretty well.  Mostly the kids don't like to go there every year to talk about people they never met, but it's restorative for the oldsters, and will be valuable some day when those kids are our age.

We reminisced and laughed, henious though it probably was for a cemetery.  It put us in a place we rarely get to be, just there to have fun and talk about nothing serious--like being a kid.  A mini family reunion.

Meanwhile, on Sunday, we had a party on the mountain for friends in Riverside (the opposite direction).  Curious about what we, the crazy friends were doing, they all came, including the kids, who immediately climbed up the ladder to the loft and stayed there, peering down at us from time to time.  I made some pretty good chicken enchaladas and fabulous nachos, got some Vista strawberries which were spectacular.  The strawberries were such a hit that 15 people ate an entire flat of them.  Vista is four miles away from here.  I'm going back for more.

There always has to be a disaster (read "challenge") so ours for the day was the cool European oven cut out about fifteen minutes before dinner and before nachos were even put together.  As the guests were arriving, Melody was rushing hot casseroles up the hill to the landlady, Muriel's, oven to finish cooking.  I'm not as electronic as I'm supposed to be, according to the world report, and could only get a "error" reading on the oven.  Guess what I'm going to be doing this week?

Anna (12 years old) asked if she could walk around the property.  Since we could see her in any direction she might go, I told her to ask her mom and it was okay, but don't leave the eight acres and don't get stuck on a cactus.  She immediately found a rattler, of course, which her uncle dispatched to the happy hunting grounds.  We didn't want Abby to find it later.

35 years ago we practically lived with these people, in a canyon sixty miles north of Escondido, where we raised horses, chickens, dogs, cats, kids and dirt.  We lived there twelve years before all 22 adults of us got split up by life.  Some had job changes, some divorced, some went to Georgia.  This particular family went to Georgia with us.  But life goes on and that family came back here, expanded by eleven more kids and about fourteen more grandkids, whom we love as our own. We stayed in the Georgia paradise of hardwood trees and mysterious land.

January 26, 2012 Fort Rosecrans National Cemetery

So today Abby decided she wants to go to work with The Darrel.  She got a glimpse of all that grass when we drove through the national cemetery one day, and I know she wants to go tearing through it like she does at our home in Georgia.  However, national cemeteries do not smile upon little red dogs who want to run among the graves of noble war veterans who deserve the honor of respect.  Respect in no manner includes a dog.  I keep putting her in front of a mirror so she can see that she is a dog.
I don't think she's accepted that yet.

The Darrel's job at the cemetery is to make sure the sprinkler products the VA is paying for actually get put into the ground so the Rosecrans National Cemetery can stay green and beautiful.  This cemetery is over 250 years old and has veterans in it from the Spanish/American War which occurred after the Civil War and before WWI.  Over all those years, without the methods we have today to maintain such a facility, headstoneshave sunken and fallen over, been nicked and broken by heavy equipment used for subsequent burials and lawn maintenance.  Now the entire 70 acres is filled to capacity and is being closed down because there is no more space for veterans to be buried there.  All of the headstones are being repositioned (and many replaced) with concrete underneath them to avoid having future problems.  The sprinklers over 250 years have been jerry rigged and patched together until the maintenance men often used buckets of water to maintain certain areas the sprinklers didn't reach at all.  So this is the year the system gets replaced.

Unfortunately the Veteran's Administration functions in its own peculiar fashion, and overkill is alive and well.  There may be 700 different pieces of products, from pipe and glue to sophisticated computer driven valves and weather stations.  One of each and every little piece of product has to be brought to the inspector for his verification before the sections can be okayed for installation.  Along with the the individual pieces, a schematic for each  piece must accompany it.  So bit by bit, 700 pieces and drawings of how they function have to be eyeballed and equated to the master blueprint design.  Therefore, no shovel has yet dug up one bit of dirt after two years of planning.  Since the project was to have started last October, you can imagine the frustration of the 19 people involved in trying to actually begin work.

It's a job for a person who is not doing anything else at the time.  Unfortunately, most working people have other jobs they are trying to schedule in order to survive.  My retired husband who does occasional consulting work does not.  The frustration level of the landscaper, the irrigation installer, the maintenance people, the general contractor, the irrigation designer and the landscape designer, the VA project supervisors themselves, rises daily.  Whether the job has started or not, daily reports, weekly reports, bi-weekly reports and monthly reports must be filed by each of them.  It's an exercise in patience.

Fortunately the magnificence of the location is undeniable.  At once it feels spectacular in its beauty and majesty, in its solemnity, its sacredness.  In its sadness as well.  I have to hand it to the VA--through all my misgivings about how our country is run, the national cemeteries somehow rise above the rest of the government.  Our fighting men/women are definitely honored in death.  I guess if anything can make all the rest of it justified, this is perhaps the place.

January 22, 2012 Kick A Little Devil

I have a friend who makes New Year Resolutions, gives up bad habits for Lent and makes free will bad habit corrections to her life on a routine basis.  I admire Ingrid's iron will.  Melody, on the other hand must become frightened before she learns anything.  After you see your loved ones battle cancer, contract diabetes, you start to wonder if you will be next.  In my case, it means I better straighten up my act so at least I won't have to blame myself if it happens to me.  Maybe I consider it a personal failing to watch myself make myself sick.

What are these habits after all?  Why do we do things to harm ourselves in the first place?  Are we lured to it by TV?  Is the devil always on the look out to make us self-destructive?  I mean, I don't jump off cliffs, do drugs, take poison, or spit into the wind.  But I do get addicted to sugar, coffee, chocolate, cream and cheese.  Correction--I do not GET addicted to these things, I AM addicted to these things.  So now, I'm spending a lifetime learning to live with as little of them as possible.  Which is really cruel to me.

I feel like my dog, who wants my food, whatever it is, so she looks at me with her eyes rolled up pleadingly.  I feel like my babies used to -- they wanted everything I put into my mouth.  It wasn't good for them, so I had to be tough.  Was it good for me?  No.  But that's while I was still bulletproof (translation: stupid) and wanted it anyway.  In the eyes of God, then, I suppose I'm really just a puppy, a baby, who wants what I want. 

Talk about a double standard.  I know what's good for others but not what's good for me. 

Now, I do like broccoli, for some reason.  I used to drown it in cheese sauce.  Then I drowned it in butter.  Somewhere along the line I learned it tastes pretty good without all that stuff.  Now I crave it.  And it really ticks off the devil, who gets tight jawed about it.  And that absolutely delights me.

January 21, 2012 Eerie Morning Sunrise

Now that I'm in the Garden of Eden and didn't even have to die first, I can't make a decision what to do next between bouts of  writing.  There are orange, grapefruit, tangerine, avocado, macadamia nut, pomegranate and lemon trees, mango, guava and fig trees, peach and pear trees, as well as exotic ones I don't recognize.  Since January means early spring here, they're already bearing fruit or blossoms.  Muriel, the 85-year old wood nymph who owns this place said we are free to pick anything we want.  Of course I won't hit the avocados without verifying since they're so precious, but otherwise the navel oranges are falling onto the ground so I'm indulging in them.  I hadn't seen macadamia nuts growing before, so have been kind of fascinated with them.  The pods pop open and drop the nuts, which are in a really hard shell, so have to be hammered out.  But the nuts are loose inside and just fall into my hand.  It's a matter of picking them up off the ground.  Can it get any better than God not making me climb the tree first?

The wood nymph did leave a little basket with a ripe avocado in it at my door yesterday, which immediately became an omelet.  She pops up from time to time with camellias for us in vases so large I don't know how she can hold them.  I can't name the flower plants except for the hillside of geraniums and walkway daisies, but will be learning them as soon as possible since they're on every table top in the house.

This little cottage used to be Muriel's husband's art studio.  He is now deceased and his paintings are in a gallery in San Diego.  She converted the studio to a rental cottage because like the rest of us, her income has been damaged by the economy.  I've seen a lot of art studios and there is no symptom of painting going on in here—she did an outstanding job on the rebuild.  As it turns out her profession was real estate and interior design.  So we've got first quality European cabinets, furniture and appliances.  I feel like a special guest.

It's early this morning and fog has rolled in.  I'm sitting, enveloped in a cloud with my cozy coffee cup.  I guess that means we won't be seeing the sun actually rise today.  The fog never reached us yesterday, but hung in the valleys.  The temperature reached 63 yesterday, so I learned how to use the hammock.

January 20, 2012 Yay for Geeks

When I looked out the window early this morning I saw only fog lying in the valleys surrounding our mountain at 2000 ft. elevation.  Peaks of other mountains poked out like eerie islands from the white sea of moisture.  Now I know what real islanders mean when they speak of "rock fever."  In their cases they really are hemmed in by water to a point of claustrophobia.  I knew fog would leave.  A two hundred mile view of fog and mountaintops was pretty spectacular.  One of those mountains is 11000 feet—that's over two miles straight up!

Something happened yesterday I'd never seen before.  With freeways being packed with seven lanes of traffic, a police car ahead of us got into the left hand lane (cops call this the "number one lane") then drove diagonally across all the lanes of traffic to the extreme right lane ("number seven lane").  No sooner did he get there than he immediately drove back across to the inside lane where he'd started.  He repeated this several times with all the traffic staying behind him of course.  A California cop method for slowing down the traffic when everybody is going too fast.

On the schedule now that I have my computer working again, is to get Chattahoochee Dead finished and set up signings in Escondido and San Diego.  Actually the computer wouldn't be working at all if we hadn't discovered making our Iphone into a personal hotspot for our computers.  We're too far out in the country for wireless networks.  In the end it was a $45 charge through AT&T and a geek we lucked into who showed us how to do this setup.  What a blessing.  If I'd been there I'd have given him a big kiss.  The Darrel said no when I asked if he'd done it for me.

December 18, 2011 Too Weird To Believe

Here we are set up in the Mission Bay RV park.  If there were not freeways on two sides of the park it would be quieter.

ADVENTURE ALERT:  In our search for a more permanent place for the Darrel to stay, we shopped on line, on the street and in the newspapers.  Since San Diego is virtually a snowbird retreat, a lot like Florida in some respects, prices for furnished anything run from $2600 per month to $3800 per month (and up, of course).  So after sticker shock wore off and unacceptable alternatives were eliminated, I pulled out the newspapers again and started over.  We saw an ad which we thought probably had an error in it.  It basically said "executive rental, artist cottage, RV storage, mountain top views," and listed a price at about a third of the previous ones we'd considered.  However, it was located 40 minutes north of San Diego.  That's 40 minutes in hideous commuter traffic similar to Atlanta's I75.  We thought something too good to be true would at least be an adventure for the frustrated, so called the phone number included in the ad.  Remembering the last three calls we'd made to local places had never been responded to, we left a message.  A half hour later a British woman called us back.  There were no errors in the ad, she was very matter of fact, saying the views were indescribable and the place was adorable.  Right.

So we drove north 40 minutes.  As soon as we got off the I15 and asked the GPS to tell us where to go and it refused, we almost called the whole thing off.  But bless the Iphone.  We asked it for directions, got them, though the trip at that point became more about curiosity than practicality.  Up the mountains we went, through grape vinyards, citrus orchards and avacado groves, a series of ten road changes.  We were falling in love with the land on the way...always a critical issue with us.

So.  We found the place somehow.  It presented itself as a lone mountaintop with an American Indian great white wall sculpture surrounding a modest looking home.  Several outbuildings appeared to the sides: garage, covered parking pad, separate studio, all dotted this way and that between the giant boulders and chapparal.  Then we noticed the gardens, both vegetable and indigenous flowers and trees spread in every direction.  The view was indeed spectacular.  How do you describe the best of California hills, covered in sage, cactus, Eucalyptus trees, scrub oaks, acacias, olive trees, pepper trees?  How do you describe 200 mile views to San Gorgonio and San Bernardino from hills we'd ridden horses over 35 years ago to reconstruct the padres' trail north from Mexico?  And entire 360 degree 200 mile view to and over hills and beyond?  Well, that's where we'd landed.

So we knocked on the door.  A 5 ft. tall British lady answered the door.  She looked at us like we were long lost friends just returned after a ten year trip to chaos.  Then she gave us a smile that lit up the mountain, quite like she'd been waiting for us.  Not some people who answered an ad, but just us.   Well, the Darrel fell in love immediately and I was grateful the lady was 84 so I could at least have a chance of keeping him.  But wait...this gets better.

She showed us the grounds first--all eight acres of it.  And the Darrel was hooked.  Of course it helped a deer came up to talk to us, and a couple of hawks flew by on their endless hunt.  Next thing I knew, the superfluous studio--actually a charming art studio with a bedroom and 360 degree mountain views built like Fort Knox, was toured and the Darrel was negotiating the length of time of our stay.  How did it become one year?  I looked at him, his eyes glazed over and said, "what?" very quietly so as not to disturb whatever was happening.

He turned to me and said, "I've always been an eagle, flying in my dreams.  This is an opportunity to actually fly."  Whatever that meant.
I had become just a bystander.

We're now the proud renters of paradise on a mountaintop for a year.  Details of how we're going to do this will follow after I figure them out.

December 16, 2011 Moondoggie Day

Moondoggie

Down at the Ocean Beach Pier, the surf wasn't really up, but the tide was coming in, so a row of five breakers was enough to attract about fifteen diehard surfers, even if the temperature was under 50 degrees with a water temp of 55.  Those guys keep track of the tides so they know when they can cop a ride.

Here comes Moondoggie, slogging through the sand carrying his board.  He's maybe six feet tall, weighs about 165 and may be 20 years old.  He's wearing his wetsuit half pulled up, board tucked under his arm.  They don't use the big boards any more from what I've seen. He stands there looking at the other surfers bobbing around on the swells way out toward the end of the pier, talking about the "big one."

Moondoggie stands on the cold cold beach half naked.  Then he sticks his arms into the air over his head like he's praying to the surf gods, and screams an announcement of his presence.  He holds them up for a few seconds before looking around, grabbing the dangling wetsuit and slithering into it.  When it's zipped up he grabs his board and heads toward the sea.  Walking partway into the surf he suddenly screams again.  Reckon he's discovered the Pacific isn't very warm?

He dives through an oncoming smallish breaker, tosses his head on the other side and slips onto his board, paddling on out to the end of the breakers.  After buddy bobbing, watching a couple other surfers grab a wave, go for a little ride and paddle back, our boy, Moondoggie, picks one and paddles for it, jumps up on the board and glides toward shore.

When the wave plays out, he simply stands up in the shallow water and walks a ways before shoving the board through the next soupy wave.  He looks resigned to getting a ride from whatever the sea has to offer this day.

December 9, 2011 GPS Hell Pecan Pie Heaven

Last night we took an interesting route to go see a cousin.  Our GPS is a retarded little piece of work, however it did get us there against all odds.

I figured we'd order in pizza and sit around on the floor and have a little "catch up" session.  But the cordial cousin made a fabulous dinner she called Eggplant Parmesan.  It was actually Eggplant Lasagna, one step from heavenly carb paradise.  I've actually never eaten decent eggplant and didn't know it could be disguised so wonderfully.  I did know that if it could be done, she'd be the one to do it.  I'm not eating for three days though, because she also made her Pecan Pie, which is famous throughout the family.  Sadly, I've not tasted that pie for about ten years because I don't get out here much at the right times.  I never felt good about calling that cousin and saying, "Hey, I'm coming over for you to make me a pie."

I did ask if I could live there.

December 7, 2011 Balboa Park & pictures

Today we went up to Balboa Park, which is attached to the zoo but a totally different atmosphere.  Balboa Park, named after the Spanish explorer, was conceived in 1915 for its debut World Exposition in San Diego.  At a time before WWI, WWII and the great depression, and around the time the Panama Canal was completed after so many years of construction, we were fresh out of wars.  To celebrate the world transportation not having to go through the treacherous waters below South America, a World Exposition was agreed to by key countries everywhere.  The amazing buildings still exists and are used for massive cultural advancement--all public buildings for theater, art, music.  The Panama Canal was used as an excuse to attract more countries to show off the neo-classical architecture of their choice.  Today it is like a city of cultural buildings.

This first building is a redwood lattice botanical building for growing exotic plants from all over the world.  The reflecting pond in front was originally about two feet deep.  During World War I it was deepened so new sailors could learn how to swim.  During WWII there was a hospital in the buildings on the grounds for the military, and the pond was deepened once more to be used as therapy for injuried servicemen.


Grr, my computer won't print any more of the pictures I wanted to post.  Will have to try again later.
Anyway, the park has thirty gardens, buildings housing museums, art, science centers, railway information and of course the famous zoo.  I can't find any statistics in my paperwork but would guess there are about 600 acres included in this park which is right in the middle of residential downtown San Diego.  Pretty amazing.

Inside the Botanical Gardens looks a lot like Opryland.

One of the typical buildings.  This one houses the symphony and San Diego Dance Company.

This one is across the street from the above building.  It houses an art museum from pre-1900.

December 6, 2011 Koala Morning

Went back to the zoo to see what we missed the first time.  We really didn't see it all this time either, but were smarter in our approach, making use of the bus system to get us to previous missed animals.  I'm only going to put the Koalas and apes in here because those were our primary goal(s).

This is a baby.  I guess he didn't know he was supposed to be napping during the day.  All the adults were sleeping.

I don't kow if it's true but I understand the eucalyptus leaves Koalas eat makes them intoxicated which is why they are so mellow all the time.  Not like my brother in law when he eats Eucalyptus leaves.

This incredible lady was the only one who wanted to talk to us.  She is 14 years old.

My new best friend.  We had quite a chat.

Here she is, a little closer up so you can see her makeup better.

December 6, 2011 Heresy

Yesterday, Sunday, we were invited to go meet my step brother and sister at the Sechuan Casino over East San Diego toward the desert.  It was located, naturally, on the Sechuan reservation.  Actually, I had thought that Sechuan was a Chinese name, but I was wrong. 

So instead of going to church we went to play the slots.  How bad is that?  I kept expecting God to take the place out while we were there--was glad nobody needs us any longer, just in case.

It was a huge building in the neo-Indian architecture style of hogan teepees or something.  Very dramatic and landscaped to the nines with desert trees lining the drive into the place which was out in the middle of nowhere East of Jamul.  Incongruously, lighted deers made of bundles of sticks were stocked along the entrance trees as well.  And inside the casino were monster Christmas Trees, decorated with every imaginable light, ribbon and glass ball.  It looked beautifully artificial.  I looked around for God but didn't see him--he must have been behind the cash machines.

My last foray into a casino was in Reno, Nevada, which never pretended to be holy, or family fun either for that matter (like Las Vegas).
That was back in the olden days a few years ago when the machines were full of happy little bundles of cherries and blue logos that said "Winner" on them.  You could put your nickel in the slot and pull the handle.  Gambling?  Of course, but it was a mini game.  In the electronic world, about twentyfive  pictures of Hawaiian dancers and big words dot the face of the screens.  No money is involved.  No way to see if or how much you win or lose because it's not money after it goes into the machine--it's now "points".  The machines take only paper money in any denomination.  And it's a button you push to "play".  Penny machines take 30 at a time.  Is that a penny machine?  It seems like 30 cents to me.  Oh yeah, it's 30 points.  No wonder I like the quarter machines.

I looked all over the copious rooms (50 of them?) for cherries and "Winner" logos.  I guess they shipped all of those to the Bahamas.

I didn't feel much like I was playing.  The blonde part of my brain was confused but didn't care.  The rest of my brain was confused but did care.  Uncomfortable.  If the blackjack tables hadn't been $5 tables I would have gone on over there.  I'm a cheapskate and only play $2 tables.

I know I lost $40 because my money pocket was empty when we left.  I'm not sure how I did that.  Maybe I'll go back on a Wednesday.

Hola Amigos!  (That's Mexican for "Hello Friends").  I'm getting back into California mode with my Spanish. 
Today we went to La Jolla (means Beautiful) which is up the coast about five miles.  We went there to see the hang gliders take off over the sea.  It's an awesome sight to see  guys take off running at the top of  a 400 ft. cliff and jump off holding a parachute looking thing so they can sail up and down the beach below.

This guy just jumped

We were standing on the edge of the cliff and this guy drifted by beyond the cliff, gave us a thumbs up.

They drop down after they jump, which made me get a knot in my throat.

This is what it looks like right after they jump over.

Here you can see a couple drifting north with the beach below.

This cliff had a mobile home that used nothing but solar power to run its shop and lunch counter.  It's located on the campus of Scripps Institute of Oceanography, but the school is way off from the desolate bald area where they do the hang gliding.

Dec. 1, 2011 It's A Zoo Out There

This handsome fellow sat high above us on a rock.  We were diminished to the flavor of the week in his imagination.
An African Leopard, he never told us his name.  The San Diego Zoo is the one that sets the standards for the rest of the zoos in the world.

We weren't sure if this guy wanted out or just a snack.  He was a Cappuchin Monkey, but I'm not sure if somebody I used to know was imprisioned in that monkey.

Just look a this lady's beautiful eyes.  The Darrel captured them in detail in this photograph.  He does a marvelous job with his new camera.

Darrel got this one of the wildest animals in the park...his brother and moi.

Here we are together in the zoo, just like we are in real life.

Nov. 30, 2011 Old Town San Diego

These are pictures of Old Town San Diego, which was started in 1738 when Cabrillo came to town from Spain.  It's a definite microcosm of Spanish/Mexican architecture and has great shopping if you're into the Southwestern look.

It's the best place in the U.S. to get Mexican food in California too. 

Nov. 30, 2011 San Diego Harbor

This is the Rosecrans National Cemetery at Point Loma, San Diego, California.  The Pacific Ocean is in the distance beyond the cemetery.  San Diego Harbor is on the other side as Point Loma is a promentory surrounded by water.  The cliff is 400 feet tall.

We were standing at the end of Point Loma looking into the mouth of the harbor with the sea behind us.  The military base is sticking out into the harbor, a nuclear submarine is being pulled by a tugboat out into the ocean.  The island coming in from the right is North Island where my father worked when I was a child.  San Diego is in the background. This was a critical site during WWI.  Bunkers with armaments are all under the ground where we were standing.

The city of San Diego's skyline is in the background here.  The foreground is military landing strips for the base.  The water is at the mouth of the harbor.

Nov. 29, 2011 Two Split Peas and An Ice Cube

Last night we pulled into San Diego's Mission Bay RV park with our little Coyote trailer.  Since Thanksgiving Day when I landed at Ontario Airport, we've been seeing people we haven't seen in some cases for years.  I've decided the best way to renew acquaintances is over turkey, dressing, mashed potatoes and pumpkin pie.  However the combination of jet lag and overindulgence for three days has made my eyes spastic, so I was glad to start back on my eating regimine of two split peas and three ice cubes a day.  Vision is clearing up, thankfully. 

We left oldies in the CD player all night and drowsed from five p.m. till this morning at six a.m.  A truly irresponsible vacation has started!  Today we're going to visit cousins we haven't seen in many years.  They've been hanging around town after the big family reunion Thanksgiving my family has every year.  Since I couldn't get an earlier flight into the city after canceling the first one because my mom fell, I unfortunately missed that celebration.  However, not short of family from the other side (the dark side?) we still saw about forty relatives and non relatives in Riverside (near Ontario, California).

This morning we drove out to Rosecrans National Cemetery at Point Loma, high above the Pacific Ocean, and watched destroyers and submarines make their way out of the San Diego Harbor below us.  A spectacular view.  We did take pictures and after I figure out how to do it, will put a couple of them here.  It's impossible to describe the poignancy to see the hundreds of thousands of graves in a national cemetery. 

We saw my cousins this afternoon and relived some old stories of the sort only families can tell--who looks like whom as they age, what the kids from the fourth generation are doing and remember when's in abundance.

Tonight we're listening to Charlie Rich do his croon thing and catching up on such things as email and blogging.  It's cozy and romantic in the belly of the Coyote after having real true Mexican food for dinner.  The sun is mirrored in the glass architecture on it's way into the sea.  The San Diego Skyline is lit up like any big city, but is exacerbated by the reflection across the harbor.  Picture Lake Lanier times 500.

I'll catch y'all tomorrow.  Maybe my jetlag will let me stay up till 7 p.m. tomorrow!

Melody

November 23, 2011 Combat Shopping Warning

COMBAT SHOPPING

You won't be needing an AK47 for the mall.  However, there are items for combat shopping that you'll regret not having, and those are pretty basic.

Gather ads from mail circulars over the few weeks before shopping, buy a Sunday newspaper, and clip all the ads and coupons you can find.  Put these for handy reference into your left leg camouflage pants.  Charge your cell phone the night before you shop. And a couple of weeks earlier, start a little workout so you can slip sideways between people and aisle merchandise easily.

Prepare yourself!  Comfortable shoes are not just for women who look like men in bad clothing.  You'll need them.  Not only that, you'll be smart to take another pair in your newfound friend—the mesh picnic bag.  Consider a foldable fabric bag with wheels.  Aisles are no longer aisles—they're now supply dumps for un-saleable items, and are a huge obstruction to shopping carts, even if the store you choose happens to have such a thing.  Toss a pair of small flat shoes, a bottle of water and a can of diet drink into the bag.  When you're convinced your toes will never be the same, simply change shoes.  A drink of water will cost you $2.00 at the mall.   When it nears noon and you stop for lunch, you'll find yourself in a 30-person line.  Then it'll be a tossup as to whether you'll live long enough to reach the counter.  But you'll have your handy diet drink to sustain you while you wait out the line.  You could even skip lunch this way and eat at your line-free kitchen when you get home.  A tiny camp stool isn't a bad idea either, since stores discourage sitting and there are often no seats available in the entire mall!

I know that expensive things usually come in small boxes, but at least you can get all your purchases into the bag you've brought, so consider the assets of jewelry, finger puppets, Kindles, socks and skip the household goods aisle. 

Even if it's minus 2 degrees outside, the mall will be 80 degrees inside, so wear a vest you can take off and stuff into your mesh/rolling bag as well.

Put money, credit cards, ID and keys into a little makeup case and Velcro it shut inside the right leg pocket of your camouflage fatigue pants.  Don't forget to take your cell phone or bring a set of walkie talkies if someone goes with you. Plan to be separated...it's a sure bet.  A field compass is a must for malls larger than a WalMart store.

Whatever you do, don't take a husband along.  I lost mine after seeing him bobbing and weaving around a department store cologne counter, dodging a sales clerk determined to expose him to the latest fragrance.  He disappeared and it took two weeks for me to find him after that.  He was suffering from Mall Knees and had to be sedated.

And don't even think about taking a small grandchild with you for his/her opinion or size.   His opinion will not be constructive in the throes of mall mania and you can measure him before you leave.  Bringing a child is akin to having an unpinned hand grenade with you.  Not only will your shopping be interrupted because she will want to eat four times, but she will suddenly cry from neglect.  Or he will suddenly clear the aisle by stretching out his arms and running full tilt down between stacks of merchandise that have attracted a bending fat lady, incidentally dragging his hand over her fanny, causing an immediate screech and full force explosion. 

November 19, 2011 God's Hands

I've been reminded about God's hands this week.  They don't come out of the firmament accompanied by a bolt of lightning, but through a person (in this case, a man) who gets an inordinate glee from being allowed to do something that fascinates him. 

Let me explain:  Picture a guy--just a kid really, maybe as much as 30 years old, but looking 17, who walks into a hospital room wearing very slick slacks, dressy shirt, shiny shoes.  He looks like he's getting ready to go on a date, all spiffy and eager, contained.  He has come to talk about options for what can possibly be done for a 95 year old mother with a broken hip who cannot speak for herself.  I, the daughter ask him about alternatives to the radical surgery.  He explains those, none of them acceptable to my way of thinking.  I tell him I view the alternatives as a cruel thing to do to an old woman.  He agrees.
So I say I think it's important that my mother be able to walk as long as she's on the earth, that he should do the surgery.

Now's the good part:  He gives me a huge smile, rubs his hands together and does a little bounce.  He says he'll be in touch and barely containing himself, whisks out the door.  Permission has been granted for him to do what he loves.

Wednesday, this man/child takes out a crushed ball joint in my mother's hip, replaces it with a titanium prosthesis, and sews/glues it all back together very neatly.  On Friday, my 95 year old mother walks across the room (not dances, more like staggers) but gets there and back.

Now, who told that kid he could keep a certainly imminent and painful death away from my little mother for a little while longer?  It was just another day for him.  It was maybe a couple more years for us.  There is no doubt in my mind that God streamed through science and this man's mind and hands to accomplish a miracle.

November 16, 2011 The Bionic Mama

Well, the trip got temporarily cancelled, as my mother fell and broke her other hip.  We just went through this two years ago with the first one.  She's going to be the bionic 95 year old mama.  A matching new titanium ball joint was installed just this morning.  I asked for a little more colorful one, but they said, like the original Volkswagens, they only come in one color.

Since I've been at the hospital for  38 hours, I think I'll sleep in tomorrow.

November 14, 2011 Abby's Great Adventure

As some people may know,  my husband got a temporary job in California, where he will be for six months.  Because he will need his truck for this job, he's driving out there with Abby the Cavalier and our little camping trailer to sleep in on the way.

Now, I know everybody says this about their dogs, but Abby IS the best dog in the world.  She thinks like a very well behaved child and rarely turns into a dog.  On this trip west, Abby slept in a little kennel, as she is kennel trained.  One morning she wouldn't come out of the kennel, which has never happened in her lifetime of four people years.  Darrel got down to see what was wrong, but nothing was wrong.  Worried, he tipped the kennel so she had to come out.  She sat and stared at him as he got her food out to put in her bowl for breakfast.  When he reached for her bowl, he saw her water had tipped over and was all over the floor.  She wouldn't come out of her kennel because she felt guilty for apparently stepping in her water dish in the night and dumping it over.

I have other dog stories but I know most people are bored stiff with such things.  Sometimes the things Abby does touch me in their innocence.  

And if I had a decent picture of The Darrel, I'd post it.  But for now, he seems to be the one taking all the pictures and is in so few of them I'm surprised as I look through my computer album.  I'll look through my thumb drive pictures and see what I can find.  And make a mental note to take more pictures of his sweet face.

My friend Arlene sent me a picture of The Darrel I'm going to add to my post here.  Isn't he cute?  Abby and her best friend Tara are not bad either.   He recently got rid of the beard thing.  I celebrated in the closet with my wine.

Did you ever go out of town for six months?  It's kind of like making a permanent move, and my hat's off to all of those people who travel constantly in motorhomes, in and out like troubadors.  I've been home meeting previous obligations but will join him by plane soon.   Where will he live?  Who does the banking back home?  Who takes care of the mail?  Who waters the plants?  Who maintains the house if "something" happens?  Who keeps the electronics working?  Who maintains the yard?  So many things can go wrong when one is not at home to monitor.  And how would I be with my husband over the holidays if nobody was there to take care of my mom, if my dog couldn't travel? 

Well, I'm here to tell you, just like my book writing adventure...it takes a village.  A village of friends, family and encouraging people to facilitate something like this for us.  At first, I thought I'd just have to stay home, fly out for two days maybe, then back again.  But a veritible army of people have stepped forward for us.  It awes me that people are so selfless in this world where time has become a treasure.

It's purely spooky to be home alone.  Also tremendously freeing, I think.  Eat when you want, sleep when you want, think about me, me, me.  Looking down for a little brown person who isn't there--eek, where is she?   Nobody filling my gas tank but me.  Nobody else making coffee in the morning.  Nobody knowing what I'm going to say before I say it.  My right arm seems to be gone.  Weird.

Maybe freedom sucks sometimes.

October 10, 2011 The Saved Day

Today I spent most of the day painting a picture that was a total flop.  I disappointed myself and the lady the picture was being done for.  I may try it again another day but for now I have to live with it.  And I'm not even sure what happened to me, and yes, I feel like a loser to a point.  Of course, I lose a lot of the time, so am familiar with that feeling, have come to accept it.  Doesn't mean it's going to last forever.  It used to bother me a lot, which had no relevance to the passed outcome I could not change. 

One day, along came The Darrel, who pointed out to me the assets of the ******* bucket, where all things failure are to be tossed.  So I learned to toss, which took a really long time, but it's the road to sanity so was critical that I learn it.

Meanwhile, the offset prize was a signing at the Cumming Women's Club meeting at the home of Katherine Sulak last night.  I love bookclub people.  My first love outside of my family has always been real estate.  That segued into writing.  But now it's rivaled with talking about books.  Of course it's a personal delight to hear what people have to say about Auraria Dead but discussing other books is almost as much fun. 

People last night asked me about what Emily looks like, about where Mason's name came from, about Casa Grande, Arizona, American Indians, gold mining, Auraria, Ga.  All sorts of questions.  I've lived with these characters for so long it was easy for me to explain them to others.  It's very comfortable talking about those you know so well.  I've learned to not be intimidated when speaking about my people.  When I first started after the book was out, my knees shook.  It was too long ago I took my two Speech classes in college.  I guess I was afraid I wouldn't be able to answer a question somebody might ask.  But the commonality of the story and the enthusiasm of the people who've read the book opens the door beautifully to fun discussions.  I'd love to make each of these real people my new best friends.

I'm thankful for my life.

Melody

October 11, 2011 The Going Home Feeling

The wagon train left today for the West.  The Wild West, where you can see forever without the massive forests left behind "out east."  Where the mountains burst from the earth like they're fixing to boil, and  roll up so high it makes your neck ache to look at the top of them.  The Rockies, those giant boulders stacked across a limitless land filled with miners seeking the wealth they have to offer.  You can hear drums beat as you cross New Mexico and the wind swifting through the wings of eagles as Arizona appears on its terrace.

Okay, romance aside, I do love going home sometimes--to smell what's left of the orange blossoms, see what else has been torn down or remodeled.  Talk fast again.  Use short fat butter cubes instead of southern long skinny ones. 

It's all about the people.  I feel like a pea back in its pod for a vacation, mingled with all those other familiar peas.  Then there are the baby sweet peas I barely know, separated by miles, years and lack of history together.  At least I know their names, thanks to the diligence of my geneaological relatives, which I will be memorizing for the next week.  But they don't know I pushed their grandma down the stairs a hundred years ago when we were kids, and don't really care much.  They've been pushing their cousins down the stairs too and some day their great great grand neices won't know it.  Or care.

I somehow feel reincarnated.  I had a childhood then messed that up by growing up, then messed that up by moving so far away from home.  Now I have the perfect life.  Which is sweeter?  My only choice is the life I'm in now.  But the other two are still here, competing for my emotions and love.  I have to put them each in chambers in my mind and keep opening the doors to check on everybody.  Maybe it's a mental visit I do.  This time it'll be a real visit to my past--kind of scrambled with an altered present.  Seems like a one-way street since I can't drag everybody out east (south) with me to put them into the same conundrum.

I need a shrink.

October 7, 2011 Honor the Mother and the Father

Pam, in facebook, got me started thinking about my parents.  When I was a little kid I never thought about parents' needs and accepted their wants as a way of life.  "We" put up with incoveniences for their dreams.  "We" put up with their choices of dog or cat.  "We" were sort of around like so much cord wood, kind of like those animals, but cleaner.  "I," on the other hand, always had a better idea, but nobody ever asked me what I thought.  Of course that would have been foolish of them.

This thing of considering the opinion of a child trend of today kind of surprises me.  "Where do you want to go for dinner?" "What do you want to do on Saturday?" "Which sports do you want to play this year?"  Never heard of it.
My parents were about going to college for seven years after work (the mom), finally affording a piano (the dad).  Putting together programs for the students (my mother was a teacher), repairing the cars so they could go to work (the dad).

We didn't go out to dinner because there was no fast food, and restaurants were too expensive.  Saturdays were work days to catch up for the week.  There were no sports but football.  If school hadn't had PE, I wouldn't know a baseball from a treadmill.

My parents did the best they could.  They kept us more or less clean and we never left the refrigerator door open so the ice wouldn't melt.  I didn't know what that meant until I was 15.  I thought the refrigerator was in fear of defrosting itself.
My mother, born in the Sonoran Desert. who in her past literally was lucky to have ice in a metal box to cool food, meant exactly that the ice was going to melt, and it was expensive and hard to get. Wasteful.

Sometimes I leave the refrigerator door open in my kitchen now while I peruse what to fix for dinner., guilt screaming in my temples, I refuse to buckle under.  I also let the water run to get hot.  Water was treasure to my mother.  She was raised in the desert with a pump well.  But I let it run in defiance of that memory.  Once I heard the reason for the expression "don't throw the baby out with the bath water."  Once, a washtub was filled with water for bath night.  The dad got in first, finished, the mom got in, then the eldest child and on down to the last one being the baby.  Water was grim after a crew of ten, and sometimes they couldn't find the baby in the water, I guess.

My father died when he was 60 of a mysterious disease he incurred eight years earlier about three days after he retired from his day job.  My father, who was an Irish Tenor, sang from the time he was in highschool, through the danceband era and until his throat would no longer work.  He played a wood-sweetened clarinet and immaculate saxaphone in dance bands of the 30's.  But not at home.  I only ever heard him play scales (reason for the piano) at home.  Since I was a child I wasn't allowed in the nightclubs where he played early on or the private parties where  he and his quartet sang into the wee morning hours.  I heard him sing a solo of The Lord's Prayer one time in church.  It is a treasured memory.  Every now and then I get angry that I missed my dad's life almost entirely.  However, all the soft shoe songs, the big band music was all we had on the old 78's my father collected.  I couldn't afford the modern music 45 records, so listened to the old stuff, was enchanted by the beauty of Stan Kenton and Glenn Miller.  I can identify with old people as they listen to the music I was "forced" to grow up with.  I can sing along with them and feel like the child they remember themselves being. 

I can honor my father's memory for giving me this.  Not to mention food, clothing, schooling and life.

Nostalgic Melody

October 6, 2011 168 Cousins

Today I took a little drive up to Murrayville to see my friend, Melanie who sells Miche bags.  So cool, those bags are interchangeable...you lift out the lining with all the stuff and put it into another color bag to match your new red suit.  Melanie wouldn't cooperate by selling me one of them already stocked with credit cards and lipstick though.  I'm thinking my computer might fit into one of the large size ones.  But if not, maybe I can get some manuscripts in one?  Manuscripts are kind of like your children--you have to know where they are at all times.

She also agreed to be added to my BookEnds Crit Group, so I'm going to be sending her a couple of scenes from Chattahoochee Dead so she can let me know where I'm screwing up. A couple of other nice women, Michelle and Judy have sent me some of their thoughts already.

I'm leaving town for a while, to go see cousins.  I have 168 cousins last time I counted them.  I'm sure I'll need to make a recount soon, and I only count four generations because my mind can't really get around all those other folks I never met who have gone on before.  Anyway, I'm taking the computer so I can write inbetween visiting.  Besides I really hate to miss anything.

One of the reasons my main character in my Maria Sebastian series has so many cousin issues is because of my family.
None of the circumstances are true or are actual people, but the interaction I've observed is described pretty accurately.  So I've mixed these up with real estate situations, agents and client possibilities to get people who could walk the earth, even though they hadn't been invented yet.  Characters are kind of like dreams--they get put together in random access but to be possible they have to have a little backstory for why they turned out to be the way they are.

#338 in Life's Little Instruction Book:  Live your life so that your epitaph could read, "No regrets."

Melody