Monday, April 27, 2009
Testing Her Boots
A stout woman clumped to a halt at a signal light and hauled her two Queensland Heelers to a sit. She wore camouflage cargo pants and a long-sleeved jersey shirt, nondescript and utilitarian. They waited for the light to turn green and traffic piled up, waiting, too. Then, seeing the light had changed, she started forward, yanking a bit on the dogs' leashes. She pounded forward with an odd staggering gait, looking like she was crushing spiders, methodically and resignedly. The dogs just jogged alongside her and paid attention when she gave an occasional yank on the leash. No beauty there. Just going along, crushing spiders, testing the durability of her boots.
Thursday, April 23, 2009
Pacific Grave
I saw fog tip-toeing in past the windows at work last night, silently, furtively looking for a town to sit on. It found Pacific Grove and intends to stay. It means the heat is over with for a while and that nothing will dry out. Towels will mold and hang limp on their racks. Shoes will mildew in closets and I will get out my winter clothes again. You have to wear layers, many layers, definitely layers. There are microclimates around town including what some call "banana belts." Any bananas that struggle to maturity in those areas - and I doubt there are any - will surely be snatched by raccoons though. The coons live in the storm drains as well as in trees and various places where people leave pet food out for Fluffy.
Raccoons have experienced population explosions at times. You would see large gangs of them strolling down streets at night smoking cigarettes and keying cars, screeching at each other and rumbling with other gangs. A lady interviewed in a local paper years ago stated that she heard a din outside at night, went out and saw several coons up on her rooftop. She ran inside to find something to shoo them away and came up with an armload of apples. Using her best softball pitch and yelling Pacific Grove insults ("Go away, you horrible things!"), she unleashed a rain of terror on the raccoons up there. Well, anyway, it was a few apples whizzing in their general direction. To her amazement, they caught the apples and threw them right back again.
The fog is back, at least in Pacific Grove, Carmel and lower Carmel Valley. Monterey is on the leeward side of the ridge of hills that separate it from Pebble Beach and PG. Around here, fog is animate and makes its presence known and felt, almost always. "Ugh, here comes the fog," you might hear. Or, "It's sunny now, but the fog will be here later." Like an unwanted relative who comes over and sleeps on the couch snoring loudly. Farting those silent but deadly farts. The fog changes everything: The temperature, the day, your mood. With the sun out, you're optimistic, busy, happy. When it disappears into a fog bank and the sky dims, you snarl, your hopes fade and your feet stink. You even gain weight. You want to join the mobs of coons out stealing pet food and keying cars. Nothing is fluffy about Fluffy. The dog gets moldy. You can't tell what time of day it is, either. It's always about 2 o'clock in the afternoon and you need a nap, all day long.
I've lived in Southern California where the summer temperature got to triple digit hot, fry-eggs-on-the-sidewalk hot. I put clothes out to dry on the line (being the sentimental June Cleaver that I am) and could take the first ones down right after the last were hung. Stiff with the heat and dry, crispy dry.
In our town, now feeling like Pacific Grave, you cheer yourself up with memories of heat, playing in broken fire hydrant fountains, peeling burned skin off your nose by the side of sparkling blue pools. You cheer yourself up with memories of anything warm at all, anything dry and free of mold.
One summer when I was lifeguarding in Monterey, I counted five entire days when it was sunny all day long. Monterey fares better than PG, but the fact is the hotter it is everywhere else, the colder and more damp and dark it will be in Pacific Grave. It can be romantic I guess (I am an optimistic and hopeful June Cleaver, too) since the cold damp encourages snuggling by warm fires, sipping warm drinks after a brisk walk at the shore. Pacific Grove was named most romantic town in America a couple of years ago, and you can be sure the voters encountered mysterious and lovely fog, cute sea otters (hired by PG Chamber of Commerce), and were staying in a picturesque bed and breakfast.
So, we who live in the Grave reminisce about summer's warmth in the days of our youth. We clean seagull shit off our cars, pull in our pet food at night and keep a good supply of Clorox on hand for the mildew. Because on the rare warm day when the sun shines we know we can practically see to foreign shores across the Big Blue right outside our windows, and it's then when we feel most like we are in a specific groove.
Raccoons have experienced population explosions at times. You would see large gangs of them strolling down streets at night smoking cigarettes and keying cars, screeching at each other and rumbling with other gangs. A lady interviewed in a local paper years ago stated that she heard a din outside at night, went out and saw several coons up on her rooftop. She ran inside to find something to shoo them away and came up with an armload of apples. Using her best softball pitch and yelling Pacific Grove insults ("Go away, you horrible things!"), she unleashed a rain of terror on the raccoons up there. Well, anyway, it was a few apples whizzing in their general direction. To her amazement, they caught the apples and threw them right back again.
The fog is back, at least in Pacific Grove, Carmel and lower Carmel Valley. Monterey is on the leeward side of the ridge of hills that separate it from Pebble Beach and PG. Around here, fog is animate and makes its presence known and felt, almost always. "Ugh, here comes the fog," you might hear. Or, "It's sunny now, but the fog will be here later." Like an unwanted relative who comes over and sleeps on the couch snoring loudly. Farting those silent but deadly farts. The fog changes everything: The temperature, the day, your mood. With the sun out, you're optimistic, busy, happy. When it disappears into a fog bank and the sky dims, you snarl, your hopes fade and your feet stink. You even gain weight. You want to join the mobs of coons out stealing pet food and keying cars. Nothing is fluffy about Fluffy. The dog gets moldy. You can't tell what time of day it is, either. It's always about 2 o'clock in the afternoon and you need a nap, all day long.
I've lived in Southern California where the summer temperature got to triple digit hot, fry-eggs-on-the-sidewalk hot. I put clothes out to dry on the line (being the sentimental June Cleaver that I am) and could take the first ones down right after the last were hung. Stiff with the heat and dry, crispy dry.
In our town, now feeling like Pacific Grave, you cheer yourself up with memories of heat, playing in broken fire hydrant fountains, peeling burned skin off your nose by the side of sparkling blue pools. You cheer yourself up with memories of anything warm at all, anything dry and free of mold.
One summer when I was lifeguarding in Monterey, I counted five entire days when it was sunny all day long. Monterey fares better than PG, but the fact is the hotter it is everywhere else, the colder and more damp and dark it will be in Pacific Grave. It can be romantic I guess (I am an optimistic and hopeful June Cleaver, too) since the cold damp encourages snuggling by warm fires, sipping warm drinks after a brisk walk at the shore. Pacific Grove was named most romantic town in America a couple of years ago, and you can be sure the voters encountered mysterious and lovely fog, cute sea otters (hired by PG Chamber of Commerce), and were staying in a picturesque bed and breakfast.
So, we who live in the Grave reminisce about summer's warmth in the days of our youth. We clean seagull shit off our cars, pull in our pet food at night and keep a good supply of Clorox on hand for the mildew. Because on the rare warm day when the sun shines we know we can practically see to foreign shores across the Big Blue right outside our windows, and it's then when we feel most like we are in a specific groove.
Monday, April 20, 2009
Seagulls on a spring day
I rounded the Coast Guard curve going west at midday today and got a whiff of kelp and salt air. Sure signs of Pacific Grove ahead. It's another above-normal hot day today, but better than we get in the fall when the summer finally arrives. Yes, summer is in the fall here. More in another post about our hiccupping seasons on the central coast.
I drove like a tourist, which is to say I drove like my steering wheel had suddenly loosened up and barely controlled the car. I rather enjoyed it actually, but I know where the cops hide, so I behaved myself when it mattered most.
The tide was very low and the surge nonexistent. Kelp and sea grass lay like old mops draped by a housekeepers who'd walked off to put their feet up in the shade. Close in where there are sandy patches visible between submerged rocks, the water looked deceptively inviting. It's 52 degrees - too damned cold to enjoy without lots of screaming and gasping. Surfers wear 3-4 mm thick wetsuits when they are out riding the waves to fend off hypothermia.
So, I parked along Ocean View past Lovers of Jesus Point, which is the old original name of Lovers Point. The park there is very popular with young families and visitors on weekends. Back 100 years ago or so, a thoughtful resident set off a few dynamite explosions and blasted out a very fine little beach area there, just like that, thank you very much. He lined the gaping cliffs with rocks left over from the blasting and built a cement pier or breakwater where events are staged now. I'll bet if I wanted to go blast out another nice little spot for us all... Well, it's not possible. We are very environmentally astute now and have a huge Marine Sanctuary to protect and preserve. No more blasting will be done in our little town anymore.
I walked around and admired the scenery - fabulously colorful and eye catching, sailboats darted back and forth and the local sea otters and harbor seals entertained delighted tourists. Two ladies ran down to the rocks from their parked car, leaving it running and its lights on. One seal was flopped on his side on the most uncomfortable-looking pile of rocks you could imagine, and he was slapping his side with his flipper like he was laughing at a really good joke. The ladies were yelling at each other in high voices, "Look! He's right there!" over and over, point blank in each other's ears. I toyed with the idea of just driving off in their car, but no, it would have just added more points to my DMV record, and they looked too much like happy ladies from Kansas to mess with anyway. Instead, I left them and drove further west to Pt Pinos past the golf course where golfers were giving new meaning to the word "hack." Wow, you shoulda seen those swings.
It's a little-known fact that the local chamber of commerce hires sea otters to swim idely around and whack rocks against their chests and look picturesque. Harbor seals and sea lions also are on the payroll. Seagulls just aim shit at your car with tremendous accuracy and fly off, laughing mockingly.
A friend of mine who has three upstairs dormer windows in her beautiful 100-year-old home was strafed by seagulls rather dramatically a few years ago. They flew by in formation and sent guano in massive gooey amounts not only through the open dormer windows with dazzling accuracy but hit the wall opposite them with a resounding smack. She can swear pretty well, let me tell you.
Stand at the corner of Forest Avenue and Laurel Street where the city hall building is in Pacific Grove and look up. The building roofs are white with guano and scheming gulls. The intersection is riddled with white splats and the odor on summer days can be a little pungeant. But, we love our wildlife here. They add atmosphere and local color to our town, and that's what really keeps us here.
No gulls were harmed in the gathering of the facts of this story. Not today anyway.
Sunday, April 19, 2009
Out with Winter, that old goat.
In the middle of winter I never believe days like today to be possible. It's true I have never lived in the midwest or north or anyplace that will kill you with its cold. Transplants here from, say, upstate New York feel very lost not having blazing hillsides of autumn color, shrieking blizzards and yard-long icicles hanging from their eaves in winter. I'm attuned to the slightly more subtle changes of season that happen in most of California. As fall eases into winter, I notice the angle of the sun is lower on the horizon, there's a bit more chill earlier in the day, more dampness in the shade. Leaves drift away. Fog patterns change during the day.
In spring, the shift away from winter is as quiet. You might think you'd seen the blossoms on fruit trees earlier in the month but cannot actually recall when that might have been. Though living on the coast moderates the wild swings of temperature you'd see inland to a sometimes boring sameness through all the seasons, you learn to look very closely to notice tiny signs of change.
Today is spectacular. I'm sure anyone coming to town this weekend would be rendered giddy and lovestruck by the intense colors of, well, everything. Sky, trees, weeds, ocean, houses, even trash I guess. "Have you ever seen anything like that?" Go down and look at the Magic Carpet succulent ground cover along Ocean View Boulevard. It's a vivid Pepto Bismol pink done in zillions of tiny flowers.
The year is still building toward the apex of summer. When I kept bees years ago, peak honey flow would begin now, the hives rocking and rolling like little aircraft carriers with bees zooming in and out around the clock. Workers carried home gobs of nectar in their bellies, vomited it out as honey and jetted back out for another run to trees and bushes. Did you know that honey is bee barf? Maybe gross, but very true. There is really no better fragrance in nature than a bee hive opened after the keeper's smoke has layered over the waxen honeycomb. The bees sense smoke, rush around thinking there is trouble, gorge on honey and then can't bend in the middle to sting. They all turn into little couch potatoes looking for the ottoman and a beer. "Good grief, I shouldn't have eaten so much, but wasn't that honey GREAT?" Little bee slobs, drunkenly wobbling around in a daze.
I went out into my back patio a while ago and was just floored by the array of finery everywhere. I had the good sense to apply top dressing to all my containers earlier this year, pruned the snarf out of my roses and bushes and just hoped God would be kind enough to send along some rain. She did and I am so grateful I cannot say. I won't list my flowers' names because I don't actually know them all, but mostly there is purple, lavendar and white. Every blossom is a miracle - just look up close and there you'll see many of them. It's like when you see a baby sleeping, all perfect, warm, growing right before your eyes. How could anyone possibly, even remotely, believe that man can improve on nature? "After the artist, only the copyist."
My Meyer lemon is looking more promising than ever. Meyer lemons are to ordinary lemons as Belgian chocolate is to Whitman's. Can't compare. Don't even try. So, I go out to my patio and caress the leaves gently, admire the small green lemons-to-be and talk quietly, praising the effort of the tree. Once in a while, not daily. I'm not THAT bad yet. You can be a little silly in spring. It begs for it. A mom calls her kids, "Come and eat!" and nature on spring mornings calls, "Come and look! I've tossed winter out, that old goat!"
So, today it's obvious winter is gone and spring is in full cry. My faith is renewed and my optimism refreshed.
In spring, the shift away from winter is as quiet. You might think you'd seen the blossoms on fruit trees earlier in the month but cannot actually recall when that might have been. Though living on the coast moderates the wild swings of temperature you'd see inland to a sometimes boring sameness through all the seasons, you learn to look very closely to notice tiny signs of change.
Today is spectacular. I'm sure anyone coming to town this weekend would be rendered giddy and lovestruck by the intense colors of, well, everything. Sky, trees, weeds, ocean, houses, even trash I guess. "Have you ever seen anything like that?" Go down and look at the Magic Carpet succulent ground cover along Ocean View Boulevard. It's a vivid Pepto Bismol pink done in zillions of tiny flowers.
The year is still building toward the apex of summer. When I kept bees years ago, peak honey flow would begin now, the hives rocking and rolling like little aircraft carriers with bees zooming in and out around the clock. Workers carried home gobs of nectar in their bellies, vomited it out as honey and jetted back out for another run to trees and bushes. Did you know that honey is bee barf? Maybe gross, but very true. There is really no better fragrance in nature than a bee hive opened after the keeper's smoke has layered over the waxen honeycomb. The bees sense smoke, rush around thinking there is trouble, gorge on honey and then can't bend in the middle to sting. They all turn into little couch potatoes looking for the ottoman and a beer. "Good grief, I shouldn't have eaten so much, but wasn't that honey GREAT?" Little bee slobs, drunkenly wobbling around in a daze.
I went out into my back patio a while ago and was just floored by the array of finery everywhere. I had the good sense to apply top dressing to all my containers earlier this year, pruned the snarf out of my roses and bushes and just hoped God would be kind enough to send along some rain. She did and I am so grateful I cannot say. I won't list my flowers' names because I don't actually know them all, but mostly there is purple, lavendar and white. Every blossom is a miracle - just look up close and there you'll see many of them. It's like when you see a baby sleeping, all perfect, warm, growing right before your eyes. How could anyone possibly, even remotely, believe that man can improve on nature? "After the artist, only the copyist."
My Meyer lemon is looking more promising than ever. Meyer lemons are to ordinary lemons as Belgian chocolate is to Whitman's. Can't compare. Don't even try. So, I go out to my patio and caress the leaves gently, admire the small green lemons-to-be and talk quietly, praising the effort of the tree. Once in a while, not daily. I'm not THAT bad yet. You can be a little silly in spring. It begs for it. A mom calls her kids, "Come and eat!" and nature on spring mornings calls, "Come and look! I've tossed winter out, that old goat!"
So, today it's obvious winter is gone and spring is in full cry. My faith is renewed and my optimism refreshed.
Saturday, April 18, 2009
Zmudowski State Beach
A snarling cold wind rattled our windows at the beginning of this week and didn't let up for three days. Cars got sand blasted, seaweed was wrenched from the ocean bottom and tossed like old rags on local beaches and flags all around the bay were shredded to bits.
Now it's sunny and cool. Shreds of fog are floating lightly offshore. We are breathing normally again.
The Sea Otter Classic is going on over at Laguna Seca Raceway. Cyclists mark April as a high point in the year for racing. I've heard 50,000 members of the cycling tribe have converged to compare derailleurs, dirt and helmet dings after their races. That's a lot of spandex and spokes in one place, and the scope is hard to imagine unless you actually see it.
At the far other end of the Peninsula, in another world really, is Pebble Beach. There, a Food and Wine Festival is underway. This is a take-no-prisoners haute cuisine event with chefs, sommeliers and gourmands impressing each other in a sort of gourmet gauntlet. I don't know anyone personally who plans to be there because I am not rich nor are my friends. I care a lot about fresh food well prepared, but this sort of event is not for the faint of heart when it comes to cash. Pebble Beach = lotsa money, no matter what the event or venue.
Gary and I drove north to Watsonville this morning. The route skirts Moss Landing where highway 1 is two lanes wide, one in each direction. Rush hour gets pretty clogged during the week for those making the trip to and from Santa Cruz. You're smart to get going early most days to avoid the conga line it turns into if you're traveling later.
We took the Zmudowski State Beach turnoff to a narrow lane tracking west through strawberry fields, following a frequently distracted birder. I could tell she was a birder because I'm also a birder, and I knew exactly what she was getting excited about, but since I was behind her I was paying a lot more attention to her than to the birds her head was swiveling to see. She was driving a powerful sedan 15 miles an hour, lurching and weaving in front of oncoming trucks, skimming close to parked field workers' cars. Eventually, an estuarine pond brought her to a complete standstill. I saw her gesturing and craning to see the reeds and shoreline. With no room to go to her left, I was stuck. I felt irritable and impatient with her oblivion, wanted to crunch her car, blare my horn, shoot something! She moved finally and thus her life was saved.
Zmudowski State Beach is wide, flat and very long at low tide. Today, there were frequent mushy little waves blowing in and just as many rip currents going out. Sand dollars, mollusks, and kelp bits dotted the tide line. The sand is much darker on that beach than others around Monterey Bay because the silt-laden Pajaro River empties out a mile away where it deposits its load of dirt and debris. Horsemen ride along this shore; few people, sure footing and a few miles of limitless beach make it equine heaven . The waves make a constant muffled roar, a white noise that's both soothing and exciting.
The ferocious blasts of wind earlier in the week had sculpted smooth dunes to the east of the waterline and left rippling patterns in the surface of the sand. They looked intricate and sere.
Sandpipers dashed back and forth on legs that spin lickety split in a blur. They escorted us, rushing and pausing in their zig-zagging search for bugs in the sand. Godwits wielded their long beaks like little swords held before them. The birds skittered along, kept pace, hesitated, stabbed the sand, and resumed their helter-skelter paths back and forth.
As we walked northwest to the river mouth, we noticed a wide expanse of barren sand flats off to our left, formed by high tides and flooding. There was a mist rising off the river that drifted low to the ground. It veiled figures in the distance like a mirage on a desolate landscape. Hell, it was a desolate landscape. A half-buried gull carcass dessicated by the wind lay next to dried bull kelp and weird crusted formations of sand. Sparse, spindly plants were sand blasted and stunted. Trash was blown away to the dunes and estuary beyond. Gary found a few bottles, bits of plastic, crummy stuff. Best - or worst, depending on your viewpoint - was a large flesh-colored dildo.
We walked in a wide arc exploring the river's edge. Conversation seemed unnecessary and we felt satisfied with the walk, the ocean, even the wind. California has a lot of problems, and I complain about them, but when I walk a mile or two of its 1,000 miles of coastline, I get pretty humble and very grateful.
Now it's sunny and cool. Shreds of fog are floating lightly offshore. We are breathing normally again.
The Sea Otter Classic is going on over at Laguna Seca Raceway. Cyclists mark April as a high point in the year for racing. I've heard 50,000 members of the cycling tribe have converged to compare derailleurs, dirt and helmet dings after their races. That's a lot of spandex and spokes in one place, and the scope is hard to imagine unless you actually see it.
At the far other end of the Peninsula, in another world really, is Pebble Beach. There, a Food and Wine Festival is underway. This is a take-no-prisoners haute cuisine event with chefs, sommeliers and gourmands impressing each other in a sort of gourmet gauntlet. I don't know anyone personally who plans to be there because I am not rich nor are my friends. I care a lot about fresh food well prepared, but this sort of event is not for the faint of heart when it comes to cash. Pebble Beach = lotsa money, no matter what the event or venue.
Gary and I drove north to Watsonville this morning. The route skirts Moss Landing where highway 1 is two lanes wide, one in each direction. Rush hour gets pretty clogged during the week for those making the trip to and from Santa Cruz. You're smart to get going early most days to avoid the conga line it turns into if you're traveling later.
We took the Zmudowski State Beach turnoff to a narrow lane tracking west through strawberry fields, following a frequently distracted birder. I could tell she was a birder because I'm also a birder, and I knew exactly what she was getting excited about, but since I was behind her I was paying a lot more attention to her than to the birds her head was swiveling to see. She was driving a powerful sedan 15 miles an hour, lurching and weaving in front of oncoming trucks, skimming close to parked field workers' cars. Eventually, an estuarine pond brought her to a complete standstill. I saw her gesturing and craning to see the reeds and shoreline. With no room to go to her left, I was stuck. I felt irritable and impatient with her oblivion, wanted to crunch her car, blare my horn, shoot something! She moved finally and thus her life was saved.
Zmudowski State Beach is wide, flat and very long at low tide. Today, there were frequent mushy little waves blowing in and just as many rip currents going out. Sand dollars, mollusks, and kelp bits dotted the tide line. The sand is much darker on that beach than others around Monterey Bay because the silt-laden Pajaro River empties out a mile away where it deposits its load of dirt and debris. Horsemen ride along this shore; few people, sure footing and a few miles of limitless beach make it equine heaven . The waves make a constant muffled roar, a white noise that's both soothing and exciting.
The ferocious blasts of wind earlier in the week had sculpted smooth dunes to the east of the waterline and left rippling patterns in the surface of the sand. They looked intricate and sere.
Sandpipers dashed back and forth on legs that spin lickety split in a blur. They escorted us, rushing and pausing in their zig-zagging search for bugs in the sand. Godwits wielded their long beaks like little swords held before them. The birds skittered along, kept pace, hesitated, stabbed the sand, and resumed their helter-skelter paths back and forth.
As we walked northwest to the river mouth, we noticed a wide expanse of barren sand flats off to our left, formed by high tides and flooding. There was a mist rising off the river that drifted low to the ground. It veiled figures in the distance like a mirage on a desolate landscape. Hell, it was a desolate landscape. A half-buried gull carcass dessicated by the wind lay next to dried bull kelp and weird crusted formations of sand. Sparse, spindly plants were sand blasted and stunted. Trash was blown away to the dunes and estuary beyond. Gary found a few bottles, bits of plastic, crummy stuff. Best - or worst, depending on your viewpoint - was a large flesh-colored dildo.
We walked in a wide arc exploring the river's edge. Conversation seemed unnecessary and we felt satisfied with the walk, the ocean, even the wind. California has a lot of problems, and I complain about them, but when I walk a mile or two of its 1,000 miles of coastline, I get pretty humble and very grateful.
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