I always thought it would be fun to burst out of a cake. I had a birthday cake once that was a doll whose skirt was cake and frosting. I think that gave me the idea. Covered in cake, I could be quite happy.
It's definitely a spa treatment I have not seen listed locally in our many fine hotels. In Pacific Grove, there are no spas. The town was dry until a startlingly recent time, so having a spa would be just as abhorrent to town fathers and mothers, at least of the older and grayer variety. New mothers and fathers probably actually enjoy making small boutique brews of their own, but the older town fathers....well, they ruled out fun for a pretty long time.
Imagine the difference between growing up on Lawrence Welk and then being faced with Pink Floyd just when you had life all figured out. Both involve a certain swirling experience evoked by froth and breezy smiling happiness, but champagne bubbles floating gaily around accompanied by polka music is worlds apart from looking at The Wall through a haze of psychotropic smoke.
I have to say, I have not actually indulged in a full spa treatment. No hot rocks, avocado facials, nor mud baths. No, I'm saddened to admit that my life has to date been limited by modest means and has not included mineral thises and thats. However, if a cake bursting experience in which I could be the burster were offered by an imaginative spa purveyor, I do believe I would be first in line.
If I could not burst out of a cake, I would definitely choose to swan dive onto one. I think reading myself to sleep while lying on a cake that I have just landed on would be a gentle and happy indulgence almost beyond imagining. I would love to do that. So, one for the bucket list: Swan dive onto very large delicious cake and really, really enjoy it. Mmmmmm hmmmmm...
What's on your list?
Tuesday, June 30, 2009
Saturday, June 27, 2009
Beyond Begonias
The sun came right out and said "Off with you!" to the fog today, and, amazingly enough, he went. So, the sun's out and she's having a great conversation with the summer breeze, who must be doing most of the talking because it's a little brisk out there. No clouds; they've run off somewhere, probably just hanging out, texting friends, planning a party or whatever clouds do in the summer.
I took a quick look at my flowers just now and they're looking pretty dandy, doing their best to attract bees. But, I believe the bees are napping or possibly in watching Wimbledon. They prefer to do their work in the morning before the breeze takes a walk around town. I have some begonias that are looking pretty awful and may just need a little nudge to the great beyond. They are a little long in the tooth, and I should replace them, but you know how that goes. Old guys need a little respect in their final days, give them a chance to recount former glory, teach the young blooms a thing or two. Generally, you kind of know when it's time to say good-bye for good, and I'm not quite there yet with those gents.
Like a lot of gardeners in the area, I am gradually adding more natives to the mix. They resist drought and invading hordes of insects much better than exotics do. Though it's better to plant natives in October or so, I'm heading over to Monterey this afternoon to the Native Plant Nursery for a good look at what they have in stock.
The biggest challenge for we who live on the Peninsula is a very definite paucity of water. Even in more lush years, rainfall barely replenishes the underground aquifer we are tapped into. The Carmel River, which runs the length of Carmel Valley, supplies water for what seems like a zillion people and their pets. Water diverted from the San Joaquin River delta goes to almost the entire state, especially southern California, but we here in this corner of the left coast, get our water from the local rivers and aquifers that are supposed to be recharged by seasonal rainfall every winter. The balance is in favor of we humans, not the rivers, so water levels drop and we are held on alert for possible rationing in dry years.
So, when we plant natives -- the wise plants who know how to survive with virtually no summer watering -- it helps decrease the impact on the water supply. If the human population were static or declining, we'd be in fine shape, but that isn't the case.
When I roam around in my garden listening to the idle talk between the blossoms out there, I try to imagine fewer of them, but that's a difficult vision to conjure. They're handsome and proud of their good looks. My plan is to let them live full lives, and when they finally pass on I'll replace them with natives, one by one.
I took a quick look at my flowers just now and they're looking pretty dandy, doing their best to attract bees. But, I believe the bees are napping or possibly in watching Wimbledon. They prefer to do their work in the morning before the breeze takes a walk around town. I have some begonias that are looking pretty awful and may just need a little nudge to the great beyond. They are a little long in the tooth, and I should replace them, but you know how that goes. Old guys need a little respect in their final days, give them a chance to recount former glory, teach the young blooms a thing or two. Generally, you kind of know when it's time to say good-bye for good, and I'm not quite there yet with those gents.
Like a lot of gardeners in the area, I am gradually adding more natives to the mix. They resist drought and invading hordes of insects much better than exotics do. Though it's better to plant natives in October or so, I'm heading over to Monterey this afternoon to the Native Plant Nursery for a good look at what they have in stock.
The biggest challenge for we who live on the Peninsula is a very definite paucity of water. Even in more lush years, rainfall barely replenishes the underground aquifer we are tapped into. The Carmel River, which runs the length of Carmel Valley, supplies water for what seems like a zillion people and their pets. Water diverted from the San Joaquin River delta goes to almost the entire state, especially southern California, but we here in this corner of the left coast, get our water from the local rivers and aquifers that are supposed to be recharged by seasonal rainfall every winter. The balance is in favor of we humans, not the rivers, so water levels drop and we are held on alert for possible rationing in dry years.
So, when we plant natives -- the wise plants who know how to survive with virtually no summer watering -- it helps decrease the impact on the water supply. If the human population were static or declining, we'd be in fine shape, but that isn't the case.
When I roam around in my garden listening to the idle talk between the blossoms out there, I try to imagine fewer of them, but that's a difficult vision to conjure. They're handsome and proud of their good looks. My plan is to let them live full lives, and when they finally pass on I'll replace them with natives, one by one.
Friday, June 26, 2009
She's a Breeze
Traveling along the geography of my body, I note that the southern extremities are cool today while the northern are much warmer. I went for a walk at the beach this morning and got my old gray socks wet. Again. So, my feet got cold, too. Not so bad though. Not so bad.
The swell was up - has been up - lately, and the waves made a whomping boom every now and again as a wave hit the sand or bucked up against the rocks or cement ruins here and there. Nothing eventful. Rather, it was peaceful in a swishy sandy way. My shoes came away covered with sand and no matter how much I stomped them afterward on my walk home, the sand stayed put, covering the soles and sides, awaiting an opportunity to finally fall off once I was inside my home.
The summer breeze has been scurrying around busily lately. She's like an old aunt who has gotten past her inhibitions and proprieties and gets a good laugh lifting up skirts, tossing hats and sending napkins sailing. I walked with her yesterday, as a matter of fact, catching her coming into town on errands with her arms full of clouds and mist. She's an odd mixture of grace and whimsy, that old girl is, and I think she gets a laugh out of that.
We sat briefly on a bench downtown.
"Did you see those golfers out there on the ninth fairway?" she giggled. "Oh, I had such a laugh! One of them had himself all set up to swing and I just couldn't resist. I gusted! I love it when I gust! It reminds me of the old days. Oh my..." and her voice trailed off with a little sigh. A flag fluttered on a nearby pole. She looked at it with a distant, unfocused glance, made a shooing motion with her hand. The flag snapped and strained on its clips and the rope pinged against the metal pole. "Oh!" She looked away distractedly, brushed a gray shock of hair off her forehead and stood up briskly. "Let's go!" And we set off downhill again.
In her younger days, she could slip over the tops of hills and down their slopes, ruffling the grasses rather delicately with her fingertips. She would rustle through the tops of willows at the river's edge and have long talks with the sun as they walked together through the day. She was longer legged, it seemed, back in those days, and she was lighter on her feet, a fine dancer. You know, just give her a fine cliff face to whirl off of and she would set the evening off in such refreshing way. Everyone has always admired the summer breeze, especially since she could do just about any small invisible thing and make it look so easy.
But these days, in the middle of June on the coast, with the fog lying around all fat and slothful, she's been a bit out of sorts, and I think she feels like she's losing her grip on the waves. She's from a large family, all eccentric, of course, and she never had children. She's told me a few wild stories about the black sheep in her family, the tornadoes. She suspects they need anger management therapy, and she's staying far away from them. It's for the best, she says. Mostly, she spends her time shooing clouds to the inland valleys.
"You know, I'm thinking of taking some time off for a while, write a memoir or something. I've given it some thought. No one really wants me around right now. The sun and fog are at it again, as usual. He's just gotten so full of himself. It's such a shame!" She put her clouds down on the beach and they ran off to play, pushing the water's surface into tiny wavelets. "If you really want to know," and she leaned toward me conspiratorially, "I think the sun should just blaze, let herself go for a change and teach him a lesson. She's been too diplomatic with him. She told me about the Wagner the wind has been listening to, but he's up north for the season, so I don't expect him around here for a while. It's just the fog that's getting to her. She just needs to blaze!" Her eyes widened with the thought of it, and she smiled quickly. A passing tourist caught her suddenly frisky hat.
She was chatty, smiled a Mona Lisa smile as she called her little clouds back to her for a snack now and again, and waved at the tourists on the recreation trail. I enjoyed her company and wondered if she could convince the sun to blaze again. I asked her to try again and she agreed. She ruffled my hair with her hand, and it felt good.
After a while, we found ourselves silent and simply sitting peacefully on the rocky shoreline, and then both knew it was time to go home, take a nap. We said good-bye and parted for the afternoon, me to walk back home and she to wander out west over the water to watch the gulls and pelicans, give them a lift, help them soar. She lives out there this time of year, reclining at the end of the day with her stockinged feet up. Listen over on Asilomar Beach at the end of the day and you'll hear the puffing breaths of her satisfying sleep, steady and soft in the night.
The swell was up - has been up - lately, and the waves made a whomping boom every now and again as a wave hit the sand or bucked up against the rocks or cement ruins here and there. Nothing eventful. Rather, it was peaceful in a swishy sandy way. My shoes came away covered with sand and no matter how much I stomped them afterward on my walk home, the sand stayed put, covering the soles and sides, awaiting an opportunity to finally fall off once I was inside my home.
The summer breeze has been scurrying around busily lately. She's like an old aunt who has gotten past her inhibitions and proprieties and gets a good laugh lifting up skirts, tossing hats and sending napkins sailing. I walked with her yesterday, as a matter of fact, catching her coming into town on errands with her arms full of clouds and mist. She's an odd mixture of grace and whimsy, that old girl is, and I think she gets a laugh out of that.
We sat briefly on a bench downtown.
"Did you see those golfers out there on the ninth fairway?" she giggled. "Oh, I had such a laugh! One of them had himself all set up to swing and I just couldn't resist. I gusted! I love it when I gust! It reminds me of the old days. Oh my..." and her voice trailed off with a little sigh. A flag fluttered on a nearby pole. She looked at it with a distant, unfocused glance, made a shooing motion with her hand. The flag snapped and strained on its clips and the rope pinged against the metal pole. "Oh!" She looked away distractedly, brushed a gray shock of hair off her forehead and stood up briskly. "Let's go!" And we set off downhill again.
In her younger days, she could slip over the tops of hills and down their slopes, ruffling the grasses rather delicately with her fingertips. She would rustle through the tops of willows at the river's edge and have long talks with the sun as they walked together through the day. She was longer legged, it seemed, back in those days, and she was lighter on her feet, a fine dancer. You know, just give her a fine cliff face to whirl off of and she would set the evening off in such refreshing way. Everyone has always admired the summer breeze, especially since she could do just about any small invisible thing and make it look so easy.
But these days, in the middle of June on the coast, with the fog lying around all fat and slothful, she's been a bit out of sorts, and I think she feels like she's losing her grip on the waves. She's from a large family, all eccentric, of course, and she never had children. She's told me a few wild stories about the black sheep in her family, the tornadoes. She suspects they need anger management therapy, and she's staying far away from them. It's for the best, she says. Mostly, she spends her time shooing clouds to the inland valleys.
"You know, I'm thinking of taking some time off for a while, write a memoir or something. I've given it some thought. No one really wants me around right now. The sun and fog are at it again, as usual. He's just gotten so full of himself. It's such a shame!" She put her clouds down on the beach and they ran off to play, pushing the water's surface into tiny wavelets. "If you really want to know," and she leaned toward me conspiratorially, "I think the sun should just blaze, let herself go for a change and teach him a lesson. She's been too diplomatic with him. She told me about the Wagner the wind has been listening to, but he's up north for the season, so I don't expect him around here for a while. It's just the fog that's getting to her. She just needs to blaze!" Her eyes widened with the thought of it, and she smiled quickly. A passing tourist caught her suddenly frisky hat.
She was chatty, smiled a Mona Lisa smile as she called her little clouds back to her for a snack now and again, and waved at the tourists on the recreation trail. I enjoyed her company and wondered if she could convince the sun to blaze again. I asked her to try again and she agreed. She ruffled my hair with her hand, and it felt good.
After a while, we found ourselves silent and simply sitting peacefully on the rocky shoreline, and then both knew it was time to go home, take a nap. We said good-bye and parted for the afternoon, me to walk back home and she to wander out west over the water to watch the gulls and pelicans, give them a lift, help them soar. She lives out there this time of year, reclining at the end of the day with her stockinged feet up. Listen over on Asilomar Beach at the end of the day and you'll hear the puffing breaths of her satisfying sleep, steady and soft in the night.
Thursday, June 25, 2009
Afternoon in the dust
I grew up in a safe haven far from gangs, hoodlums, and brutality. At least no evidence of that was ever to be seen on our quiet streets. We knew our fathers were good, we respected what they did and we accepted that we would be like them one day, welcomed that. We ate well, were provided for, and did not want for anything.
In our deepest hearts, though, we knew that what we were so sure of did not exist everywhere and, further, we knew some kids in our midst lived very differently. It was a generally peaceful place to be.
"I'm calling you out!"
This was the biggest threat of all to us. You got called out by an enemy. But, no one really had enemies. None of us did that we knew of. We hardly knew what an enemy really was.
You got called out and the certainty of a showdown was electric, and the news traveled like wildfire.
"Jackson got called out!" Eyes widened, hearts pounded. Jackson was going to get it, was going to eat it, didn't have a chance. But he was a tough, a bully, might even be a gangster. We speculated about all of it, and had no idea what any of it meant. We were soft, naive, stupid really.
"What happened?"
"Why's he gettin' called out?"
Every kid who had a pulse knew something was up. Your blood drove you forward to watch, and you watched with an intensity reserved for life-and-death moments, like dog fights, floods, car wrecks.
Billy Jackson was surrounded by a mob of tough kids, boys who bristled and jostled. Fight. It meant fight. There would be a fight. Robert Durkney was calling Jackson out. After school, when teachers lost control, kids slipped out of their grasp, they would be free to entertain their blood lust. There was no way Jackson could hide from Durkney. "Jackson's gonna fight Durkney. He got called out!"
Jackson lived down by the river and was trouble all the way through. He already drank, did things most other kids couldn't even imagine. We'd heard all the stories. He threatened adults, raided houses, trashed yards, shoplifted, shot his BB gun at dogs and killed pets. He was a tough rotten kid. If he called you out, you were dust. Why Durkney called him out was not known and it didn't really matter. But, it was Durkney who did the calling, and Durkney was just as tough. None came tougher. He was seldom even at school, had cuts and bruises on his face, raged with a cold fire in his eyes. In our minds, Jackson was mean but Durkney was murder. Both were wiry, strong, tough street kids who did not get love and did not want anything to do with calm reasoned understanding.
Jackson and Durkney were going to beat the living daylights out of each other. No one knew why and everyone wanted to see it. And everyone felt an excited dread in their hearts but didn't know why. It was like a tornado was going to be on our school grounds at 3:30. Our lives were quiet, simple and ordinary. We didn't have parents who beat us up and drank and cursed and got arrested. We knew of that side of life in our town because we caught glimpses of it on Durkney and Jackson's faces, in their eyes, in the jut of their chins, the grip of their fists.
The only badness in the rest of us allowed us to be silent in class to avoid investigation by the adults. If we were silent now, we could witness the mayhem later after the bell rang.
We heard the clanging and then we few hundred kids moved as a pack to the lower playground sand pit. Bursting out of the confiningn doors we were one mob with one frightened but maddened heart. We needed to see the darkness unleashed between Jackson and Durkney. They couldn't not fight now. It wasn't their choice anymore. What had been decided hours before now was all of our destiny.
The mob moved quickly and at its heart was a blood lust. Everyone was surprised by it and yet seduced by it; we moved with a shuffling trot east across the upper playground, rounded the corner of the building and poured down the short hill to the sand pit where forlorn and empty swings hung and the afternoon breeze gusted between them.
Durkney and two friends, strangers to us, stood together by the side of the pit. We halted and then waited. Jackson and his two walked down the hill. The boys glared at each other and spat. Then no one said anything. The two wore jeans, white t-shirts, shoes. No weapons, no dogs, nothing. It was just two mean angry boys filled up to the bursting point with adrenaline, anger and no sense at all. Durkney was blond, short and his arms looked strong. He never took his eyes of Jackson who had dark hair, more of a swagger about him and just as strong.
The rest of us were just kids who lived and died by the cruelty of rumors on the playground. Someone could say something to someone, just the smallest thing, and it was all over the school in what seemed like a moment. Adults existed in another realm that was remote and oblivious to our code, incomprehensible. We were our own tribe of little beasts, much worse in our own minds than ever hoped for in reality. We were capable of turning on each other just as quickly as we were able to grab a snack. More likely to be destructive of one another than empathetic, a duel in the sand pit after school between two hate-filled boys was the best that life had to offer our idle minds on a spring afternoon.
While Durkney and Jackson eyed each other for an opening, we watched as one single unit of preadolescent cruel curiosity. The only stake we had in it had nothing at all to do with the fighters. We were curious and we felt excited to be witness to the mayhem because it wasn't ours.
Someone yelled, "Watcha doin', ya pussy?" Jackson snickered and that's all Durkney needed. He sprinted forward so quickly we barely realized the fight was on. The lieutenants joined each other and there was nothing but white t-shirts grabbed by tough dry cuffing hitting fists and flying legs. Dust lifted above the gang of fighters. As quickly as the fight began, the shouts went up in the mob. The ugliness of the moment both shocked and thrilled us. We didn't need drums, we had our own heartbeats and stomping feet.
Then, the fight separated and the boys glared from a few feet. They stood very slowly back to their full heights and we stopped yelling and stomping just as quickly. They uttered low insults but stayed apart and then began to shuffle away in different directions, both away from us and the school buildings.
We stared and we accepted the verdict. The warring toughs who lived lives we had the barest glimpse of were now silently swallowed by distance and time. We were hushed and somehow sated, did not need any more than that vision of a vault of loneliness and mean silence that they occupied. They were not and never had been part of our world, had emerged from our midst for a moment to thrash each other and then disappear, leaving us with the reaffirming belief that our lives, handed lightly and sweetly to us, were surely delivered from evil.
In our deepest hearts, though, we knew that what we were so sure of did not exist everywhere and, further, we knew some kids in our midst lived very differently. It was a generally peaceful place to be.
"I'm calling you out!"
This was the biggest threat of all to us. You got called out by an enemy. But, no one really had enemies. None of us did that we knew of. We hardly knew what an enemy really was.
You got called out and the certainty of a showdown was electric, and the news traveled like wildfire.
"Jackson got called out!" Eyes widened, hearts pounded. Jackson was going to get it, was going to eat it, didn't have a chance. But he was a tough, a bully, might even be a gangster. We speculated about all of it, and had no idea what any of it meant. We were soft, naive, stupid really.
"What happened?"
"Why's he gettin' called out?"
Every kid who had a pulse knew something was up. Your blood drove you forward to watch, and you watched with an intensity reserved for life-and-death moments, like dog fights, floods, car wrecks.
Billy Jackson was surrounded by a mob of tough kids, boys who bristled and jostled. Fight. It meant fight. There would be a fight. Robert Durkney was calling Jackson out. After school, when teachers lost control, kids slipped out of their grasp, they would be free to entertain their blood lust. There was no way Jackson could hide from Durkney. "Jackson's gonna fight Durkney. He got called out!"
Jackson lived down by the river and was trouble all the way through. He already drank, did things most other kids couldn't even imagine. We'd heard all the stories. He threatened adults, raided houses, trashed yards, shoplifted, shot his BB gun at dogs and killed pets. He was a tough rotten kid. If he called you out, you were dust. Why Durkney called him out was not known and it didn't really matter. But, it was Durkney who did the calling, and Durkney was just as tough. None came tougher. He was seldom even at school, had cuts and bruises on his face, raged with a cold fire in his eyes. In our minds, Jackson was mean but Durkney was murder. Both were wiry, strong, tough street kids who did not get love and did not want anything to do with calm reasoned understanding.
Jackson and Durkney were going to beat the living daylights out of each other. No one knew why and everyone wanted to see it. And everyone felt an excited dread in their hearts but didn't know why. It was like a tornado was going to be on our school grounds at 3:30. Our lives were quiet, simple and ordinary. We didn't have parents who beat us up and drank and cursed and got arrested. We knew of that side of life in our town because we caught glimpses of it on Durkney and Jackson's faces, in their eyes, in the jut of their chins, the grip of their fists.
The only badness in the rest of us allowed us to be silent in class to avoid investigation by the adults. If we were silent now, we could witness the mayhem later after the bell rang.
We heard the clanging and then we few hundred kids moved as a pack to the lower playground sand pit. Bursting out of the confiningn doors we were one mob with one frightened but maddened heart. We needed to see the darkness unleashed between Jackson and Durkney. They couldn't not fight now. It wasn't their choice anymore. What had been decided hours before now was all of our destiny.
The mob moved quickly and at its heart was a blood lust. Everyone was surprised by it and yet seduced by it; we moved with a shuffling trot east across the upper playground, rounded the corner of the building and poured down the short hill to the sand pit where forlorn and empty swings hung and the afternoon breeze gusted between them.
Durkney and two friends, strangers to us, stood together by the side of the pit. We halted and then waited. Jackson and his two walked down the hill. The boys glared at each other and spat. Then no one said anything. The two wore jeans, white t-shirts, shoes. No weapons, no dogs, nothing. It was just two mean angry boys filled up to the bursting point with adrenaline, anger and no sense at all. Durkney was blond, short and his arms looked strong. He never took his eyes of Jackson who had dark hair, more of a swagger about him and just as strong.
The rest of us were just kids who lived and died by the cruelty of rumors on the playground. Someone could say something to someone, just the smallest thing, and it was all over the school in what seemed like a moment. Adults existed in another realm that was remote and oblivious to our code, incomprehensible. We were our own tribe of little beasts, much worse in our own minds than ever hoped for in reality. We were capable of turning on each other just as quickly as we were able to grab a snack. More likely to be destructive of one another than empathetic, a duel in the sand pit after school between two hate-filled boys was the best that life had to offer our idle minds on a spring afternoon.
While Durkney and Jackson eyed each other for an opening, we watched as one single unit of preadolescent cruel curiosity. The only stake we had in it had nothing at all to do with the fighters. We were curious and we felt excited to be witness to the mayhem because it wasn't ours.
Someone yelled, "Watcha doin', ya pussy?" Jackson snickered and that's all Durkney needed. He sprinted forward so quickly we barely realized the fight was on. The lieutenants joined each other and there was nothing but white t-shirts grabbed by tough dry cuffing hitting fists and flying legs. Dust lifted above the gang of fighters. As quickly as the fight began, the shouts went up in the mob. The ugliness of the moment both shocked and thrilled us. We didn't need drums, we had our own heartbeats and stomping feet.
Then, the fight separated and the boys glared from a few feet. They stood very slowly back to their full heights and we stopped yelling and stomping just as quickly. They uttered low insults but stayed apart and then began to shuffle away in different directions, both away from us and the school buildings.
We stared and we accepted the verdict. The warring toughs who lived lives we had the barest glimpse of were now silently swallowed by distance and time. We were hushed and somehow sated, did not need any more than that vision of a vault of loneliness and mean silence that they occupied. They were not and never had been part of our world, had emerged from our midst for a moment to thrash each other and then disappear, leaving us with the reaffirming belief that our lives, handed lightly and sweetly to us, were surely delivered from evil.
Friday, June 19, 2009
Turkey dreams
I dreamed I was pounding turkey meat in the kitchen for dinner, standing at the counter with a wooden mallet in my hand. I was preparing tender turkey breast layered with herbs, sauce and cheese. I imagined the flavor, delicate and savory, and my mouth watered. I dreamed I was banging the meat with loud thumps and it was flattening out nicely. Wham, wham, wham! I was preparing a feast for many friends who would be arriving with expectant appetites, good humor, beautiful clothes worn in a casually chic way. They would be bringing bottles of delicious wines, stories of good times through the past season. Bon Appetit magazine editors would ask me for my recipes and wish to photograph the savory poultry I was creating. Wham, wham, wham!
The pounding was very loud and it sounded like someone knocking on my door.
I realized someone was knocking on my door, but...it couldn't be. No one I know knocks like that on my door. Wham, wham, wham! I floated up to awareness and realized I had been sprawled on the couch in deep sleep, imagining dinner. The unreality of loud turkey pounding traded places with the reality of a heavy hand knocking on my door. I wanted to dream of fixing dinner more than I wanted to see who was pounding on my door. The curiosity replaced the happiness of a dream well encountered, so I went to see who was intruding into my unconscious so vigorously.
A solicitor. "How are you tonight?"
"I'm asleep."
She wasn't very sorry for evaporating my dream. I was a little put out at that. I would have been satisfied with some regret and apology, maybe some sympathy and an offer to return at a better time. She just wanted my money. She expected me to sympathize with her. Me with her! She had banged on my door at dinner time and wanted me to feel for her, empathize with her predicament, develop actual happiness that she had come to my door and separated me from my dream world, a dream world that involved delicious turkey, herbs, sauce, all kinds of intertwining flavors and satisfying texture, tantalizing aroma, sensuality, all the memories of eating fine savory poultry with good friends, laughter around the table, wine splashing in slow motion into beautiful tall glasses, enormous bouquets of flowers on linen-covered tables and the clink of fine silver on bone china.
My mind wandered away and found itself considering options for dinner, the offerings at the local theater, my conversation with a colleague at work a few days ago. Then, it wandered sleepily back to the feast I was preparing in the dimming, retreating dream. My wandering mind peeked hopefully into the dream world, hoping to rejoin it, but now the scene was gone like a little puff of mist.
The solicitor was earnestly asking for money for her cause. I had missed the parts in between that had explained about the cause, but now I was being asked to give her money to help fund it. She was gathering a head of steam, by the look in her eye.
I was standing there with my eyes half closed, my hair sticking up all over, my clothes on sideways, thinking of making pounded turkey breast, wishing I had cranberries and more sleep, and she was asking for money for her cause. I sighed. I leaned on the door frame. I imagined myself starving to death, pitiful, unable to survive unless I had my last meal of turkey, my dear friends gathered around me, saddened to see me wasting away so pitiably. All for the lack of a satisfying last meal. I visualized the poverty of it all, hoped it would be visible all over my face and hoped the woman at the door would realize finally that she was depriving me of a truly fine culinary experience, possibly my last. I hoped she would hand me her money, speak words of remorse and sorrow, walk away.
She finished and stood expectantly, waiting for me to hand her money, sign her petition, applaud her courage for joining the political fray. I leaned ever more alarmingly on the door frame doing my best to look tired, interrupted, dream deprived, starved for a good turkey dinner. A clock ticked somewhere. Einstein explained relativity as the clock ticked. My mind wandered off again, this time to Einstein's hair, his intelligence, his dismay at contributing to nuclear weaponry. I stopped short then, feeling lost and alone in the world having wandered so far from dreaming of a fine meal well prepared. Returning to turkey, herbs and tantalizing aromas I felt some sense of resignation. My mind wailed sadly, knowing the dream was really now just a dim memory.
The solicitor cleared her throat expectantly. I began to see this solicitor meant business and was not impressed with my sad disheveled state of deprivation and certainly was not going to budge without a really good explanation for dismissing her cause. I considered asking her to re-explain the cause and its needs. I tried to focus intelligently but, truth be told, I failed pretty soundly. This was feeling a lot like having to stand up in front of the third-grade class with Mrs. Belleman waiting to hear my book report. "I didn't read the book. My dog ate it."
All my upbringing and all my internal conflicts began to swirl up like an enshrouding fog. Could I just say no and shut the door? Some people can actually do that. I knew I would feel rude and mean spirited if I did. Could I tell her to come back later? I really didn't want to ever see her again. I'd have to go through all of this again or go to great lengths to avoid her or invent a wild excuse to explain...what? I didn't know what the cause was I didn't want to join or pay for. The solicitor looked at me. She tilted her head slightly and began to look a bit sad and crestfallen. Now I was in trouble. She was winning the sad-look contest. She was more determined than I was. I knew I would have fared better if she had come when I was more alert, but, no, I had been dreaming a wonderful satisfying dinner into existence in the middle of deep sleep. Damn.
I don't think I ever really did look sad. I was just a rumpled woman with her clothes on sideways who wanted to pound the snarf out of some dinner meat and was now having a hot flash. I think I looked like a sucker who had no idea how to get rid of a professional solicitor who had banged on the door. Good Lord, all right. I relented and handed her my last $10 and said I was broke, couldn't contribute more, wished her luck and she went away. Just like that. She took my money, ruined my turkey dinner reverie and won the sad, poor-poor-pitiful-me drama.
I'm going to get a No Solicitors sign for the door, gonna have that turkey dinner and invite everyone over to share it with me. Maybe in the Fall when turkey dinners are a better idea than in the middle of summer. You can come on over and share it with me, but please don't tell me about your urgent causes because I just gave out my last $10 and my mouth is really watering for some fine food. And boy do I need some sleep.
The pounding was very loud and it sounded like someone knocking on my door.
I realized someone was knocking on my door, but...it couldn't be. No one I know knocks like that on my door. Wham, wham, wham! I floated up to awareness and realized I had been sprawled on the couch in deep sleep, imagining dinner. The unreality of loud turkey pounding traded places with the reality of a heavy hand knocking on my door. I wanted to dream of fixing dinner more than I wanted to see who was pounding on my door. The curiosity replaced the happiness of a dream well encountered, so I went to see who was intruding into my unconscious so vigorously.
A solicitor. "How are you tonight?"
"I'm asleep."
She wasn't very sorry for evaporating my dream. I was a little put out at that. I would have been satisfied with some regret and apology, maybe some sympathy and an offer to return at a better time. She just wanted my money. She expected me to sympathize with her. Me with her! She had banged on my door at dinner time and wanted me to feel for her, empathize with her predicament, develop actual happiness that she had come to my door and separated me from my dream world, a dream world that involved delicious turkey, herbs, sauce, all kinds of intertwining flavors and satisfying texture, tantalizing aroma, sensuality, all the memories of eating fine savory poultry with good friends, laughter around the table, wine splashing in slow motion into beautiful tall glasses, enormous bouquets of flowers on linen-covered tables and the clink of fine silver on bone china.
My mind wandered away and found itself considering options for dinner, the offerings at the local theater, my conversation with a colleague at work a few days ago. Then, it wandered sleepily back to the feast I was preparing in the dimming, retreating dream. My wandering mind peeked hopefully into the dream world, hoping to rejoin it, but now the scene was gone like a little puff of mist.
The solicitor was earnestly asking for money for her cause. I had missed the parts in between that had explained about the cause, but now I was being asked to give her money to help fund it. She was gathering a head of steam, by the look in her eye.
I was standing there with my eyes half closed, my hair sticking up all over, my clothes on sideways, thinking of making pounded turkey breast, wishing I had cranberries and more sleep, and she was asking for money for her cause. I sighed. I leaned on the door frame. I imagined myself starving to death, pitiful, unable to survive unless I had my last meal of turkey, my dear friends gathered around me, saddened to see me wasting away so pitiably. All for the lack of a satisfying last meal. I visualized the poverty of it all, hoped it would be visible all over my face and hoped the woman at the door would realize finally that she was depriving me of a truly fine culinary experience, possibly my last. I hoped she would hand me her money, speak words of remorse and sorrow, walk away.
She finished and stood expectantly, waiting for me to hand her money, sign her petition, applaud her courage for joining the political fray. I leaned ever more alarmingly on the door frame doing my best to look tired, interrupted, dream deprived, starved for a good turkey dinner. A clock ticked somewhere. Einstein explained relativity as the clock ticked. My mind wandered off again, this time to Einstein's hair, his intelligence, his dismay at contributing to nuclear weaponry. I stopped short then, feeling lost and alone in the world having wandered so far from dreaming of a fine meal well prepared. Returning to turkey, herbs and tantalizing aromas I felt some sense of resignation. My mind wailed sadly, knowing the dream was really now just a dim memory.
The solicitor cleared her throat expectantly. I began to see this solicitor meant business and was not impressed with my sad disheveled state of deprivation and certainly was not going to budge without a really good explanation for dismissing her cause. I considered asking her to re-explain the cause and its needs. I tried to focus intelligently but, truth be told, I failed pretty soundly. This was feeling a lot like having to stand up in front of the third-grade class with Mrs. Belleman waiting to hear my book report. "I didn't read the book. My dog ate it."
All my upbringing and all my internal conflicts began to swirl up like an enshrouding fog. Could I just say no and shut the door? Some people can actually do that. I knew I would feel rude and mean spirited if I did. Could I tell her to come back later? I really didn't want to ever see her again. I'd have to go through all of this again or go to great lengths to avoid her or invent a wild excuse to explain...what? I didn't know what the cause was I didn't want to join or pay for. The solicitor looked at me. She tilted her head slightly and began to look a bit sad and crestfallen. Now I was in trouble. She was winning the sad-look contest. She was more determined than I was. I knew I would have fared better if she had come when I was more alert, but, no, I had been dreaming a wonderful satisfying dinner into existence in the middle of deep sleep. Damn.
I don't think I ever really did look sad. I was just a rumpled woman with her clothes on sideways who wanted to pound the snarf out of some dinner meat and was now having a hot flash. I think I looked like a sucker who had no idea how to get rid of a professional solicitor who had banged on the door. Good Lord, all right. I relented and handed her my last $10 and said I was broke, couldn't contribute more, wished her luck and she went away. Just like that. She took my money, ruined my turkey dinner reverie and won the sad, poor-poor-pitiful-me drama.
I'm going to get a No Solicitors sign for the door, gonna have that turkey dinner and invite everyone over to share it with me. Maybe in the Fall when turkey dinners are a better idea than in the middle of summer. You can come on over and share it with me, but please don't tell me about your urgent causes because I just gave out my last $10 and my mouth is really watering for some fine food. And boy do I need some sleep.
Tuesday, June 16, 2009
kelp, rocks and a walk
The ocean has been lake-like lately. That sentence feels hairballish, but it's the actual look and feel of the sea we see out there. Truly, with such calm waters, the kelp's rapid growth is becoming very obvious. It grows - according to scientists who actually take the time to measure that - about 2-3 feet per day. It gets growing pains like my brother did when he was 14 and grew a foot one summer.
So, now's the time to come rent a kayak at Lover's Point and venture out to see what you can see in the sea. I'm having fun with that, like the Owl and the Pussycat.
On my walk today, I saw a few houses being remodeled, refurbished and even one being built from scratch, so the economy does still have a pulse and cannot yet be considered dead on arrival. On a day like this when it's so quiet and the doldrums are upon us, weather-wise, you have a good chance of actually enjoying a walk, not being blasted off the recreation trail by the cold north wind. I strolled and reveled in it, felt vigorous and full of vim and vigor. I have a pretty good idea about vigor, but vim is still a vague concept to me. I'll take it though.
Harbor seals and sea lions choose the most uncomfortable rock outcroppings to haul out on and rest. I guess I'm assuming they're resting because they close their eyes, but they hold their hind flippers up and balance on their side on the tiniest pinnacles of the rocks in the most rakish and jaunty way. It emphasizes to me how much I love a good well-made bed that definitely does not have a large rock in the middle of it for me to balance on as I sleep.
So, the day is mild, gray but strangely warm. She's out there, I know the sun is, and she's keeping the wind in a straightjacket for now, which accounts for the warmth. It's the best we can do here in the Groove with June all around us. Whatever form of comfort we take in this season's offerings, be it balancing on precipitous rocks, walking breathlessly out in the almost sun or hitting top speed (15 mph) on Lighthouse Avenue in our 8-cylinder 450 horsepower Buick LeSabres, we are not to be denied even the tiniest bit of summer ease and luxury.
So, now's the time to come rent a kayak at Lover's Point and venture out to see what you can see in the sea. I'm having fun with that, like the Owl and the Pussycat.
On my walk today, I saw a few houses being remodeled, refurbished and even one being built from scratch, so the economy does still have a pulse and cannot yet be considered dead on arrival. On a day like this when it's so quiet and the doldrums are upon us, weather-wise, you have a good chance of actually enjoying a walk, not being blasted off the recreation trail by the cold north wind. I strolled and reveled in it, felt vigorous and full of vim and vigor. I have a pretty good idea about vigor, but vim is still a vague concept to me. I'll take it though.
Harbor seals and sea lions choose the most uncomfortable rock outcroppings to haul out on and rest. I guess I'm assuming they're resting because they close their eyes, but they hold their hind flippers up and balance on their side on the tiniest pinnacles of the rocks in the most rakish and jaunty way. It emphasizes to me how much I love a good well-made bed that definitely does not have a large rock in the middle of it for me to balance on as I sleep.
So, the day is mild, gray but strangely warm. She's out there, I know the sun is, and she's keeping the wind in a straightjacket for now, which accounts for the warmth. It's the best we can do here in the Groove with June all around us. Whatever form of comfort we take in this season's offerings, be it balancing on precipitous rocks, walking breathlessly out in the almost sun or hitting top speed (15 mph) on Lighthouse Avenue in our 8-cylinder 450 horsepower Buick LeSabres, we are not to be denied even the tiniest bit of summer ease and luxury.
Monday, June 15, 2009
Walk or Danish?
Faced with a blank page and a few unfocused thoughts, here I sit.
There is an uncertain light outside my window, pushing to get in out of the cold, slipping past the chair and onto the floor with a silent glance backward. It's like he's a harried tax man on April 14, doing what he can with the information given to him.
Clouds, with undulating patterns of blue and gray, shield the sun's brilliance from me. No fog today. He's lolling around somewhere else, probably eating a berry cheese danish from Pavel's Bakerei. If I were the fog, I sure would be eating one of those.
With all kinds of resolve, I strode out into the day, walked down to the water's edge and east to Hopkins Marine Station, the physical land form the denoting the edge of Pacific Grove's waterfront. 45 minutes of good intention rassled with an unruly impulse to head over to Pavel's for one of those cheese danishes. Good God, they are just delicious. But, intention is everything, and I can claim victory today, at least for now.
One day after a longer, even more brisk walk, I will go and sink my teeth into one of those and tell you all about it. Every crumb, every morsel, every single bit. For now, though, responsibility and prudence are calling, and I must prepare for work.
There is an uncertain light outside my window, pushing to get in out of the cold, slipping past the chair and onto the floor with a silent glance backward. It's like he's a harried tax man on April 14, doing what he can with the information given to him.
Clouds, with undulating patterns of blue and gray, shield the sun's brilliance from me. No fog today. He's lolling around somewhere else, probably eating a berry cheese danish from Pavel's Bakerei. If I were the fog, I sure would be eating one of those.
With all kinds of resolve, I strode out into the day, walked down to the water's edge and east to Hopkins Marine Station, the physical land form the denoting the edge of Pacific Grove's waterfront. 45 minutes of good intention rassled with an unruly impulse to head over to Pavel's for one of those cheese danishes. Good God, they are just delicious. But, intention is everything, and I can claim victory today, at least for now.
One day after a longer, even more brisk walk, I will go and sink my teeth into one of those and tell you all about it. Every crumb, every morsel, every single bit. For now, though, responsibility and prudence are calling, and I must prepare for work.
Wednesday, June 10, 2009
Fling it!
I'm just now awake, and there's not much going on. Feeling a bit bored, I consider dropping something off the balcony to see what happens. Nothing qualifies as smashable except the TV. This seems pretty tempting all right. Criteria include heft, ugliness, potential for dramatic impact and replacement with a flat-screen model.
The largest building in Pacific Grove by quite a wide margin is The Holman Building. It dominates the skyline. It's actually the only significant building in the skyline by city standards, depending on your vantage point. It's about six or seven stories high and all other buildings are two stories, maybe three, and they all stand shoulder to shoulder along Lighthouse or Forest avenues. The Holman Building - or Holman's as we call it, even though the store that gave it that name is long gone now - is a big ugly toad of a building that squats on half a city block bordered by Lighthouse, Grand, Fountain and Central avenues. A local self-described visionary bought it after Holman's and then Ford's department stores failed. He painted it mauve, a committee color that has gradually turned grayish pink over the years. You could argue that mauve actually is grayish pink, and I would agree. Certainly it's one of the most colorless of colors ever imagined.
So, the Holman Building is a big mauve toad. There you go.
Sitting here contemplating my TV and the Holman Building, I imagine the smithereens I could create by hauling my TV to the top of Holman's and dropping it off the rooftop. I think that would be something PG could attract visitors with. Not only could I and my friends fling offending machinery off the top, but we could sell souvenirs and award prizes, have a festival of flinging. We could build a trebouchet and send modern home appliances into the stratosphere. Oh, the possibilities: TVs flying uphill to the Middle School field, arcing high over the nursing homes and Victorians. Microwaves winging west to the golf course. "Fore!" Golfers running for cover. Even refrigerators soaring to Hopkins Marine Station. Biologists could find out what's actually within the Tupperware containers, take samples, measure the velocity and approach angles.
Pacific Grove is quiet, contained, reserved, peaceful. Boring. Dead. Bravely, an event literally rolls into town once a year - The Cherries Jubilee Classic Car Weekend rally. Cobras, Chevys, Skylarks, Mustangs and other cool cruisers line up, rev their engines a few times and drive off for a tour of the whole Peninsula. The organizers try to raise pulses with swing tunes played at twilight for couples to dance to. Old cranky citizens always call the police. "What's all that horrible racket? I can't hear my TV!"
The Groove has all this potential. Steinbeck wrote about a flagpole sitter who tried to set a record up on Holman's rooftop. Even then, the building inspired its citizens to scale its heights, challenge gravity, cure boredom. Tossing a TV is my version of that. Gulls strafe cars and streets for the same reason. So, we restless and bored stand ready to fling.
The largest building in Pacific Grove by quite a wide margin is The Holman Building. It dominates the skyline. It's actually the only significant building in the skyline by city standards, depending on your vantage point. It's about six or seven stories high and all other buildings are two stories, maybe three, and they all stand shoulder to shoulder along Lighthouse or Forest avenues. The Holman Building - or Holman's as we call it, even though the store that gave it that name is long gone now - is a big ugly toad of a building that squats on half a city block bordered by Lighthouse, Grand, Fountain and Central avenues. A local self-described visionary bought it after Holman's and then Ford's department stores failed. He painted it mauve, a committee color that has gradually turned grayish pink over the years. You could argue that mauve actually is grayish pink, and I would agree. Certainly it's one of the most colorless of colors ever imagined.
So, the Holman Building is a big mauve toad. There you go.
Sitting here contemplating my TV and the Holman Building, I imagine the smithereens I could create by hauling my TV to the top of Holman's and dropping it off the rooftop. I think that would be something PG could attract visitors with. Not only could I and my friends fling offending machinery off the top, but we could sell souvenirs and award prizes, have a festival of flinging. We could build a trebouchet and send modern home appliances into the stratosphere. Oh, the possibilities: TVs flying uphill to the Middle School field, arcing high over the nursing homes and Victorians. Microwaves winging west to the golf course. "Fore!" Golfers running for cover. Even refrigerators soaring to Hopkins Marine Station. Biologists could find out what's actually within the Tupperware containers, take samples, measure the velocity and approach angles.
Pacific Grove is quiet, contained, reserved, peaceful. Boring. Dead. Bravely, an event literally rolls into town once a year - The Cherries Jubilee Classic Car Weekend rally. Cobras, Chevys, Skylarks, Mustangs and other cool cruisers line up, rev their engines a few times and drive off for a tour of the whole Peninsula. The organizers try to raise pulses with swing tunes played at twilight for couples to dance to. Old cranky citizens always call the police. "What's all that horrible racket? I can't hear my TV!"
The Groove has all this potential. Steinbeck wrote about a flagpole sitter who tried to set a record up on Holman's rooftop. Even then, the building inspired its citizens to scale its heights, challenge gravity, cure boredom. Tossing a TV is my version of that. Gulls strafe cars and streets for the same reason. So, we restless and bored stand ready to fling.
Tuesday, June 9, 2009
June fruit
The market came again to Lighthouse Avenue, and Pacific Grove residents responded in kind, assembling from side streets and avenues, carrying bright cloth bags that caught on the air like balloons. I strolled around again, listening to the murmuring voices of people discussing plans in twos and threes while they sampled this and that.
"Sample, ma'am!" Stone fruits are showing up more week by week, and cherries are glossy, bright and sweet. No tomatoes yet. Meyer lemons are hanging in there. Blueberries from Martinez looked too tempting to ignore, so I didn't. They joined strawberries, apricots, plums and raspberries. I passed up the fresh fish again - no chance to eat them and do them justice soon enough. I'll buy some at the market on Thursday over in Monterey. Baby spinach and Italian parsley finished off my healthy purchases, so I headed over to the cupcake lady for a sweet indulgence. Chocolate on chocolate this week, packed in a special box. "Just bring it back next week for a refill," says Mrs. Delish's. I'm hooked.
In comparison to last week, the light was brighter and I only had to wear one sweater instead of two. Businesses I took special note of this week included, to my happy surprise, Petra's Mediterranean Restaurant, who offer hummus, baba ganoush, pita and other delectable treats. Also, Dress For Change was represented in a small booth. They feature clothing that's recyclable and organic. Having a lot of determination, they just opened within the past year on Forest Avenue, and we all know how much they're up against in this tough economy.
I spent every last dollar I had and walked home wondering when I'll be able to prepare and eat all the freshness I was carrying. But, as you can see, just looking at it is half the fun.
final note for the day
With full color guard, flags flying in arrears, the sun set sail for the western horizon, on her way to a rendezvous. She had warmed the air nicely and found herself wheeling through the day unopposed by the wind or fog. She was very pleased by this and had an extra spring in her step. She began to practice her scales, starting with a low contralto range and saving the high notes for later. She tossed her skirts, even flounced them a bit, very sassy and full of herself. It was going to be a good trip west beyond the horizon, and she anticipated a lingering conversation with the Pacific, wanted to catch up on the details of the night disappearing before her.
I stood on the bluffs near Asilomar and watched her go, felt the moist salt air cooling in her wake and heard the shushing gossip coming up to me from the confusion of currents below. The horizon was broad, stretching from Pt. Joe north to Santa Cruz and beyond. A silly, happy little breeze danced around, teasing skirts, lifting hats, twirling and spinning. Once in a while you can see dolphins offshore or, at the right time of year, a whale spout, but you're never too sure because the wind likes to send up imitating splashes of white from the tops of swells coming ashore.
You may arrive at the shore full of something. Worry, for instance, or confusion. You stand there and feel smaller and smaller, ant-like, but something grows larger inside you at the same time. You see the rocks that the waves have been harassing for centuries, who knows how long, and you feel your life is very short, that you have a lot to be thankful for, that for all our intelligence we know precious little about it all. You get everything back into perspective again and you are refreshed, relaxed and revived.
I watched the sun flick her amber scarves over her shoulder and they flew in gossamer shreds. Then, aware of her audience, she paused dramatically, savoring her moment, before stepping down below the horizon. "You've still got it, girl. Yes, you do!" she sang. Then she breathed deeply, hit a rich round E major and disappeared.
Saturday, June 6, 2009
A Bird Eats It
I had popcorn for lunch today. Well, there you go.
As I was sitting on the back porch, bare feet warming in the sunlight and distant clouds going through their slow tai chi, I noticed that I had been noticed. Urban birds were gathering in box hedges and rain gutters, wherever they could land and get a peek at me and my fragrant food. Aware of their intent to steal, I pulled my bowl in closer to myself and acted nonchalant. I wondered if any of them would be so emboldened as to attempt some popcorn theft.
Scrub jays, crows, English sparrows, pigeons and starlings are the urban bullies. The gentle native birds are long gone I think. Some migrate through in the spring and sing their little hearts out, telling wild stories of their travels, hoping for some notice and their chance at stardom. None of our urban trash birds have pretty songs. Not even close. Instead, they have loud voices, pointed elbows, and an abrasive manner. They throw beer cans around and bully the local weaklings, kick dirt in their faces.
I thought about this as I was munching the popcorn. Rather than seeing the gathering mob, I heard them. Crows made a hoarse rasping call. They bashed around, rustling and shifting restlessly, their talons scrabbling on the rooftop of my neighbor's garage beyond the nearby wall. To tease them I rustled the popcorn in the bowl and munched as loudly as I could. They rustled again themselves and one cocked his head over the top of the wall, sizing me up it seemed. I quickly made a mental inventory of my defenses. I believed I could hold my own against him, but his beak was very pointed and his eye was dark and glittered evily. Alfred Hitchcock must at one time have been munching popcorn in the vicinity of this sort of bird, heard their tuneless cackles and thought of what I now imagined: Hordes of birds attacking mercilessly, insanely, horribly.
All of a sudden, the beady-eyed rustler disappeared. Pfffft, gone out of sight. More rustling, coarse caws, thudding and flapping. Then several squawks resounded followed by the most gutteral and resoundingly garbled choking-on-a-hairball GLAAAAAACK that could possiby be imagined. It echoed off the surrounding rooftops and windows. The breeze stopped blowing. I stopped chewing and waited, holding very still. Nothing else. Silence fell with a long hush and a single feather drifted slowly to the ground.
Yes, it was odd all right, just the oddest thing. I hadn't hired the local cat, but I don't know that it was a cat. Coulda been a racoon, but the chances are very slim. I suppose the bird could have been vaccumed up by an alien; it sounded that weird. The bird got whacked is what it sure seemed like. Most emphatically deader than a doornail, but I couldn't see it, only heard that GLAAAAAAK and made my inference, you know. Somehow nature took its course in a rather dramatic, sudden, gizzard-squeezing, eyeball-popping way and I was saved. The breeze started up again slowly and a distant bit of music from a passing car wafted to me.
Popcorn is not my usual lunch, but it was good. When you're in the Groove, it will do just fine.
As I was sitting on the back porch, bare feet warming in the sunlight and distant clouds going through their slow tai chi, I noticed that I had been noticed. Urban birds were gathering in box hedges and rain gutters, wherever they could land and get a peek at me and my fragrant food. Aware of their intent to steal, I pulled my bowl in closer to myself and acted nonchalant. I wondered if any of them would be so emboldened as to attempt some popcorn theft.
Scrub jays, crows, English sparrows, pigeons and starlings are the urban bullies. The gentle native birds are long gone I think. Some migrate through in the spring and sing their little hearts out, telling wild stories of their travels, hoping for some notice and their chance at stardom. None of our urban trash birds have pretty songs. Not even close. Instead, they have loud voices, pointed elbows, and an abrasive manner. They throw beer cans around and bully the local weaklings, kick dirt in their faces.
I thought about this as I was munching the popcorn. Rather than seeing the gathering mob, I heard them. Crows made a hoarse rasping call. They bashed around, rustling and shifting restlessly, their talons scrabbling on the rooftop of my neighbor's garage beyond the nearby wall. To tease them I rustled the popcorn in the bowl and munched as loudly as I could. They rustled again themselves and one cocked his head over the top of the wall, sizing me up it seemed. I quickly made a mental inventory of my defenses. I believed I could hold my own against him, but his beak was very pointed and his eye was dark and glittered evily. Alfred Hitchcock must at one time have been munching popcorn in the vicinity of this sort of bird, heard their tuneless cackles and thought of what I now imagined: Hordes of birds attacking mercilessly, insanely, horribly.
All of a sudden, the beady-eyed rustler disappeared. Pfffft, gone out of sight. More rustling, coarse caws, thudding and flapping. Then several squawks resounded followed by the most gutteral and resoundingly garbled choking-on-a-hairball GLAAAAAACK that could possiby be imagined. It echoed off the surrounding rooftops and windows. The breeze stopped blowing. I stopped chewing and waited, holding very still. Nothing else. Silence fell with a long hush and a single feather drifted slowly to the ground.
Yes, it was odd all right, just the oddest thing. I hadn't hired the local cat, but I don't know that it was a cat. Coulda been a racoon, but the chances are very slim. I suppose the bird could have been vaccumed up by an alien; it sounded that weird. The bird got whacked is what it sure seemed like. Most emphatically deader than a doornail, but I couldn't see it, only heard that GLAAAAAAK and made my inference, you know. Somehow nature took its course in a rather dramatic, sudden, gizzard-squeezing, eyeball-popping way and I was saved. The breeze started up again slowly and a distant bit of music from a passing car wafted to me.
Popcorn is not my usual lunch, but it was good. When you're in the Groove, it will do just fine.
Last night I watched a gorgeously photographed film about The Entire Natural Planet. It's a pretty big subject, you know, but they filmed it with spectacular cinematographic techniques, panning left and then right across vast areas. Snowy plains in Siberia, grassy plains in Africa, ice fields in the Arctic.
Wow, the earth is beautiful and wow are we ever trashing it. We are just trashing the bejabbers out of it, and there is nothing stopping us from doing it except us, we 10 billion farting, burping greedy slobs.
I am not happy nor do I feel blithe about this at all. It's just so huge I don't know where to start. The ice is melting away. Way away, downstream to the ocean, and all the shores are getting swamped. Number after depressing number was quoted by the articulate-sounding narrator.
So, I got up from the couch where I had been for the previous two hours, and I turned off all the remaining lights, put my plastic bottle carefully in the recycling bin by my back door and tiptoed off to bed.
Wow, the earth is beautiful and wow are we ever trashing it. We are just trashing the bejabbers out of it, and there is nothing stopping us from doing it except us, we 10 billion farting, burping greedy slobs.
I am not happy nor do I feel blithe about this at all. It's just so huge I don't know where to start. The ice is melting away. Way away, downstream to the ocean, and all the shores are getting swamped. Number after depressing number was quoted by the articulate-sounding narrator.
So, I got up from the couch where I had been for the previous two hours, and I turned off all the remaining lights, put my plastic bottle carefully in the recycling bin by my back door and tiptoed off to bed.
Thursday, June 4, 2009
Greeting the sun again
Lo and behold, the sun came out today! So, I had a conversation with her as she idled overhead.
I was in the garden wrestling with the albuteron and eyeing the spent blooms of my roses when she first appeared. I asked her about her ongoing conflict with the fog and if it bothered her much. She looked a bit peeved when I asked. "That fog is a constant pain in my side," she sniffed. "I give him every opportunity to just be a normal cloud, but, no, he has to roll around on the coast and undo all that I've done all morning long. It's so hard to get good help these days."
The sun wears old crinoline skirts lined with gold and she adds sequins to them now and again, usually after the clouds give up their tantrums and wander off. I personally know that she loves garlic, especially in pesto, smiling more kindly on gardens where it grows. She's a diva. Anyone knows that. But, she has her moments when her confidence crumbles a bit.
I felt her warm caress on my back for the first time in days and told her how good it felt. She smiled with gleaming teeth. I squinted and worked at the weeds at the base of the roses. I asked her if she was planning to be out more this week, if we could expect a bit more warmth than we've been getting. She was glancing at herself in a sliding glass door, checking her pearls, straightening her crown. She touched her gold-gloved fingertip to the corner of her lip and thought for a moment. "Yes, well, I have my plans, but you'll need to see what the wind is up to. I can't control him, you know. He's taken a liking to Wagner again. He gets all worked up over it and just goes wild."
She played with the surface of a little fountain, splashing it, tossing a few glittering diamonds across its surface with a casual throw-away gesture. Then she breathed deeply. Reaching high overhead she stretched her arms grandly. A hesitant wisp of cloud hurried away. The sun idled away to the west, walking slowly, swaying her hips and fluffing her thick blonde hair. One strand fell on her shoulder. She just looked so lovely and fine that I had to smile. Her presence always commands attention even if the wind shows her so little respect. The day was her stage and she knew it.
After my garden chores were done and feeling quite satisfied with the day, I enjoyed the pleasure of sitting in my big blue chair out on the patio for a little while. The diva sun was long gone by then but not forgotten by any stretch of my imagination.
I was in the garden wrestling with the albuteron and eyeing the spent blooms of my roses when she first appeared. I asked her about her ongoing conflict with the fog and if it bothered her much. She looked a bit peeved when I asked. "That fog is a constant pain in my side," she sniffed. "I give him every opportunity to just be a normal cloud, but, no, he has to roll around on the coast and undo all that I've done all morning long. It's so hard to get good help these days."
The sun wears old crinoline skirts lined with gold and she adds sequins to them now and again, usually after the clouds give up their tantrums and wander off. I personally know that she loves garlic, especially in pesto, smiling more kindly on gardens where it grows. She's a diva. Anyone knows that. But, she has her moments when her confidence crumbles a bit.
I felt her warm caress on my back for the first time in days and told her how good it felt. She smiled with gleaming teeth. I squinted and worked at the weeds at the base of the roses. I asked her if she was planning to be out more this week, if we could expect a bit more warmth than we've been getting. She was glancing at herself in a sliding glass door, checking her pearls, straightening her crown. She touched her gold-gloved fingertip to the corner of her lip and thought for a moment. "Yes, well, I have my plans, but you'll need to see what the wind is up to. I can't control him, you know. He's taken a liking to Wagner again. He gets all worked up over it and just goes wild."
She played with the surface of a little fountain, splashing it, tossing a few glittering diamonds across its surface with a casual throw-away gesture. Then she breathed deeply. Reaching high overhead she stretched her arms grandly. A hesitant wisp of cloud hurried away. The sun idled away to the west, walking slowly, swaying her hips and fluffing her thick blonde hair. One strand fell on her shoulder. She just looked so lovely and fine that I had to smile. Her presence always commands attention even if the wind shows her so little respect. The day was her stage and she knew it.
After my garden chores were done and feeling quite satisfied with the day, I enjoyed the pleasure of sitting in my big blue chair out on the patio for a little while. The diva sun was long gone by then but not forgotten by any stretch of my imagination.
Tuesday, June 2, 2009
Monday is Market Day
For the first time in a few weeks, months probably, I went to the Pacific Grove Farmers Market. It materializes every Monday afternoon, generally after 3 PM. Officially it's 4-8 PM right downtown on Lighthouse Avenue.
The market is just completing its first year of business, and it has been a struggle. Basically Pacific Grove is a destination town, shouldered aside by Monterey and Pebble Beach, over the hill from Carmel. So, you get here because you intend to get here, not because you made a wrong turn off the freeway. Shoppers who want to save a few dollars get in their cars and drive 20 miles to Marina round trip or even over to Salinas to get to the Wal-Mart or Pennies, but they miss out on what's on offer here in our foggy little corner of the universe.
The market is about two blocks long, and vendors are from Monterey and Sen Benito Counties as well as a few determined souls from as far away as Fresno. Produce is all organic and, of course, just picked, plucked or pulled that day.
Starting my walk at Grove Market (voted best neighborhood market in Monterey County for the zillionth time this year), I picked up a few staples and a market bag to flaunt my allegiance to the store. Charlie Herrera has the magic touch and runs a fine business there. I am happy to say I am ferociously loyal to the place - mostly because he sells the best darned bacon you can ever hope to eat. Try it - you'll see what I mean. I am equally happy to say that my very long-time friend Leslie is one of the best grocery clerks in all of creation; we always have a little catching up to do when I visit the store.
I trotted on down to the market then and feasted my eyes on the tubs of gerbera daisies, spring flowers, and roses, but I was really more interested in finding some seasonal fruit and greens for the table. Strawberries, raspberries, some very early apricots and cherries glowed in the mid-afternoon light. "Sample? Sample?" A vendor held out plump, red strawberry temptation-on-a-plate. I found my best deal at three brimming basketsful for $5. Another farmer was just filling up bins with late citrus including Meyer lemons. "I just picked them for you," he said smiling, and I fell for it. I chose three weighty beauties. Just because I asked, he gave me tips on pruning my own little tree, warning about suckers which steal the moisture from the rest of the plant.
The wind was rather kind and meek, but it was cold - maybe 53 or so. It's June now, and everyone is still wearing fleece, scarves and even gloves though the sun shines in nearby towns. I saw a few birds wearing sweaters, I think. At least they were flying right-side up.
The mushroom farmer's portabellas, crimini and white mushrooms were dewy and tender with freshness. I bought a pound. Next, glossy zucchini with the blossoms attached and raspberries. A small boy walked by eating some of the berries like candy, his mom herding him away from the tubs of water holding flowers.
At the last strawberry stand, a woman strolled very slowly by and sighed, "Oh, those berries smell so fragrant!" She inhaled and closed her eyes, rhapsodising about the aroma. I thought she might begin a little pirouette and I gave her a bit of elbow room.
I met a new vendor, newly here from Michigan. She and her husband had wandered west a couple of years ago and decided PG should be their home and came to live. Being a good wholesome mom from Michigan with a three-year-old girl to raise, she decided to bake cupcakes for a living. Her husband bought her some fancy carriers ("I loved him that day!"), and her fate was sealed. Now she calls herself Mrs. Delish's and offers tender and light treats at the market now and again. $3 a pop and you get about four mouthfuls of homemade goodness.
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