Two Tomato Plants

This afternoon I figured I ought to go have a look and see if any more tomatoes had ripened, as I plan to make bacon, lettuce, and tomato sandwiches for the evening meal tomorrow.

There were a few. I have two Roma tomato plants in between the shrubs beside the driveway; this year I managed to drum up some gumption and put in an extension from my drip line right to my tomatoes. Apparently the plants liked it.

You will of course have noticed that not all the 'maters are red. I tend to pick them just as they begin to color (they turn red almost overnight anyway) because if I leave them until they're red, the ants get after them. Few things of summer aggravate me more than reaching for a beautiful red tomato and finding the entire back of it devoured and covered by ants.

I grow Romas for their hardiness, bushy habit, and prolific fruiting. But for flavor, I normally buy Better Boy plants. This year, some volunteer plants sprung up from last year's ant casualties among the Better Boys, and on a whim, I let them grow. They are producing a medium-sized fruit on leggy vines ... the first one was ripe today, and I had it for lunch. Heavenly flavor. I could smell "TOMATO!" as soon as I cut the first slice.

Chicken Little said, "The Sky Looks Funny!"

When I looked out the front window this after- noon, I saw that the light was -- how shall I say it -- "funny-looking."

The sunlight on the loosestrife seemed more mellow than I expect at noon; high summer in California makes a lot of colors look washed out in the brightest part of the day.

When I went outside to see, there was a reason for the change in light -- smoke in the sky. The haze that clouded us over was from the Del Puerto Canyon wildfire to the southwest.

The fire started on Sunday evening, and continues to burn. I woke tasting smoke on Monday morning, and today as well. I hope they get it out soon.

In the meantime, I'll enjoy the intensification of color in the yard. These roses were doomed to removal last spring, but we didn't get the roots dug out in time, and of course, now we can't bear to rip out such a beauty. A reprieve in the smoky air.

The Making of a Goldfish Pond

We had a little water garden just off the front porch.

There were some variously-colored fish in it, still small (Wal-Mart fish), and a water lily. A modest little half-barrel of water.

It was so charming that we became incensed and set out to make a larger, free-form pond for our fish to roam in. We took turns digging. Howie got his turn, too, and in this picture, you can see him begging for another chance to dig. He was very helpful in breaking up the dense layer of compacted clay.
While us diggers took needed ice water rests, Lillian tested the depth by climbing down into the hole. Not so dangerous; the soil is so clayey that there's no chance of the sides falling in. To expand the hole, we had to shave slices off with our shovels.

Howie still thinks he should be digging.

Behind Lil can be seen the beginnings of a shelf for water plants to reside in pots. We're thinking the water lily, a zebra rush, a tule reed, and a small-leafed spreading thing that is cute but I didn't take time to learn the name of.

This radically forshortened image of me was taken as I was slicing down to reach the requisite 2.5 feet. I look like I should be playing for the Steelers, and my feet look
teensy. I still have another foot deeper to go.

*Also note the hat so that my shorn head does not sunburn.

We hope to work on the pond some more this weekend, but the temps are predicted to rise into the 100's ... the fish are safe out back in a temporary pond in the shade. They may have to wait another week.

A Visit to the River

On Monday morning, Bernie and I decided to take a walk.

We hadn't been down to the levee along the Stanislaus River since the flooding of the golf course. Jack Tone Golf is now dry, but in a sorry state; the flooding left a large portion of the grass dead. They've been reseeding and tending, but what a mess!

By the east side of the golf course, we spotted these birds. The one on the top branch was obviously a juvenile, still squealing at a parent bird for food. When we got back from our walk, we checked our bird book, but were unable to make a decisive identification.

Howie was lagging behind us, sniffing at a fenceline when we spotted a large turtle. We called How, wondering what he would think of the creature.

He trotted briskly to catch up and then pass us, and only when he was within a foot of the turtle did he realize that what he must have thought was a rock -- was alive! He leaped into the air in startlement. (Bernie and I couldn't help but laugh, shame on us.)

Howie circled the creature suspiciously, backed away, and predictably, came to me and sat down behind me, where he knew he would be safe.

I sent him back to "Go see!" and he did, sneaking up on the turtle while I took this photo. The turtle released a stream of fluid. Eww. After that, Howie treated every stone in the road with caution.

The river has returned to normal levels, but the little coves and beaches are quite different, with big trees felled by the flood waters and the sandy soil eroded away from banks. The levee breach that allowed the flooding of the golf course was too far downstream for us to find without venturing into the thick woods of the wildlife refuge.

Keeping Busy

I've been trying to get back to digging in the soil a little.

I planted impatiens in pots, and had them under a tree beside the patio. I used to grow roses in that spot, but then it got too shady when the tree grew. I took the roses out, and put potted impatiens there. They did fine for two years, but now the tree is much bigger, the fir pines we planted on the south side of the patio are huge, and there is simply not enough light there for the impatiens to bloom. Fortunately there's a little recess in the brick barbecue, and they look nice there.

Then there was the big green pot, in which alstromeria had resided, looking lush and beautiful this past wet spring. I'd thought they died. Well, apparently that was their habit, because after their first bloom, they disappeared again. The heck with that. I bought a New Guinea impatien, and some white ones to keep it company. The pot is getting too shady for sun-loving flowers anyway.

It's a start. I've neglected the back yard for a couple years -- ever since we had to cut down our huge eucalyptus that ensured our privacy in our pool. Everything seems so ... well, exposed, of course. But I did find that now that the shrubs along the fence have grown up, there is a nice corner of the pool that is visible from NO neighbor's yard. That's encouraging.

Today flew by, and I didn't get to walk with Howie in the morning. I'd intended to play with him in the pool all afternoon, but I went out to lunch with Bernie (our last weekday lunch!) instead. The wind kicked up and it wasn't feeling much like a lounge in the pool late afternoon, but I did get in and throw the ball for Howie. He decides when he's had enough, and goes to the patio to be dried off.

Here he is, mostly dry, happy to have been playing, with his ball at his feet ... keeping an eye on me in case I decide to throw the ball one more time.

We still get sudden "blue" fits, missing Babe, but we're adjusting.

We're looking forward to a four-day weekend -- barbecuing, a movie, and some writing exercise. And camping out in the tent!

Cheers!

Time Change

Bernie may be seeing a few more of these soon.

Through a fluke in the system, and possibly more than a little prayer, Bernie is unexpectedly going to be able to move to the first shift of operation at his plant.

What does this mean? Well, it means that instead of getting home from work at 4am, he has to leave for work at 4am. It means that instead of sleeping through sunrises and working through sunsets, he'll see the sun rise on his way to work, and watch sunsets from home -- with me.

It means family dinners again. And warm snuggles at night.

Now granted, it does mean getting up at 3:30 in the morning. But being a middle-aged woman, that's not uncommon for me, anyway. Once he's off to work, I'll likely write or edit. I might end up napping at mid-morning, but who knows?

The tricky part is going to be suppertime. I haven't eaten much food at night for a long, long time. But Bernie will be ravenous when he gets home, so good meals will be in order. I'm going to have to learn to take tiny portions, and then EAT EVERYTHING LEFT OVER AT LUNCHTIME THE NEXT DAY!!!! (Bwah-ha-ha!)

I'm cautiously awaiting, and trying not to be too excited over this change.

Look at the Tomatoes on That One!

It's tomato season again.

My Roma tomatoes have been encouraged by the hot weather to ripen. I picked a dozen on Sunday, and another eight yesterday. Monday I was possessed by an urge to fix my sprinkler system, which I did, and then extended it to reach the tomatoes in the front of the house. Fatten those maters right up, automatically! I love the smell of tomato vines, and rustling through their leaves and stems for ripe tomatoes is as good as any Easter egg hunt I ever went to as a child.

Heat Wave

There was a song, a long time ago, called "Heat Wave."

The song made it out that a heat wave was groovy, perhaps even ginchy, in the vernacular of the time. Or maybe it didn't. I never listened to the song with more than half an ear, to be honest. As a kid, I was a linguistic snob, and if I couldn't clearly understand the lyrics to a song, I dismissed it. Did the song even have a melody?

Well, we're in a true "heat wave" now, and the breeze is like standing in front of Hell's exhaust fans. You can feel your skin shrivel after a few minutes.

The indigenous people of this area are frequently shown in old drawings as wearing no clothing. I can understand why. How did they survive without air conditioning? Why, they betook themselves to the river, which, fed by the meltoff of last winter's snow, is still one chilly watercourse even in the hottest bit of the summer.

We were guests at a lovely party today, but the air conditioning was iffy and the nearest swimming pool was warmish.

No clothes and a nearby river would have been preferable.

One Foot In Front of Another

Howie finally ate his bowl of dog food today.

It was the first time since the day before Babe's death that he voluntarily ate anything besides a tablespoon of cottage cheese in the mornings; I was able to tempt him Tuesday with an egg sprinkled with queso cotija, but that was all. Now this is not to say that my little striped sausage couldn't afford to drop the weight -- he does look nicely slim now. But it is to say that Howie has been grieving, too. Babe was his boss, and he took his orders and his tone from Babe.

This evening something wonderful happened. All five people of the family were in the living room once Alex got home from work; even the cat was there. Granddaughter Lillian was throwing a tennis ball for Howie, when he was suddenly possessed of the wild-eyed gallops. He raced from the back door to the front door, and every time he passed a person he leaped in the air and roared. He was grinning like a crazy dog, and attacked Bernie's feet, then John's, then zoomed to Lillian's bedroom and back and almost leaped over the back of the couch. He barked at the cat, and the cat cuffed him vehemently with both paws on the face! He chased the cat around the room and under the entertainment center! In the five years Howie has been with us, this is the first time he was allowed to play loudly and crazily -- Babe simply would not permit it.

It will be interesting to see how Howie develops in days to come. He's always been The Puppy. Now he's The Dog.

He's got a goodly portion of herding genes in his makeup, and I did notice that during his manic spree he was doing his growly roar right beside the rumps of the family members. He is part Queensland Heeler. I hope he's not going to decide to become an ass-nipper. That kind of humor gets old really fast.

I was glad to see him play.

In Memoriam

Babe is gone.

The vet and I looked at his chest x-rays together; she pointed out the mottling that covered most of his lungs. In light of the fact that he'd fallen facefirst into the pool a couple weeks ago (playfully trying to attack me as I swam), we figured the old fellow had pneumonia. A robust round of antibiotics and he might pull through.

His breathing had gotten loud and short over night, not quite panting. The doctor took a blood sample, too, and we were on our way with some hope. Until we were about to leave, and Babe coughed blood onto the floor. Everything slowed down and seemed to stop. I called a vet assistant, and she came and picked up the blood and went to get the vet again. She talked with me for a few more minutes.

She was right twice over. She told me that dogs that are to the point of coughing blood frequently go downhill fast. She told me that there was a strong possibility that he had cancer.

The next day the worst was confirmed. The blood showed numerous cancerous cells, and by evening, Babe had stopped eating and was just lying in his corner, puffing, each short breath counting down the hours.

Today we said goodbye to Babe as he left peacefully, the vet, the vet's assistant, Bernie and I -- all of us crying. The vet has known Babe for 11 years, too.

It was the right thing to do. Nothing makes it easy to have a pet euthanized, though. We let them so deeply into our hearts -- maybe because their love in return is so trusting, so unconditional.

My memories of Babe are pretty much all good. His first run on a long line with Bernie, who underestimated the speed and power of a year-old German Shepherd -- and ended up face-plowing as Babe dragged him off his feet. Babe helping to dig holes for shrubs in the yard, his huge yellow feet moving soil faster than my shovel could. His face wistfully set on the kitchen table as he hoped for a "cute" factor to gain him a tidbit or two. His unflagging optimism.

He was my sweet honey-bunkins.

Bad News

Babe is failing.

The great German Shepherd Dog, who in his prime weighed a lean 100 pounds, has been withdrawing from us, and losing weight and appetite and interest. He wants to sleep almost all the time, and sleeps so deeply that he doesn't notice someone coming to pet him.

Tomorrow I'll make a vet appointment for him; but I think his end is near. It's hard. I remember him best as the tireless ball-player, The Great Communicator who could tell us that he wanted clean water, or dog cookies, or cottage cheese from the fridge, or just Out.

Maybe he'll rally, again. I don't know.

Just so you know, if you didn't read the Press a few years ago, this is Babe's personal song:

Baby, baby,
You're so sweet
You're like the alligator
With the yellow feet!

Baby, baby,
You're so cute
You're like the crocodile
In the fur suit!

We'll see how he is in the morning.

Did I mention that it's hard?

Cheryl Made Me Look Like a Dunce

Cheryl gave me a whack this past week.

She wrote this poem, and it was sexy and strangely alluring, yet disturbing. I was reminded of long, long past boyfriends and of fictitious male characters in my books. We were chatting online, and after I'd complimented her on the poem, she asked me, "Did you know what it was about?"

Deer in the headlights moment.

What it was about? Uhh, wasn't it about some tall seductive person? Wasn't that obvious? Wait, Cheryl is never obvious! Crap! I missed something really important!

I called up the poem and re-read it. Sexxxay, as dear Josh would say, and quite readable ... still, it was obvious I was missing something.

Opting for the deer in the headlights reaction, I just basically said, "Hi! Is there somebody there?"

Pow.

I was run over by Cheryl's tongue-in-cheek semi: The poem was about too-high-heeled shoes.

Me = Road Kill when it comes to analysis of writing, or parodies, or analogies, or whatever the hell people call them when what is written isn't really what it means.

Well, except when I do it, of course.

Stinking Cheryl. Just wait and see if I don't prod people to "Write Fiction Like Cheryl" for a contest again this summer.

Pomegranate Thoughts

Pomegranates.

When I was a little child, my mother told me about the exotic fruit called "pomegranate." At Christmastime, she told me, her mother would buy a pomegranate for the kids to share. She tried to describe the taste of the fruit, and how it looked. I wished I could see one and taste one, her wistfulness was so evident.

But we lived then in a very rural Central Pennsylvania, and pomegranates were a fable, a rumor, a fictitious vegetable.

I was sixteen and daringly going alone to the supermarket to do the shopping when I spotted my first pomegranate. On impulse, I bought one, and Mother was not critical of the purchase when I brought it home. (I wasn't buying groceries on my own money at that point, having no income of my own!)

Breaking into the heavy-rinded fruit was a lesson in itself: we carefully tore back the skin from the blossom-end, exposing gradually the garnet-colored seed-drops in the interior. The taste was less acerbic than cranberries, but more tart than cherries. It was a flavor of foreign lands, of harvests more improbable than peaches or cucumbers. When I went away to college, at Christmas I would buy a pomegranate -- to remind me of my heritage, to savor the vivid flavor that laughed in the face of icy winter.

Globalization brought pomegranates into Pennsylvania stores regularly in the years that followed. We enjoyed every one we bought.

It was only after moving to California that I was able to have a pomegranate tree of my own, and I lost no time in doing so. That orange blossom above is a pomegranate bloom, and the photo below is a fertilized blossom.

Last year, the weather at this time of year was so chill that none of the blossoms set. This year, we're hoping for a few blessed treats when November and December roll around.

By then, the pomegranates will be as big around as large apples, and we'll have a big bowl of pomegranate to challenge the cranberries at Thanksgiving and Christmas.

Do Her Eyes Follow You?

This is the cover image for this week's issue of the Piker Press.

I was very pleased with this result, as I've been beating the crap out of myself trying to learn how to use Photoshop effectively. One has to remember that it was only in the year 2001 that I learned how to do Instant Messaging, and only a couple months ago learned how to load illustrations or photos to the Press.

I'm pleased by my progress.

Last week I found a bamboo stake and fixed it in the ground at the far end of the pool. I had a reason for doing so: this year's lovely red dragonfly needed a place to land and survey his/her territory. In less than an hour, the dragonfly that had been buzzing our yard found the pole and alit. So fond of the stake is the bug that I can stand a foot away from him/her and the dragonfly is quite willing to allow me the intimacy.

My husband asked me how I knew to put a stake up for the dragonfly. "When there have been gladiolus spikes in the same place, the dragonflies land on them," I told him. He was a little surprised that I had drawn a connection, not because I'm stupid, but because he'd not thought of making an artificial spike to replace the dug-up gladioli. I could have told him it was a hedge-shaman thing, that we know how the wild things prefer their environment, but in reality, it wasn't much different than knowing that if you want to make changes to an image in Photoshop, the first thing you need to do is duplicate a layer or add a new one to experiment on.

I know that if a bug lands repeatedly on a certain tall plant, a surrogate tall "plant" will be an acceptable place to land.

By the same reasoning, if every attempt at modifying an image is going to produce a mess in Photoshop, just add an additional or copied layer and it will become an acceptable place to experiment.

When I crawled out from my cave under the tree-roots, I saw the dragonfly on the perch beside the water and told him/her, "Thank you."

Letting Go

This weekend is "Spring Cleaning Weekend" in our little city.

All the oversized junk that a household wants to get rid of can be put out on the curb, and for free, an anonymous dump truck will carry the stuff away.

Obvious candidates for "Spring Cleanup" are the roll-down sun-shades from last year that one of the winter storms violently ripped off its moorings and flung to the patio; the disgusting rusted cheap folding chairs that no one wants to sit in anymore; the faithful wheelbarrow that just fell apart last fall with no intact area to repair any more.

The stacks of growers' pots from many shrubs -- I haven't started plants in years, who am I kidding? -- those went onto the growing pile in front of the house. The failed experiment of the push-reel-mower (that "green" solution would have worked if filthy perdition-headed Sears hadn't purveyed such a shitful product, but that's a whole 'nother story); the spunky little rototiller that I no longer have use for, but definitely got my money's worth out of in the past; a broken coffee-maker, a burnt out DVD player, and a toaster whose final review was "Does Not Meet Job Requirements" all garnish the heap.

"Wait," you say, "some of those items still sound usable -- should they really be out on the discard heap?"

Well, yes. Because some of the stuff will actually be picked up by city employees early next week ... but most of it will be picked up by "gleaners" if it appears to be of any use at all.

For instance, last night a Gleaner picked up the rickety footstool I made and upholstered some (more than a decade) years ago. It had been over-used and abused and repainted and I only kept it because the upholstery matched my old rocking chair ... until putting it out last evening because I would never be able to make it sturdy and new again. Today, a Gleaner with an overloaded truck picked up the rototiller, the lawnmower, a baby stroller, and the burnt DVD player. I think they took the toaster, too.

I like the idea of "gleaning." Long, long ago in Carlisle, Pennsylvania, we "gleaned" a wonderful Duncan Pfyffe (sp?) table and chairs from someone's discards and used it for many, many years. We loved it until more pieces began to fall apart than we could fix. That same year we also found a lovely carved wooden chair that served us manfully as a decoration for a long, long time.

We don't need more money, so I hate to charge anyone for our discards. Putting out usable stuff for Gleaners -- I hope they can make money re-selling stuff.

Still, I don't find pleasure in putting out things I've loved, that will never find another home. Especially today, when I took a long, critical look at the woven rocking chair my dad bought at auction, painted, and gave to me when I was pregnant, so that I would have a comfy chair to rock the baby in. He bought it largely because it had belonged to the mother (and grandmother) of his best childhood friend. He remembered playing on it as a child. And it was something Dad just did for Me. That precious gift really started deteriorating this spring, more than 30 years after he bought it and fixed it up for me; one of the rockers broke apart, and the twisted raffia (under layers and layers of primer and paint) began popping on the back and sides, with no hope of repair.

Every time I've ever looked at the chair, what I saw was my father's love. Yet today, the time had come to let that poor, disintegrating symbol of a memory go. I know how much Dad loved me. Still, it hurts like a damn, putting the broken thing out on a pile of discards, a broken, battered, loved piece of old furniture that even the Gleaners won't want.

Summer Colors

I don't know if I've shown this picture before or not.

I just felt the need to see something beautiful, something that nature offered. This plant wasn't planted, it was a volunteer grand-daughter of planted plants of long ago.

Today I spent a lot of hours at the computer, formatting and uploading stuff to the Press. Thus with some stuff, I'm weeks ahead. Very good feeling, but goodness, I feel like I put in a day of it. Tomorrow I'm going to plant some geraniums, I think, and then spend the afternoon floating in the swimming pool.

I love summer.

The Worst Preakness Ever

Most years I watch the Triple Crown Races over and over again.

Not this year. I was prepared to see if Barbaro could set a hot pace through the mile and 3/16 and run away from the field like he did in the Kentucky Derby. He was clearly antsy and eager to run before the race, more so than any of the other horses in the scant field of nine. (The only other one who looked ready for the fast sprint race was Bernardino, but he was less combative.)

Once the horses were in the starting gate, Barbaro burst through the barrier before the starting bell, delaying the race a few minutes until they could assess that he was all right. He was fine, and was reloaded to the gate.

They were off!

But when all eyes should have been on the front runners, with Like Now setting a fast pace and Sweetnorthernsaint breathing on his shoulder, the focus was on Barbaro, who was fought to a stop (he wanted to keep on running) by his jockey, Edgar Prado -- because in the first brutal acceleration, Barbaro's right hind leg broke (the jockey on the horse behind him heard it crack) and then as he continued to try to run, broke the leg in a second spot.

Bernardino won, but all I can see in my mind is the footage that shows Barbaro trying to make that foot work while Prado hauls him to a stop. It looked like a rag on the end of a horse-leg, flopping in horrible directions sure to give horse-lovers nightmares all over the world.

Totally unrelated to the early break from the gate, they're saying. But right after he'd burst through the barrier on the untimely break, my son-in-law said with conviction, "Pull him! If he was my horse I'd pull him from the race until I knew he was all right!"

Ah, if they could have listened to my son-in-law, John, Barbaro would be sound tonight.

Congrats to Bernardino, and his owner and trainer, but what a sad and lonely win.

Writers in a Bar

We fled the heat last Wednesday.

It was the last day we had free before Bernie was to return to work, and the unseasonal heat (all the weather has been unseasonal this year, hasn't it?) and the damned gnats (have I ever mentioned that I hate gnats?) drove us to the blissful Bay.

There the fog was rising (that's fog in back of the boat, not clouds) and the air was cool and sweet. San Francisco is a wonderful place to escape to when the Valley weather is crummy.

We sat at the bar in wonderful Sinbad's and ate the usual exquisite calamari tempura over glasses of wine; mine, a pinot grigio (big surprise there) and his a pinot noir. The bartender, whom we had never met before, was named Mike, and he was smooth and strange, like a good whiskey with a squirt of lime and a hint of Louisiana Hot Sauce. He was both mellow and embittered; efficient but somehow lackadaisical; most polite yet more than willing to parry verbally in a low and non-carrying voice.

A "Writer" came into the bar, and suddenly, the atmosphere galvanized into some strange fellowship. The writer's name was "Dan," and after he casually dropped the information that he just happened to meet someone doing a film who needed a writer and thus, in his retirement, was working in films, it somehow seemed to require that the weary office manager on her third gin-and-tonic, the bartender, and Bernie and I ought to speak up.

The bartender confessed that he was into studying world religions, and had a book to prove it. The office manager demanded to see it, and read aloud a paragraph after opening the book at random. The book was entitled, "The Tao of Pooh."

"Sorry, Mike," she said, "this is shit."

I was on my second glass of wine by then, and I completely forget what Dan the Writer said that prodded me to suggest to the bar at large that Dan had written the shitful book under a pseudonym.

Thereafter, Dan the Writer ignored us as we examined the Tao of Pooh (an interpretation according to a Reader of Milne) critically and irreverently -- and turned his creative effort to hitting on a woman who dropped by Sinbad's for a quick drink. She was clearly thrilled to have a writer hitting on her.

An interesting feeling. I sat there, knowing I've written a lot of stuff, knowing quite well that I am a writer, but I had no desire to broadcast it. The poor fellow was just a bit pathetic once you waded past his ego. He obviously puffs about telling all and sundry he's a writer. Yet he is no more well known around the world than any Filthy Piker who writes for the Press.

It wasn't that he was a writer. It was that he was putting on a big, hokey mask with a neon sign above it that said, "I am a Writer!"

Well, yes, I intended to poke him with a stick by suggesting he'd written a shitty book under a nom de plume. I know what pisses off writers.

Ah, but the Office Manager on Gin -- now there I let myself down. She was genuinely funny, and bold, and inventive, and prodded Mike the Bartender into arguments about Winne the Pooh and Lao Tse. I should have stayed for one more drink and invited her to write for the Press.

Golden Spring

It's that time of year.

California poppies spring up everywhere, and that lovely weedy grass with its horsetail head simultaneously annoys and delights me. One of these years, I'm going to pick the heads, dry them, and then dye them purple and blue and red.

I don't know what I'd do with them afterwards, but wouldn't it be fun?

Today was hot, nearly 100 degrees. I may have lost one of my potted trees to the heat today; there hasn't been enough time between 62 degrees and 100 for the poor plant to harden off.

We spent some time in the pool, which is still just a skootch too chilly to remain submerged like a hippopotamus. It felt heavenly, though. I must score myself a little raft on which to float about on the cool water. And for the first time in days and days, there were no gnats.

Gnats, I'm convinced, are the reason God created tobacco, as a burning cigarette seems to be the only way to keep them from trying to fly into one's eyes, nose, and mouth.

Beautiful Morning

Bernie and I once again made our way to the river to have a look at how high it is.

The water level has dropped by about three or four feet, which is good news. The poor flooded golf course showed how much the water had receded ... leaving the bad news of dead grass peeking out. It's also starting to smell kind of disgusting from the dead vegetation. Alas, it will be worse once all those fish trapped in there start to stink. (And then again, maybe not -- there are quite a few raccoons and coyotes in the area.)

We walked on the levee in back of the golf course, and were treated to the sight of this gorgeous tiger swallowtail butterfly. I snapped that first picture facing the sun and was thrilled to see the light illuminating the wings. I snapped several photos of this creature, and most of them were stunning. The butterfly must have been fresh from his chrysalis, because there wasn't a single tear or tatter on his wings.

In the shade under the cottonwood trees, a shaft of light peeked in and lit up something else -- a locust sapling in bloom. The intense greens and the softened shadows caught my fancy. I have this thing for locust trees, although I don't really remember why. Maybe because back East, they would bloom around the time of my birthday.

One of the pictures I took was of a bird that was very elusive -- we'd just catch a glimpse of color as we looked up into the trees, and couldn't really see many details. Suddenly it flew into the tree right above me, and I was able to snap a picture of the branch. When I uploaded it to my computer, with a little tweaking of contrast and color, we found that the bird was the beautiful Bullock's Oriole. My picture isn't good enough to post, but that link will take you to a phenomenal birding site!

Just to show you how perfect that butterfly was, I've included this photo. My back was to the sun when I took this shot; you can see a subtle difference in color from the first.

I think this insect captivated us for nearly ten minutes before cruising off in the direction of the golf course. I've never before in my life had a chance to examine such a perfect tiger swallowtail for so long.

If You Have Filthy Pikers in Your Life, You Have Everything

I like Pikers.

Pikers are intelligent, and clean.

Pikers are funny, and insightful.

Pikers are quick to pick up people and set them on their feet again, unless those people are assholes, and then they just pick them up, set them on their feet again, and then write their characters into stories.

Pikers write better than most best-sellers, and spending a couple hours with them is just sheer pleasure.

I like Pikers.

Kentucky Derby 2006

A couple hours ago we tried to watch the Kentucky Derby.

Well, we saw the race. We saw NBC "reporters" blather over and over again about jockeys playing ping-pong to pass the time. We saw the "reporters" yap about their sentimental picks and their longshot picks. We saw lots of footage of women in hideous hats and heard how it is tradition for women to wear elaborate Derby Day hideous hats. No doubt if it was Louisiana on Mardi Gras and not Kentucky in May, the women in hideous hats would have pulled up their blouses and showed their titties to the audience, ensuring them of even more coverage next year.

I think, in the hour or more that NBC violated the sports world, that we saw a total of 4 minutes of Horse. Indeed, we saw more of the glitzy and photogenic trainer Bob Baffert than we did of horses.

NBC has the worst sports coverage of any network. The. Worst.

Let me take a number and stand in line to announce that whoever directs their coverage of the Kentucky Derby and the Preakness (up in two weeks, a sprint showdown that can make or break) ... IS A MORON!!!!!!!!!!!!

Thank you.

In spite of NBC, it was a good race, and I'm rooting for Barbaro in the Preakness ... and hoping Baffert's horse Sinister Minister doesn't come into his speed.

Color cue: High Blood Pressure Red

Fog, Smog, and Treasure Island

Yesterday evening, we left the pollen-laden Valley, went over the Altamont Pass, and made our way through the Bay Area, which was itself rather heavily laden with smog.

Once we got to San Francisco, however, the fog was already rolling in from the western side of the peninsula, bringing some fresher air with it. We walked around the Ferry Building and looked at all the wonderful organing produce. It all looked so good ... but by then even Jack In The Box tacos would have made my mouth water. Just before we went to dinner, I took this picture of Treasure Island. That's the Bay Bridge on the right. Behind the island, the rest of the Bridge meets with the city of Oakland, home of the nefarious Oakland Raiders Football Team.

At Sinbad's Restaurant, we met fellow Piker John Trindle, who was in SF for a conference, far from his home in Virginia. We hadn't seen John in -- is it two years or three? -- and he looked not a bit different. Bernie, John and I have at least one thing in common: we're all shy. Nevertheless, we manfully struggled to overcome our quiet natures, and I think we did okay. What I thought was interesting and comforting was that to me, it didn't feel like much time had passed at all. It was easy to settle into the cameraderie we felt when the first Filthy Piker Writers' Conference convened -- there, I looked it up in my Archive -- in 2004.

The food was good, too ... but not as good as seeing a friend again.

A Morning Walk

The foxtail grasses are already withering -- they know it's time to embed themselves in doggy feet and coyote fur.

They must go by length of day, because it certainly hasn't been dry enough to wither much of anything.

On the other hand, the poppy that came up along the side of the path leading to the forbidden zone of the National Wildlife Refuge a couple blocks away would normally have seen the light of March and said, "Spring!" By May, I expect all of the wildflowers to be done and the grasses in the fields turning golden.
This isn't a native wildflower, by the way. Someone walked down there with a packet of seeds to brighten the walking path. I don't mind. They're pretty.

One of the things I noticed about taking pictures with my digital camera is that the reds come out really sucky. I have no idea why, when yellows and oranges come out so nicely.



Speaking of wildlife refuges, this picture was not taken at one. This is the still-flooded Jack Tone Golf Course, where waterbirds and fish have taken up residence.

I think the golf course makes a simply breathtaking little lake.

What's that Glowing Thing in the Sky?

Finally, a truly sunny day!

Bernie has been making me walk all over town to accompany him on his exercise. It's a dreadful chore, moving about in the springtime.

See, this is the kind of thing I'm subjected to: gorgeous fluffy yellow irises in a garden by the sidewalk! How horrible my fate! How cruel my existence!

Fortunately for me, I have a digital camera with which to document the incidents. Otherwise people might get the impression I was just wandering around for hours holding some dude's hand.

I've only got a couple more weeks of this tortuous existence, and then I'm on my own again. Do you think I'll miss being dragged on long walks to look at birds and flowers and lizards and sky?

Oh, come on.

A Walk to the River

Okay, I know this is not a good photograph, but it is important.

This bird is the very first Blue Grosbeak Bernie and I have ever seen in our lives. We're in our fifties. That's a lot of time knowing that such beautiful birds existed, and never really expecting to ever catch a glimpse of one. Today, we did.

Bernie suggested a slow amble (sans puffing, pissing dogs) down to see what the river was doing to the golf course, but we went to the far side of the course, where a National Wildlife Preserve has been formed from what was once farm land. For once we remembered to take along both binoculars and the camera. The Blue Grosbeak would have been worth paying out a weekend at a resort to see, and here he was, only a couple blocks away!

The lizard was more mundane, but it was fun to see this one and dozens others climbing around on the rocks on the side of the hill that led down to the water's edge.

The water is standing in not only the Jack Tone Golf Course, but also in the "Riparian Habitat" off of River View Drive. (Heh. Residents of that neighborhood didn't really think they were going to have a river view until the water came up this spring.) Until a couple years ago, the land was farmed. I don't know what kind of transaction took place, but we walked by and saw rows and rows of tiny trees and shrubs planted in place of beans one spring. And then we heard it was a "riparian habitat" being planted. But it wasn't wet until this spring.

I think they may have breached the levee to allow more of a floodplain. We haven't been able to find a way down there to see. Signs say "National Wildlife Preserve" and there are fences to keep people out.

With the snowpack melting, it's likely that this area will stay under water for a while. This is a good thing for us, as it will provide us with endless entertainment watching the lizards, birds, and frogs frolicking in the watery wetland.

More about flowers, and a little about hair.

I didn't plant these flowers. They planted themselves.

I don't think I've planted any nasturtiums for about four years. One year I thought some would look cute in the front garden ... and they took that as an excuse to be fruitful and multiply.

The original seeds were for flowers of orange, red, and yellow. The daughter plants have wide variations in color; some bronze, some sunset colored like these, and every kind of orange and yellow in between. These really caught my eye, especially with their luxuriously almost-double petals.

I've been waiting for days for a sunny evening so that I could take a picture of them.

This second picture is cool. I love the 40X zoom of my camera, an Olympus C-765 UltraZoom. Look at all those delicate structures in the throat of this flower -- amazing.

I mowed the front yard today, keeping an eye on a storm in the southwest. We may yet have a thunderstorm tonight, but I think the rain has missed us this time. I was nice and cool while I mowed. The wind brushed across my shorn head most agreeably.

Funny, the last time I shaved my head I couldn't wait for the time to come to let it grow back. This time it just feels good to have all that mop gone.

And the flowers didn't even stare at me.

This Has Little To Do With Flowers, and Is Mostly About Hair

Last year at this time, the gazanias were blooming everywhere. This year, they're not. It's been too dim and chill. Yesterday, the high was about 63. Today, it was 80-something.

But that's not what this entry is about. What's on my mind is hair.

My friend Lydia says that I am a shaving fetishist, but that's not true. If I was one, I'd shave my legs more than once a winter, and maybe become one of those ladies who remove their eyebrows and paint them on so that they don't show the white and gnarly hairs.

About a year and a half ago, I shaved my head. It was an impulsive promise that I made to a friend who was facing chemotherapy; she was so freaked out by the "disfigurement" of losing her hair that she was buying wigs and hats even before the treatment started. I promised her that having no hair was no big deal, so I'd shave my head when she started chemo.

People have since told me that I was "so brave" and "so loyal" and "so nice/supportive/etcetera etcetera etcetera" but the real truth is that I just got mad that hair is so important to our image-mad society. Number One, I hated seeing my friend afraid. Two, I think I was just looking for an excuse to try life with no hair on my head.

I don't like seeing people in fear. My reasoning was this: if my friend saw me with no hair, when hers fell out, she'd have company, and a (somewhat lunatic) role model. And that was fine. When her hair got so sparse that she had to have her husband buzz the stray bits down to nothing, she called me on the phone, and laughing, said, "Now I look like you." That was good. I liked that. We spent the autumn and early winter with no hair; Christmas her hair began to return and I stopped the regular shaving.

I swore I'd never do it again. People drew away from me and my shaven head as though I had leprosy. They would look away quickly if I looked at them staring at me. There were lots of whispers, but only three persons actually had the nerve to ask me about the new hairstyle. I did feel naked, a freak.

By the following March, I was quite fluffy with hair again; by July, the sweat was trickling down the back of my neck under my mop and I was remembering how cool and breezy having no hair was. I gave a hairdresser a near-coronary by having her shear my hair on the sides and back to 1/2" and just leave me about an inch and a half on top.

I've had some time to think about hair, and the lack of. When I didn't have hair, no one crowded me at church on Sunday. Old men didn't look me up and down when we sat at the bar. When I went riding, I could just pour cool water over my head when I was too hot. Towelling off after swimming took seconds. I never had hat hair, or pillow hair. Or a bad hair day.

Why do women need fluffy hair, or long hair? Or cutely-styled hair? Since when are we People of Hair? Men get too hot or too bored or too busy and shave their hair off at whim ...

Which is all to say that I think I'm ready to do the dirty deed again. This time, no high ideals, no allegedly altruistic reasons. I'm just sick of hair hanging in my face, and not having a regular salon whose artists can be trusted to treat my hair with the care it deserves. I'm tired of going to a bee-yoo-ty parlor and having the hairdresser try to put some old lady cut on me. I've had enough of painful knot-pulling when I comb my hair before leaving the house. I think I'm ready.

Crazy?

Who.

Cares.

Look, Honey, Another Unseasonable Rain!

What a surprise, it was raining again today.

Yesterday it rained on the shoer when he was working on putting shoes on the Little Duke (I have to get some pictures of that horse in this blog) and it rained on us when we went shopping for water-jars the day before that, and it rained on darn near every day of the past six weeks or more. Yeah, make that the last two months, okay?

Today we just threw open the door and told Lillian to go out in the rain and see what it felt like. At first she was reluctant, but the temps were quite temperate, and after Howie ran outside, and Babe the Big Black Beast followed him, Lil ventured out to shriek with chill when the drops started hitting her -- which shrieks rapidly turned to delight, especially when we allowed her to venture to play in the gutter.

Being Easter Sunday, there was little traffic on the street, and we were right there to keep an eye on Lillian. With surprising savvy, if a car appeared on the street, she jumped to the sidewalk and only returned to the sloshy gutter when the car had past.

In the top picture, Babe is making sure that Howie is not getting Lillian into any trouble. Babe considers himself the arbiter of behavior: if you act too silly around him, he will bark at you with enough volume to make your ears ring. He stood in the rain and watched us for a while, barked loudly at me when I stomped at him, and then joined his Daddy on the porch where the sane people were.

Howie, on the other hand, had a mission to perform: his job? To get Lillian to throw the tennis ball, and then run off with it until he got too bored on his own. Then his job became to bring it back and give her a chance to run with it.

Everyone got nicely soaked, and we're hoping that was the last rain we get until ... how about November or December?

Holy smoley, the water is right here!

Saturday was a lovely sunny day, so Bernie and I took the dogs for a walk.

Having heard that the Stanislaus River was high enough to put the city and county offices on alert, we decided to walk down the street to have a look at the river that flows past the Jack Tone Golf Course.

Well, normally it flows past. Currently the golf course is a back water appendage to the river, as you can see from this picture of the lovely golf course. All but the highest holes are under water.

We watched avocets and geese poking around the edges of the lake, and even saw a fairly large fish swimming around in what is normally the driving range. My guess is that it was a big entrepreneurial carp who saw a great opportunity for rare goodies.

Like any pair of lackwits with a couple big dogs and nothing better to do, after observing the flooding at the golf course, we decided to walk down to the levee and see where the break might be that allowed the course to be flooded. Although we came to no harm, and didn't reach the break, I have to say that I knew it was a stupid stunt to pull, that I knew better than to try to find where a flood was occurring, but that I could no more stay away from the river than I could stay away from the ice on the creek that ran past my parents' property, even when I knew the thickness was iffy. Old habits of curiosity and waywardness die hard.

What we saw surprised me. Normally, from the levee path, you look down some twenty-odd feet to the river. This time, the river was right there, only about three feet from the top of the levee. Across the river, the flood plain fields were all under water, as could be seen in this picture. Where the trees are in the distance is where a farmer's fields will be when the water goes down.

I don't know when that will be. Today has been cloudy, but we've had no rain yet; any rain in the mountains is going to end up down here in the Valley. There is talk of having to release water from the reservoirs so that they don't overflow -- that might put the water in the Stanislaus over the edge of the local higher levees.

Parts of the levee path we were walking on were very spongy and crumbly. They were not quite "wet" though they were damp. Unfortunately those levees are riddled with the holes and dens of ground squirrels. If the water comes up over them, it will eat them away like butter on fresh mashed potatoes.

When Babe started to limp, we turned back to find some shade for him to lie down and rest, and after our break, headed home, back past the golf course and up the street. There are lots of low-lying fields and farms that will keep our little residential area above flood danger ... at least for now.

Rainbows

We should have seen dozens and dozens of rainbows this winter during the rainy season.

But we didn't. When we got rain, the cloud cover was too solid, until this past week, when we got a couple beauties. If the clouds had been more cooperative, and the other rainbow brighter, this picture would have shown a double rainbow.

When we lived in Pennsylvania, we didn't see that many rainbows. Just another reason to love living in California.

Lillian was out playing in the rain with her umbrella. She's already seen enough rainbows that they are nothing unusual to her.

Eye-strain A Go-Go, Isn't that what they used to say?

Let's see, I've been working on this project for two full hours ... if I charge $30/hour, that means someone owes me about $60 -- gee, is my math correct?

There's art, and then there's work. Some art flows so senselessly easily I can't bear to charge for it; some art has a lot of value to me and to pry it loose from my possessive little hands will cost a pretty penny. But when it's stuff that I don't want to do, and only end up doing because no one else handy has the skills to do it, I feel a simmering resentment that looks like the timer on a taxi dashboard.

Did the project really have to take two hours? Well, let's see, if Someone had provided a template or even a list of what the project had to include, if I could afford a better damn printer, and if Word wasn't as obtuse and stubborn as a constipated mule with a bad attitude, no, it would not have. But if I don't get paid for what I do, how do I afford a top-notch printer?

My resentment doesn't simmer long, though. By morning, the enthusiastic "Thank you!" that I'll hear will be worth millions, anyway. The project is DONE, and my brain is starting to fill with little DONE endorphins.

It's a good life, and I'm glad I have the skills I have.

Gone With the Spring Cleaning

So lovely in the morning sun.

Nasturtiums, second or third generation. Or maybe more than that, because I don't remember planting them last spring. I thought summer color was supposed to be geraniums, and that the previous year's nasturtiums had been removed.

The incredible, edible nasturtium is an energetic plant. It puts forth blossoms in 40 days of the seed going into the ground. Heat deters it not, nor cool weather. It takes on poor soil or well-fertilized, perhaps not with equal abandon, but with enthusiasm. It thickens its leaves so well that weeds don't like to compete with it.

Yesterday I filled a 54-gallon city compost can with the viny buggers that had flourished from the spring before, engulfing celosia, geraniums, a small fountain, and the electric connections that had kept the fountain going. One of the strands of foliage was ten feet long.

Too bad it doesn't taste good enough to make it a staple. On the other hand, if we could no longer get the seasoning pepper, we could make do with the slightly peppery nasturtium. Remember that when the world breaks down and trade becomes impossible.

Pitch Dark and Raining

I just looked at the weather service online and they said it was "cloudy."

Obviously their weather station is run by a drunken optimistic sea lion who can't see out the windows. It's pouring and blowing rain, hard enough to soak the dogs, who woke me to tell me they wanted to go OUT, and hard enough to make the woodstove sluggish.

WTF are we having to stoke a woodstove at this time of year? Last night Bernie reported that there was snow on the mountainsides in the Bay Area! This global warming has resulted in a very cold spring, and a greater icepack in the Sierras this year than in the year before. Good for the ice pack, bad for anyone who is accustomed to putting tomato plants in the ground in mid-February. (Uh, that would be me.)

I'd post a photo, but everything is gray,
or needs a flash even
at the height of the light of the day.

Unexpectedly rhyming, neh?

Chicken, How to Elevate It?

I stood in front of the stove with a big package of frozen chicken and thought, "Blech."

"Blech" is a word I learned from DC's truly ancient comic book series in which Bob Hope was a cartoon character. The jokes were so hokey and story lines so idiotic that I bought every one I found. Back in the day, that was a hard-earned 12 cents, btw. But those comics have nothing to do with this post.

I intended to bake those chicken thighs. Unfortunately, previously frozen baked chicken thighs smell like cooked shoes to me. (Do not ask about the cooked shoes. It was in Seattle, and I was living in a cardboard box, but that's another lie -- uhh -- story.) They say that there is a kind of knowledge that you can receive when you need to receive it, and there is even a theological term for it that I can never remember. My mother used to say that "Knowledge is in the air." However one cares to describe it, a taste came to my mind, with a list of the ingredients I would need to procure it.

Once the chicken was all nicely defrosted (thank God for the microwave) I prepared it on a rack in a big open roaster with a little salt and some garlic powder. While it cooked for the first 20 minutes at 385 degrees, I made a basting sauce.

I melted 1/4 cup of Saffola Margarine. In my teeny Cuisinart chopper, I put one peeled and sectioned CaraCara orange, a heaping tablespoon of mango-pineapple-passionfruit jelly and another of raspberry-blueberry-cherry jelly. I poured in a little more than a tablespoon of lemon juice, a pinch of salt, a good hearty sprinkling of pepper, and a shake or two of Tabasco sauce. (I really wanted Louisiana Hot Sauce, but all we had was Tabasco.) After mixing all that up until it was a slurry, I added the melted Saffola and mixed again. Every 20 minutes, I basted the chicken with it, and towards the end, every 10 minutes.

It was pretty dang tasty. I cooked 12 chicken thighs, used about half of the basting sauce, and the chicken was done in about 1 1/2 hours. We had it with mashed potatoes and salad, but I think it would have been better with rice, and asparagus.

Too bad the whole family can't agree on rice and asparagus.

Miss You, Dad

Last night I dreamed about my father.

In the dream, we'd been traveling across country, and stopped at a rest stop. I went in, and along with travelers' amenities, I saw a rack of beautiful shawls. I picked one out that was simply gorgeous (in my favorite color, black) and took it to the counter to pay for it.

Alas, I had forgot my wallet, so I set the shawl down and went to the parking lot to find the car. The red Prism was nowhere to be seen.

I walked back through the building to the other parking lot, and the car wasn't there, either. But my father was there in the courtyard. "They sent me to pick you up," he said.

I was so glad to see him again. He's been dead for -- can it be seven years? I gave him a little hug, and then thought, "Hug him, you fool! When will you get the chance again?" so I hugged him like I did when I was an exuberant little kid. I was so happy to see him, and so happy that he was so glad to see me, too.

And if I cried a couple tears telling this tale, no biggie, because I spent most of the day smiling. I don't care if it was "just" a dream. I got to see Dad again.

CHASE wants you to be their bitch.

Just a little rant.

In order to reduce the rate on my car loan, we did a transfer to a new credit card from the conventional loan. It was working well for us, until CHASE bought out that credit firm.

CHASE insisted that it was our bosom buddy, but refused to accept that when we paid twice or extra in a month -- that we had paid twice or extra. Unless the payment was the minimum or received within seconds of their "due date" nothing counted for the next month. So if the minimum was $60, but we had paid $500, none of that carried forward, and should they change their "due dates" suddenly we were "late" inspite of being $440 ahead. They charged us late fees and then changed the "special" percentage rate to the maximum rate, because we were "late."

We're supposed to keep track of their little pissant rules every day? We receive "YOU HAVE ALREADY PRE-QUALIFIED FOR A CHASE CREDIT CARD TODAY!" advertisements at least four times a week. Those cretins don't even know who they have in their accounts. Even if you can get a company representative on the phone, they will LIE to you and tell you that yes, your extra payment will be credited to the next month, and when you get your statement, the extra will not be, and the late fees will still be added to your balance.

I'm not the only one who has had that experience. CHASE = CROOKS.

We're in the process of getting a loan to pay off CHASE and never, ever, have to deal with them again.

CHASE = MISERY AND LOSS OF $$$

Am I angry about this? You betcha.

CHASE = THE WHORE OF BABYLON.

There, was that bitter enough?

Prozac, and People I Used to Know

My cartoon this week was actually a commentary of sorts.

Happily the woman copes, hanging her laundry on the line. Prozac gets her through her daily chores cheerfully, contentedly. That she's washed and hung up her cat disturbs her not at all.

I've known three people before Prozac was prescribed for them. After Prozac, I could not have picked them out of a crowd by their personalities. They became totally different and utterly unexceptional people once the drug took them.

One was a mischievous, impish soul, prone to laugh and play tricks, loving and creative. There was some heavy misfortune in her life, and some doctor prescribed Prozac for her to help her cope. It did, I guess. It shortcircuited her grief, and she could get to work and home without bursting into tears. Her mischief stopped. Her wicked humor disappeared. Instead of laughing, she became enamored of smarmy e-mail forwards, and stopped sketching her marvelous cartoons. She lost contact with me ... for the most part, and even the halting short letters she sends sound nothing like my most beloved friend. She's gone, that person I loved so much.

The second was another close friend. We used to hang out and drink wine together while our husbands and our kids interacted, giggling over silly girl-stuff or telling stories about our ancestors: we were both hispanic, but cut off from the really Mex families. We enjoyed each other's company and could hardly wait to get together the next weekend or so. She moved away from my area, and though we promised to visit, after she started taking Prozac, visiting was suddenly not an option. I don't know why she started taking it. After she fell into the Prozac haze, she did not talk about the reason she thought she needed it. She listened only to those people who patted her comfortingly and said she'd made a good decision by taking the drug to hide her pain and anxiety. The last time I talked to her, I didn't recognize anything about her except her voice. It tore me up.

Another friend I have stopped taking Prozac not too long ago. I knew him before his Prozac time, and lamented his Prozac personality castration. Someone who had his ear told him frankly that he was catastrophically changed by the drug, and he had the courage to get off it. It was hard for him. The withdrawal made him irritable, fearful, and restless. Gradually, he started interacting with his friends and family normally again. He still has the anxieties and periods of "blueness," but my God, it's "him" again, not some oatmeal-brained pod-person hoping someone will give them a cookie and say "Good Boy/Girl!" What a relief!

It's not that I don't know what depression is about, God knows. I take the amino acid Tyrosine twice daily to stave off my own "why live" urges. It just seems to me that if the cause of the depression is chemical, there must be another solution than a drug that destroys your personality and ability to interact with the real world. And if it's a problem with coping with your life, why cover up the solution with drugs when what you need is psychiatric care or psychotherapy?

I don't know. But I do know that I miss the two friends who became Prozac very, very much.

A Small Potato Makes the Newspaper

Bernie, doting fan that he is, sent my book Judge, Jury, Shaman to a reporter from a local newspaper.

She read it, and called me for an interview to go along with her review. Yesterday the article appeared in print. I'm transcribing it here, but I am correcting the spelling errors.

Ripon resident answers challenge by writing books, by Megan Gladden.

Ripon resident, Sand Pilarski began writing in 2001 in response to a challenge issued by www.NaNoWriMo.org, to write 50,000 words in the month of November. The 50,000 words she wrote became her first novel, Dreamer. That first novel opened the flood gates and she has since written five novels, several short stories, and created a cartoon series entitled "Fever Dreams."

"After you write 50,000 words, you have the urge to write more," said Pilarski. "It is technically a hobby, but it's more like an obsession. I write or draw every day."

She has published all of her books and a Fever Dreams weekly calendar through Lulu.com. Lulu provides free online publishing services and print services for a small fee.

Pilarski's work can also be seen at www.PikerPress.com where she is the West Coast Assistant Editor.

She says that all of her books are intended for an adult audience and cautions that they aren't intended for kids who haven't hit their teens yet.

Her most recent endeavor is a series of short stories that she has compiled into two books, Judge, Jury, Shaman and Oz Can Keep Them All. All of the stories in the books are told through the perspective of the shaman Ase Ur-Jennan.

Her adventures take place in a fantasy universe where wizards and trolls are all just part of an average day.

Pilarski originally published the works under the alias Ase Ur-Jennan but eventually felt confident enough to claim the work as her own. The author of Judge, Jury, Shaman is now listed as Ase Ur-Jennan as told to Sand Pilarski.

The character Ur-Jennan is a sassy older woman, unintimidated by dragons and evil witches, willing to battle with her powers of sarcasm. She is an engaging and relatable character.

Judge, Jury, Shaman is very well written and impressively self-edited by Pilarski. It is funny and touching, in turn.

It is not made obvious in the book that it was originally published as short stories, so it initially reads as choppy without as much flow as the average novel.

Each chapter is very short -- generally only one or two pages -- and has its own mini story line. Chapters often give their own little life lessons under the transparent guise of wizards, dragons, and trolls.

The overarching story becomes a bit more evident in the second half of the book as Ase Ur-Jennan makes some friends and with them, confronts a dragon and evil witch.

My favorite chapter of the book is the first, entitled, "Popping the Big Question," in which Pilarski discusses the big question: "How do you know if you have a big ass?" Hilarity ensues as Ur-Jennan describes the trademarks of a large rump including getting stuck in chairs and knocking over household objects with said rump.

While fantasy isn't my favorite genre of literature, Judge, Jury, Shaman was undeniably well-written and provided quality entertainment. The book does not talk down to its readers, nor does it drift too far off into its alternate universe.

It was also refreshing to read a woman-centered story in the particularly male-dominated genre.

"I like older women characters. There's not a whole lot of media about women facing the last third of their life," said Pilarski.

Pilarski pulls this unusual story line off with wit and intelligence.

As an author, Pilarski wants to "provoke thought and sweep the reader along." After reading Judge, Jury, Shaman, I'm excited to see more from this talented local author.


The quotes were pretty close, and it was indeed nice to get a good review.

Lillian's Daffodils

Granddaughter Lillian cannot resist picking flowers to bring into the house.

The first two narcissi that bloomed were summarily picked and brought in for decoration. She was so pleased by their looks, that I offered to take a picture of them for her. She was very pleased.

The cool thing is that I can print out the picture of them for her. I wonder if she'd like a little scrapbook of her finds and wonders?

Those aren't daffodil leaves, no indeed. I nestled the blossoms in the alstromeria to catch the evening sun.

The Amazing Nose Discovery

This is the first year that I can actually smell the scent of the blossoms on the air.

The heavy weight of the pollen on the wind has made me pretty ill in the past, until I just learned to stay indoors while the orchards were in bloom. In recent years my doctor found a drug that keeps me from reacting badly to the blooms, but until this season, I'd not been out much in the fragrant air. What a lot I've missed.

And today was simply beautiful, a blessedly warm day for the bees to work hard and pollinate the trees. In the morning I drove to the store by back roads that led through the almond orchards, and just drank in the glorious explosion of flowers. At noon I opened up the house to let the Winter smell fly out the windows and to allow Spring to venture in.

Some of the orchards are already beginning to show the "snow" of falling petals; some orchards are just beginning to open their blossoms. I hope that my appreciation for the scent of the flowers won't do me any harm -- dear God, it's wonderful, and I'll never forget it now.

Dumb Parasite Trying to Comprehend Primitives

Tonight I'll probably sleep in a comfy chair in the kitchen.

The temperature is supposed to drop to the twenties tonight, so keeping the fire going is a priority, expecially with the wind blowing, which makes the wood burn more quickly.

The power went out for almost two hours a while ago. Whether it was the wind knocking over a tree, or a crackhead busting a pole, I don't know. I dredged some supplies out of a cabinet and got ready for a prolonged outage.

I thought about knocking on neighbors' doors, and offering them shelter if the outage continued through sundown. (Most heating systems rely on electricity.) But the folks across the street had power, when we did not. Hurray for PG&E, who are so vulnerable on the coldest night of the Spring.

We do, however heat with a woodstove, we had charcoal in the garage for cooking, and had lots of stuff for cold sandwiches, anyway.

As Bugs Bunny said, "Unnnnga-bunnnnga."

We can make it.

The One

It's him.

Bundled in warmth against the July chill of San Francisco, my husband, Bernie strolls along a pier. He's the Best. After 31 years together, he still can make me roar with laughter -- no way will I go to lunch with him without wearing waterproof mascara for my eyelashes. My eyes squirt tears from the mirth; he has an altogether too-ready and surprising wit.

I love him.

When I put my head against his chest and hear his heart beating, Life makes sense again. When I awaken in the wee hours of the morning, with a middle-aged woman's fears for the future and guilt about the past, I hear him breathing, and all is well.

He is my heart, and without him, I would have no existence.

So Beautiful, So Fragile

There they are, the stars of the stage.

This area is known as the Almond Center of the World. Almond orchards surround us, this being the best climate for them. The spring comes early enough to have them bloom in February; and normally, the spring is dry enough in February that the bees (who come from as far away as Montana --or was it -- North Dakota?) have a protracted date with the blossoms and set tons of fruit. In March rains can come again, after the fruit has had time to set.

Unfortunately, the temperature is dropping rapidly. A couple cold fronts from the north are pushing in, making the wind rise and the air cool. The minimum temperature at which bees will get their fuzzy little asses out of the hive and work is 45 - 50 degrees. If the forecasters are correct, the bees will only have about three hours a day to pollinate all those orchards. And all their work will have been in vain if we get the freeze that is also predicted.

I've been praying that the forecasters are as wrong as they usually are. The almond farmers need a break this year, considering how paltry the crop was last year -- cold rains spoiled the trees at the height of bloom.

The blossoms are beautiful, though, aren't they?

New Toys

The dogs went nuts when the Fed Ex truck pulled up, and so did I.

There was only one purchase that I was waiting for FedEx to deliver. I waded through the roaring pack of wolves and cracked the door open enough to drag in a heavy package, marked all over with the word "Fragile."

That's it in the pictures. It's a light box, or light table, depending on whose catalog copy you read. This is a very nice one, and I was so pleased to open the box and put the beast on my work table, where I can clutch it to my work space and rework my preliminary sketches and doodles.

The first light table I ever had was given to me when I was five or six. Called a "Draw and Tell", it featured a cheap plastic frame, a translucent plastic top panel, and a 25-watt bulb for the light source, and a folder of line drawings of people, pets, houses, cars, fruits and vegetables, farm animals... The whole point was that the kid was supposed to love tracing the line drawings and coming up with her own compositions of someone else's art. And I did love it. Probably it taught me a lot about eye-hand coordination. I know it taught me a lot about finding source pictures in books and magazines and tracing them for my own use. I used that thing so hard the surface would get too hot for my hand to rest on, hot enough to melt the wax in crayon drawings.

I used it for play, and later for professional work, for the next 30 years.

Eventually it cracked and was dead, honorably worn out. Some time right around the start of the 1990's, we bought a real light box for our daughter. I wasn't doing any artwork to speak of in those days, but she was, and she enjoyed using a good quality machine, too. (She'd also used my old toy one.)

When her daughter was born, her light box came to reside in my studio. (Oh, nice!) Until just recently, when she figured out that her quick wit and artistic talent were more than adequate for drawing engaging cartoons and comics. The light table went to reside at her desk again.

I thought I wouldn't miss it, until I needed it to do a hundred different things, from learning how to draw a particular shape by tracing it, to replicating one of my sketches on clean paper, to repairing a mistake made on another ... so I used my Christmas cash from my dear old mother and bought myself a light table. Gosh, Mom, forty-odd years later, your gift idea still works well.

This is the lovely creature with the dual fluorescents fired up (no more hot hands, no indeedy.)

The surface is slightly slanted, and there is a built in pencil/pen storage in the front. I love it. Thanks, Mom.

Winter's Flowers

These little flowers bloom in the dim, cold months of the year.

We call them "Margaret flowers," after the woman who gave me a few of their bulbs years ago. Year after year, I'd see her pulling them out of her garden in the spring, making room for petunias to be planted. Back then I wondered how she could bear to tear them out, they were so pretty.

I planted my bulbs in a planter out back of my house, and was sorely disappointed that nothing happened ... until the following winter, when familiar green leaves and pink flowers emerged in a sweet little clump. How many years ago was it that she gave them to me? Six? Seven? They took over the planter I put them in, driving out all the other plants. Last summer I had to empty the planter and move it so that the new retaining wall could be built, and I dumped the soil onto the back bank.

When winter came on, the Margaret flowers popped up everywhere. I predict in two years, my back bank will have a solid winter ground cover with pink blossoms. Is that good or bad? I don't know yet.

I do know that I miss Margaret. I stopped seeing her after her husband was a totally rude and obnoxious ass to me. She's retired, and her husband, when he's not out drinking, hangs around the house drunk and thinks of things for her to do. There was no way to continue the friendship, if friendship there ever really was. Maybe she just put up with me.

I keep hoping to see her at the supermarket some day, so that I can tell her I miss her, and that I still have the flowers she gave me in my garden.

Weird Weather Forecast

This is supposed to be the loveliest time of year.

Cool breeze, warm sun, flowers everywhere. Yes. Yes.

I just looked at Accuweather's 15-day forecast for this area, hoping to see dry weather through almond blossom season. After that it can rain, but the blossoms have to have dry weather above 50 degrees so that the bees can work. Everything looked perfect, weather wise (if a little chilly at night) until the 19th of February.

Freezing rain and possible snow???????????????????????

Tell me it ain't so.

It can't be. I must be hallucinating -- Accuweather must be smoking something wonky for sure.

Perfect Spring Day

Aren't they cute?

Lillian curled up in a blanket while playing with her toys in the kitchen and fell soundly asleep last Saturday afternoon. Now and then Babe would lean forward and peek at her.

I think that was the last actually cold day we've had. The temperatures have been rising, and today we were near 70 degrees. I know it's a little early for such balmy weather, but not abnormally so. Last spring was chilly for so long, and last autumn chilly so early -- I'm not going to complain about a seemingly early spring.

The weather forecast sounds perfect for the almond blossom season. I hope they're right. We should have a couple weeks of warm, dry weather so the bees can get their fuzzy little butts to work pollinating the trees.

Today Lillian and I went to the store, driving past orchards where blossoms are just starting to pop, and the field where the geese were. Only one flock was hanging around (about 50 birds) but it was still impressive to see, and I was really glad that Lillian got a chance to see them.

Lil and I also went on a bike-riding foray to a little park around the block, where we played on the slide and merry-go-round for a while. I was served imaginary hot cocoa and we blew out imaginary candles on an imaginary birthday cake. She has discovered speed on her little bike with its training wheels, but is not all that sure about steering, and has not figured out brakes or the need to balance herself. She stops by dragging a foot or running into something, and she wrecked twice today speeding along, singing loudly, and leaning too far side to side to her own music.

After my babysitting stint was over, I collared my baboons and we went for a walk in the last of the afternoon sun. Babe was (unexpectedly) perfect on leash, walking at heel like a gentleman. Howie was fidgetty and kept wanting to walk in front. I think he's having dominance issues these days, which makes for tough times for a timid dog.

To cap off the glorious day, my books arrived from Lulu. The Aser Stories look gorgeous. Seeing them in book form makes them so fresh and new to me. I may have to just sit down and read them all again.