Puzzle Pieces: Living in Community

One day, years ago, someone who didn't know me well was talking about a man who lived with his parents. "What a loser!" she exclaimed.

An article in a magazine I read some time ago spoke of a trend: young adults moving back in with their parents. The point was that these younger people didn't know how to live on their own, and/or were not able to earn enough money to live on their own. The article didn't actually sneer, but came close, and seemed to view the trend with alarm.

An identically set-up house to ours in this tract was for sale about five years ago; four bedrooms, 1700 square feet. It was described as "quaint" -- most of the other houses around here are much, much larger, with game rooms and home theaters and dual or triple master suites ... and still called "single family dwellings."

Most days we have to search through this "quaint"-sized house to find one another. Hmm.

When I was pregnant, and near my time to give birth, my mother suggested we come stay at her house; her own mother had come to stay with her when my sister and I were about to be born. And so it was not at all odd to me to invite Alex and her husband John to come live with us until their baby was born.

What had been a quiet, little-used house was filled with life: John ranting about politics, a baby wailing, dogs and cats trying to get along. Laughter and conversation, shared meals, roaring at football games together. It's been six years and some, and I cannot imagine what an empty cave this would seem without my daughter and son-in-law and grand-daughter living here.

It's not the money. It's not the dependence. It's because we like it. We have each other's backs.

For instance, today. I came back filthy and exhausted from a two-hour trail ride through the dust of almond harvesting in the orchards. After getting cleaned up and having a hearty lunch, I found that Alex had tackled the hideous shithole our garage had become -- and carved out a workspace for me...so that I could get back to painting. It's wonderful, and she even hung a corkboard so that I could pin up reference photos. I could not have done that; she did it.

Her lunch, when she was done organizing me for myself, was a cabbage soup I made yesterday. My heart was warmed that she liked it, as it was a new project for me.

We help each other as we can.

And in the late afternoon, while I was doing laundry and shifting sprinklers on the back bank (auto sprinklers back there are totally destroyed after the new fence install), there was a knock on the door. I disappeared from the front of the house and went back to my haven in the bedroom. A few moments later, Alex appeared to tell me that the caller was none other than Mr. Nitpick (see post about a new fence a week or so ago), who wanted to give us money for his section of the fence.

Had I answered the door and had to see that rat-shit nitpicking miserable toad, the neighborhood would have heard me tell him to shove his money up his obsessive-compulsive ass, or me roaring, "Yes, your unpleasantness got you a free fence! Tell all your friends!"

But Alex, so smooth and calm, said, "No thanks," to his offer of money, and when he protested, she sweetly said, "Oh, no, you weren't happy with the result. Bye."

In fact, I knew who it was at the door. I could "hear" it. As I had walked away from the front of the house, I imagined asking my son-in-law to punch that jerk's face off his collarbones.

We mesh well here; we don't fight or argue. We fit together. I think this is the way to live. In community, helping and supporting each other. These puzzle pieces that match give us a better picture of what life is about.

Hard Day at Work

Yesterday morning I was sleeping deeply, probably more deeply and peacefully than I have for a couple years.

I was dreaming that I was swimming in a river (a warm river, so it must have been back east where I grew up) and simultaneously narrating how to collect "freshwater mussels." I explained that all you had to do was wade along the chest-deep river, watch for a colony, then kick the herrings out of the way and dive in and harvest the mussels.

Ludicrous? Of course, it was a dream. But it felt so peaceful and good to dive over and over, swimming in the clear river's current.

Unfortunately, Bernie had to wake me out of my deep, deep sleep before I was ready to leave the dream.

This morning, I could have slept in until the sun was high, but instead, I was wakeful before the sun was up. Rats.

But then I started working on putting up the new issue of the Piker Press. And worked. And worked. Some glitch with an author's link to Amazon put me in the hole in terms of time, and then I found that another author did not have a link to an online store for a book, and so had to make an advertisement from scratch, which not only ate up another hour as I had to figure out how to do so, but also made me sweat and itch with anxiety.

Then the cover image had to be worked up in Photoshop, which was fun, but the sun was on its way down by the time I finished it.

I thought I was retired.

And while the San Diego Chargers chew up and spit out the New York Jets, I am reminded that I really should be reading submissions instead of watching NFL Football. This game is almost as horrible as the Pittsburgh Steelers' game yesterday, in which they stumbled and bumbled and handed the win to the Philadelphia Eagles. That game made me hate watching football for the day. In fact, remembering it, I think I would rather go hide in my room and sit in my comfy chair and read.

Here I go.

The River Today

This locust tree lives down along the dirt levee road by the river.

The tree isn't blooming now, it being fall, rather than spring, but I always look for these branches when we're down there for a walk, which we were today.

The Stanislaus River is low right now, but crystal clear, and we stood along a curve of it above a deep pool and watched fish prowling back and forth. We must have stood there for ten or fifteen minutes, just watching fish drift in and out of the shadows, in silence, except for the faint rustle of the trees at noon.

On the walk back, a big blue dragonfly kept us company while we were in his territory. Once again we stopped and stood and watched, as the insect flew back and forth a few feet away from us, obviously watching us as we were watching him.

Bernie and I met in September, back in 1974. I remember being puzzled that the blond Polish boy seemed to have the same opinions about life and living that I did; I remember the fear I felt when I realized that I was in love with him. And then there was Love. A whole 34-year bloc of it so far.

Holding hands with him as we walked through the cottonwoods and bamboo and grape vine tangles, I still could not believe my good fortune in finding such a perfect mate. What other woman can boast that her love will watch fish and flying insects with her after so many years?

I hope, I truly hope, that there are many.

Ding Dong the Tecomaria Is Dead!

Some time ago I wrote an article for the Piker Press about tecomaria capensis.

When the fence guys came to finish the fence yesterday, I greeted them covered with leaf bits and cobwebs, my face raked and itchy from vining branches, grimly stuffing tecomaria bits into an enormous yard waste can. While they efficiently removed the south-side fence, I continued to hack at that damned plant, appalled at how gnarly and tangled the thick stems were.

The taller of the two fence guys came over and apologetically told me, "This plant is in the way."

"I know it," I told him. "I've been trying to kill it for years."

Maybe I looked desperate in my disheveled condition, or old and feeble -- because he said, "Don't worry, we'll take it out for you." Maybe he just didn't want to see me knocking myself out with the pick I had placed on the patio, thinking I could take the thing out while they were working on another part of the fence.

And take it out they did, and it took both of them, and they got filthy and sweat-soaked, too. When that bastard tecomaria came out of the soil, it was a tangled mass of roots the size of a Harley, only longer. I'm glad they were willing to take it out, because from the size of it, I never would have been able to do it myself.

Now the new fence on the east and south sides is done, and simply gorgeous. The part off the front porch looks bare and beautiful without the tecomaria. Bernie told me when he looked at it that replacing the fence was well worth having someone rid us of that damned plant. I agree.

The only low point about the fence replacement was that one of the neighbors across the fence (the one with the smallest adjacent section) called to say he thought the fence was three inches too tall, and it didn't look good "at all". He put it in such a way that I was sickened by his nit-pickiness -- after all, when the fence was down, I could see what his yard looked like and his fence looked like shit. True, the 6 foot privacy fence was actually 6 feet tall, where as the alleged 6 foot privacy fence on the north side of our property measured in at 5 feet 7 inches -- builders always cheat on tract homes. We'll try to make things as amenable as possible to him, but I'm NOT cutting that fence down to match his crap. The other neighbor on that side loves the fence and wants the rest of his property to have the same quality fence. Good luck with that, dude, as his property line marches between him and Mr. Nitpick.

Next spring, Bernie says, we're going to do the north-side fence. I can hardly wait.

And ... the tecomaria is gone!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

The New Fence

At the far end of the pool, you can see a diagonal post from the ground to the fence. The post is what is holding the fence up.

All along the back bank (right hand side of the pool) similar poles were holding the fence up, too, both on our side of the fence, and the neighbor's. A windstorm last December nearly took it all down; only the poles saved the day.

So when we happened to be driving past a local "pocket park" and saw that a new fence had been installed -- a beeeoooootifully-made fence -- we pulled over and saw a little sign on it that proclaimed it had been built by "Richter Fence". Feverishly we copied down the phone number.

Richter Fence arrived today and in a matter of minutes -- literally, it did not take even half an hour -- the old fence was removed. They chainsawed out huge chunks and carried them away.

Chunks that big!

When the fence was gone, they ran a line of string between the ends, and measured off spots for post holes. Then they dragged in an enormous two-man ground auger, and dug all the holes for the posts, again in minutes! Digging out the old cement post-hole supports took much longer.

Then they took a short break for ice water while the new posts were firming up in their quick-set cement. Then they did the top rail, or I should say, one man did the top rail while the other was setting the grass board at the bottom. (No, I do not know why it is called a grass board.)

Then came the middle and bottom rails, all of these pieces of wood being set in place with the use of a pneumatic hammer loaded with nails. I could say that I wish I had one of those, but I really don't. I know I would find it too heavy and would end up shooting myself in the foot.

Three and a half hours after they arrived, voila! New section of fence! They had to quit early, probably much to their annoyance, because they ran out of nails, having come from a job in the morning that used up a lot of supplies.

Tomorrow morning, they'll come back at 8 am, and probably I will have a complete back fence by 8:30 and a new southside fence by noon.

And, through the incomplete bit right off the back patio, I finally (after 10 years) met the neighbor across the fence. He's nice! And he already wants the rest of HIS fencing replaced by Richter. Can't blame him. It's a beeeoootiful fence!

**P.S. The dogs had an absolute fit about strange mens being in the back yard. Such stomping and growling and hackling from two sissy dogs you never did see!

Football Season

I don't know a lot about football.

For a while I watched the alley games at recess in grade school; there was a virtually unused alley behind the school, and steps all along it like a planned stadium. Watching the older kids play, I felt sure that I had a future in football; I could run faster than any other kid in the school, so if I could get someone to let me play, and get me the ball, I could score points and assure my team victory.

Fifth grade saw me get a chance to play, and sure enough, if I could get the ball, I could get it across the goal line without being tagged. But playing alley football is more than running -- you have to be able to throw the football back and forth if you can't muster enough kids to play a game.

I moaned to my dad that I was no good at tossing, so he and Mom went and bought me my own football. With his big hand wrapping the football, Dad taught me how to throw from the shoulder and put a tight spin on the ball. Before long, I went from being a running back and receiver to playing quarterback, and being a welcomed participant in the alley games, even though I was a pathetic girl.

The next two years I saw a lot of play, a bookish girl in thick glasses and dresses, skipping the jump-rope and giggle crowd for the ol' pigskin; then we were off to the junior high school and no opportunity to play. The boys were all sprouting whiskers, and the girls had discovered boobs on themselves, and football was not that important except as an extracurricular activity reserved for boys.

Later on, there was 4-H camp, and I was rediscovered as a talent during the pickup games at Junior Leadership Camps. During that time, perhaps my favorite memory of a game was when the counselors didn't make us go to sleep, but let us stay up and play football under the light of a full moon until we were exhausted. It was a game full of mistakes, but giddy fun in dark shadows and bluish highlights.

I remember the feeling of sending the ball down the field, the spin pouring out from my elbow down my arm to my hand, and seeing the football drill through the air to a receiver; I remember the capture of the power of a throw as I'd catch a football and let its inertia press it close into my arms and side so that it could not be swatted away, moving with it so that it wouldn't hurt to catch it. I remember numerous occasions of having my fingers taped together to heal after being stoved by scuffles over a pass.

Like I said, I don't know a lot about football, but I do know a stinko game when I see one, and that would be the San Francisco 49's against Arizona Cardinals. What a horrible time those teams must have had, leaving the field, SF players thinking, "Wow, I really suck" and Cardinals thinking, "Hey, we won ... but I really suck."

And they did, all of them. Sorry, guys. Made me wish I could still play.

Hot Air Balloon Launch

Eventually, I'll get the hang of making better videos.

I shot this one at the Color The Skies Balloon Launch 2008. I had great hopes for the picture, but the happening just seemed to be mighty slow this year. Still, it gives some idea of how gorgeous the event was, and how cool to be so close to the launching.



All the videos I took that morning are on YouTube.

A Dog and His Log

Many are the times when Sebastian has tried Howie's patience to the max.

Sebastian stalks him, staring intensely with his border collie gaze. Howie pretends that Seb is beneath his notice, and refuses to look at him. Sebastian gets closer and closer ... and then POKES Howie with his nose and runs, usually with the outraged Howie hot on his heels.

Then Howie turns and runs back to his former spot, only to find Sebastian back at the same game. Then they tussle, Howie growling fiercely while Sebastian tries to climb all over him.

On this particular day, Sebastian was trying to get Howie to play with him and his newest toy, a chunk of eucalyptus log.



It was also a very hot day, so they were relatively subdued. One day I'll capture on film their vigorous play, in better lighting.

How Stupid Do We Have To Be?

This is the Central Valley of California. It's HOT.

I was returning from the round of errands I had to run this afternoon, and thanking God that the air conditioner in the Prizm still works. It was, according to the temperature sensor in the car, 100 degrees.

As I stopped at the traffic light a few blocks from my home, a herd of teenagers jogged by, wet with sweat. Track team practice from one of the local high schools.

A hundred degrees. Asphalt road. Make the youngsters run for an extended period, sucking the fever-heat air (and the almond dust -- the air is filthy right now) into their lungs. This is going to make them better athletes.

Right.

If it's good for them to run, and perhaps it is, after a long day at school, why, then, is it not better for them to run at the start of the day, say between 6am and 8am, before school starts, and when the temperature is between 55 and 70 degrees?

Oh, well, the answer is simple, and utterly logical for the American educational system. No one wants to run that early, because it would mean having to skip television and go to bed at a reasonable hour. Coach wouldn't want that. Kids wouldn't want that. It's far more sensible to risk heat stroke.

And you can see, if they're that damned stupid about heat and heatstroke, it's no wonder the little morons can't read or do fractions by the time they graduate.

Memory Trigger

One of our talented Piker Press authors sent me a new story this afternoon, about a woman caught in public in less than dress-code attire.

The story is great, about how she works on NOT being seen by her nosy neighbors. I could identify with the main character, having grown up in a town where everyone knew everyone, and were all too worried about what everyone else was doing. Anything out of the ordinary was suspected of being evil, or at least a subject for gasps and bosoms heaving in indignation. Growing up trying hard to stay beneath the radar and avoid that doo-dah, paranoia was ingrained in my soul and I tried to be as circumspect as possible. This story shot me back more than 25 years, making me chuckle...

The LAST time I went berry-picking without tucking my jeans inside my socks was when I decided I COULD reach a particularly tempting stand of raspberries off the path. Two steps and I trod on a ground nest of sweat bees, several of which went straight up my pantsleg. I could not run without being stung, I couldn't stay there and swat, so I jumped back onto the path and kicked off my shoes and pants in record time, sure that Mrs. Price or Mrs. Ritter could see me from their kitchen windows. It seemed to take forever to turn the pants inside out and remove the tiny bees and a couple stingers from my legs.

As I stood there in my bikini undies, pants in hand, I rather rapidly lost my embarrassment and began to get angry. I wasn't an immoral slut, I just had bees up my britches. I wasn't corrupting the youth of America, I was rescuing my physical ass. Why should anyone gasp and puff and call my mother and ask her if she knew I was in the woods with my pants off in front of "everyone" -- for the neighbors surely would have had they spotted me.

My fortune was with the powers of good, however, at least on that day. No one called my mother or the police, and after assuring myself of insectless pants, dressed my bare legs again, tucked the hems into my socks, and resumed picking enough black raspberries for a fine fat pie and handfuls of snacking heaven to boot.

My mother laughed at me when I recounted the tale, and my father snorted and muttered, "Serves you right," (he had no sympathy for lack of foresight about tramping around in the woods).

Certainly I permanently learned to tuck the pantslegs into the socks when picking raspberries. But I also learned that day, that should I need to shuck clothing in public to save myself, I wouldn't spare a single thought before doing so. It's all just me under there, after all.

Color The Skies 2008

Over at the Piker Press, I have an article about the Color The Skies event in Ripon, CA.

This morning I went to the 2008 launch, and it was just as wonderful as last year's. More so, really, because I knew where to stand and what to look for.

Once again, I got some grand photos, and a couple videos, too. Photos can be seen here, and I'll post the link to the videos tomorrow, when I'm not so brain-weary.

Bernie came home around four, and rather than miss the event, stayed up instead of going to bed. We were at the Mistlin Sports fields by 5am, standing in line for breakfast. Then we went to hang out by the balloons as they were unpacked and laid out on the ground.

Not only did we have the thrill of seeing the propane burners tested -- in the dark before dawn, so impressive! -- but got to stand right in among the balloons as they were being inflated. They are so huge that our sky was literally filled with color.

After the Piker Press article was up last week, I dropped a line to Jessica Coleman, the founder of the event, and let her know where to view it on line. She wrote back a very encouraging message, saying she liked the article a lot.

This morning, I happened to recognize her from her website photos, and as she walked by, I called out her name, and introduced myself to her. One of the coolest things I've ever heard myself say was, "Jessica?" (I extended my hand) "I'm Sand Pilarski. I wrote the story on the Piker Press."

I'm still giggling over her enthusiastic thank you.

Weather Change

On Friday afternoon the sky was filled with this kind of cloud.

They always make me nervous, as sometimes they precede horrible wind storms, sometimes nasty heat waves.

24 hours later, the wind has picked up, not too badly, and the temperature is about 10 degrees cooler than it was yesterday at this time.

Tomorrow, they say, will be 10 degrees cooler still.

Glad I got my swimming in yesterday.

10k for Labor Day, 2008

I have no idea why I think I can write ten thousand words over Labor Day Weekend.

I've never succeeded; I can't even remember where the idea came from. This weekend is loaded with visitors, the balloon launch, the pledge to start cleaning out the garage so that I can set up my studio there ... I think that pledge was from last fall, wasn't it? ... the purchase and installation of new mini-blinds in the kitchen.

It's a stupid idea, and now I've opened a blank document and am going to start. What a sucker for punishment.

Increments

Still continuing to write each day. Today was a measley 457 words.

I still have to fix the timeline of this project. When I began it, I didn't plan out a timeline, and thus, gave myself weeks of agonizing over how to repair the temporal gaffes.

Hint to self and others: do a timeline before you get into serious keystrokes.

A Morning Gift

There is not a lot I have to say in this post, except that I looked up from my morning prayers and saw this exquisite bit of lighting outside the window.

This is what it's all about, not money, or toys, or what people think of you. Life is all about Joy in Existence. I believe that is why we were created, to find those instances of Joy in Existence, and delight in them when we can find them.

If everyone could look for them, there wouldn't be crimes of violence and crimes of greed, or even crimes of neglect, because we would all look for them all the time, and in the process, see in each other the light of life, itself a joy to behold.

The Good Horse

Just the other day I came across pictures from the Pre-Digital days, and found this one of my friend Cathy and her horse Rusty, and Dink and me. We had wickedly ridden from the ranch into town and onto my front lawn. Bernie brought us glasses of ice water; the 2 1/2 hours of riding along orchard roads had left us parched.

Taken in April of 2003, the picture shows that neither Dink nor I have changed our looks much, although I don't have that shaggy blond mane any more.

I was out at the ranch to ride Dink this morning; he was eager to get out and be the horse.

I've been a pig lately, and haven't been riding much. I don't know why, unless it's sheer laziness. Inertia. By the time I read the morning comics and look at email, I think I should go to the store or play a couple games of Spider Solitaire, or do something repellent like clean up the kitchen. And when a rider is a pig, and stops riding regularly, bad things can happen. The horse may decide that he has retired from being a mount and refuse to go anywhere, or the horse may give the lazy rider a really hard time, which only makes it more miserable to want to go ride.

When I approached Dink's paddock, I saw that a bunch of fillies had been let loose in the paddock area to play. I shooed them into a paddock, and went to get Dink's halter and lead rope. When I rounded the corner, he called to me to come back. Awww. Any thought I had about just turning him out into the arena to walk around left my mind.

He draped his head over the fence for me to put the halter on him, and when I took him across the road so that I could step from the bank right onto the saddle, he stepped down into the lower area and stood like a statue without me even asking. We set off, and he was so thrilled to be going out that he broke into a little jog as we turned east toward the orchards.

No bucks, no conniptions, no reluctance. He was as perfect as if I had been riding him every day.

He's a genius. Halfway down the orchard road, there was a hole with a bunch of stakes in it, and each stake had long, brightly-colored plastic ribbon on it. The breeze lifted the ribbons and made them wave. To a horse, such a sight is exactly equal to seeing Medusa raise her head and let her hair-snakes all wave around. I wondered if I would have to dismount and lead Dink past -- my first horse would have been snorting and fighting to run away as soon as he saw the Monster Ribbons. I began counting out loud, both so that Dink would hear my voice, and so that I would focus on the count rather than tensing up my legs. (That would convince the horse I was afraid of the ribbons, too.)

He stopped and stared at the floating ribbons, then went on when I told him to walk forward. He stopped again a little closer, and we watched. And then, though he kept an eye on the Medusa, he walked on by. When we saw another batch of ribbon-stakes on another road, he never even twitched.

This gave me pause for thought. What would I have to pay to get another horse like him? He doesn't buck, doesn't kick, doesn't bolt or balk; unlike many horses, he can be ridden out on a trail by himself with no problem. Riding out with other horses, he's a gentleman. He's got a really comfortable gait for me. He's in good health. He has a great personality, too. And he's a handsome little fellow.

Good, good horse. Priceless little horse.

Sebastian, the Self-Drowning Dog

He really does swim like this, and although he looks like a dog in a washing machine, he really does love it.


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He will swim and splash and bite his splashes until he's trembling with exhaustion. Then he has to go pee every fifteen minutes for the rest of the evening.

Unlike our previous border collie mix, the smooth and debonair Desi, Sebastian loves to swim. Des hated the water, and could only be induced to swim if one of us shoved him into the shallows of the river and the other held out cheese puffies as a reward. Even then, he'd swim to me, gulp the cheese puffies, and grasp my leg in both front paws, loathing the swim back to shore.

Not Sebastian. He wasn't even invited into the pool today. Howie led the way, hopping into the pool uninvited, to sit on the top step and cool his buns, and Sebastian plunged in and proceeded to splash the pool water into a fountain.

If we ever want to get rid of Sebastian, all we have to do is throw a tennis ball into the river. He'd splash and chase the ball all the way to the ocean.

But not wanting to get rid of him, we keep a close eye on his antics in the pool. We know he's an idiot for water.

My Husband, The Hero

We were headed up to Manteca late this afternoon to pick up the Vibe from Phillips Automotive Repair -- the Vibe having developed the loud hiccups in its air conditioning and needing some routine maintenance work -- when Bernie pulled the Prizm over unexpectedly to the berm, and did a U-turn, and sped back down the road.

I was confused, of course, and a bit jarred by the change in direction. Bern mumbled something about "smoke" and I immediately was alert. This is fire season, when the golden dried grass can catch fire at any time, and everyone in the dry Central Valley would do well to be alert to any instance of fire.

Another U-turn, and then he saw again what had alerted him: a small plume of smoke by the side of the road!

We pulled over, and he jumped out of the car to see if he could stomp out the burning grass before it went wildfire. We'd just come from the grocery store, where I'd bought two gallons of drinking water; I opened the trunk and got one of them. We stomped and doused the smoldering fire until it was out.

Out: watch and wait for any tendrils of smoke to reappear.

Douse and stomp again and wait: any tiny spark can ignite the super-dry grass chaff and weeds.

Satisfied that we had quenched the fire, we went on our way. Driving home, however, I noted that the fire, had we not put it out, would have been blown along on the west wind and traveled for a long way along Moffat Blvd. and the railroad tracks; maybe it would have been stopped by the intersection of Woodward Road, but maybe the west wind and the fire's energy would have allowed the sparks to jump the road and continue south, toward the orchards and a propane gas store.

I didn't see the smoke when we passed, even though this is a season to worry about fires, and I do. I was looking at the other side of the road, and missed it.

Bernie didn't.

His sharp eyes caught the filmy wisps of smoke, thereby saving local taxpayers thousands of dollars in emergency responses, and avoiding horrible traffic backups on Moffat Blvd. and Highway 99 during the heavy commute hours.

He's not only a good man, he's a brilliant one, and I love him so much, and I'm proud that he's such a humble hero.

And yes, we found the fire-starter: a Marlboro Light cigarette butt, callously* tossed into the dried grass and chaff at the side of the road. Heaven knows I smoked for 20 years, but I ground out all my butts and pocketed them, not flinging them into brush or out a car window. Though I never smoked a cigarette I didn't enjoy, I would gladly support the banning of them altogether for how many wildfires they have started in our local community.

Kudos to Bernie Pilarski!

*Callously, stupidly, moronically, insensitively, irresponsibly, (did I mention fucking stupidly?), childishly, gormlessly, idiodically ... can we enact a law somehow that prevents cigarette-butt flingers from reproducing?... dangerously inadequate for living in this state or any other during other than a monsoon season.

So Much for Blogging

Well, I was going to blog about pesto today, but by the time I was done indulging my fancy, the blog entry turned into a Piker Press article which will appear next week, I guess.

Instead, I'm trying to think of the first time I ever saw pesto.

Growing up in rural Pennsylvania -- rural means the county seat had a population of 1000 -- amidst an ethnic mix of German/Scotch-Irish/GodAloneKnowsWhatButTheyWereWhiteAndAtePotatoes, I never even heard the term "pesto" let alone saw it. It's quite possible that the first time I ever dealt with pesto was when my 8-year-old daughter ordered a dish called "Prawns Genovese" at a restaurant in San Francisco and recoiled at the shrimps lolling in a puddle of it.

It was GREEN. EEEE! Nothing in the mountains of Pennsylvania is served GREEN!!!

I have no memory of what I had ordered, but I traded her plates, and gingerly tasted the concoction. Whoa! It was so tasty that I could hardly talk during the meal; pesto became my bridge partner, my jogging buddy, my pen pal, and my daughter was so amazed that she tried a bite of it and became from that moment onward, a lifelong afficionado. I did not trade her plate back. She was to be bitterly shown what the consequences of choices were about. You choose, you lose. Heh.

Anyway, that was the first time I ever saw pesto, and I have never forgotten it. It is with me always.

But as good as it was, it did not even come close to holding a candle to the pesto I made today, from fresh organic basil. Wow. Yum.

Fireworks.

I'll link to the Piker Press article when it appears, for the recipe.

Twenty Years!

The Valley air is filthy with agricultural dust and smog, the temperatures today are in the 100's, and the almond orchards are full of branches cracking from the weight of their fruit.

A hazy mountain range borders the Valley to the west, today barely visible through the dirt in the air; the Sierras to the east are invisible until the weather changes in a few days. The Valley itself is flat, and dry, and its culture is that of farming and commuting.

I was thinking about these things today as I drove along the Stanislaus River, taking "back" roads to Modesto to avoid the freeways.

The first time I encountered the Central Valley was in 1985, when my husband took a year-long job assignment here. Instead of the lush green wild fruitfulness of Pennsylvania, I found sere dried grasses in the pastures. Instead of compact little (nearly) self-sufficient towns, I gazed upon tasteless, wasteful sprawl. Instead of my towering four-bedroom Victorian, I set our luggage down in a dumpy three-bedroom ranch style house with an ugly carpet and hard-water-stained bathrooms.

A year passed; the work assignment was done. We went back to Pennsylvania, to fishing, to berry-picking in July, to walking through magical nights when snow fell through the streetlights in a dizzying dance ...

And remembered how instead of towns of 12,000 white people, most of whom were related, there were every imaginable color of people in the sprawling towns of California, and how Yosemite National Park was only an hour or so away, and how San Francisco used to welcome us, with its glorious smells and smiles and celebration.

This morning I remembered again the Friday in 1988 when my husband came home from work after a harrowing week of arguing with his bosses about whether or not to be honest, with an ultimatum that he'd been given, three choices: knuckle under, come to work at the corporate offices where his penchant for honesty and fairness could be subdued, or quit.

There was no doubt whatsoever in my mind when he told me. My heart leaped and my eyes filled with tears. "Quit!!!!!!!! Then we can go home again!!!!"

In two weeks, both of us had been offered jobs here in the Valley. It was a time of grace and blessing, being brought to where we had come to love more than any other place.

Twenty years later, I still remember, and still thank God for bringing us home. Hot and dusty, flat and crazy ... hey, Dorothy, there's no place like Home.