A Superb Meteor!

"I would rather be ashes than dust! I would rather that my spark should burn out in a brilliant blaze than it should be stifled by dry-rot. I would rather be a superb meteor, every atom of me in magnificent glow, than a sleepy and permanent planet. The function of man is to live, not to exist. I shall not waste my days trying to prolong them. I shall use my time."

Jack London

I lost a friend in December to a car versus pedestrian accident. My friend was a force of Nature; an unstoppable and sometimes reckless, pain-in-the-ass, demanding friend. She was in a crosswalk and the driver didn't see her. The woman driver stopped and called emergency services and gave what first aid she could. I feel very sorry for her; a young Mum; kid in the back-seat; sun in her eyes; wrong-time, wrong-place. This will mark her future for a long time to come.

The Jack London quote was chosen by my friend's two grown daughters and is perfect. Phyllis would have turned 67 this year. We held her birthday at my house last summer and ate and drank and toasted and laughed with friends from our doggie excursions (that's how we met), friends from her book club, friends from her Art interests and more. 

Phyllis was a National Level Tennis Player, in her youth, and remained competitive and self-motivated in many of the avenues her life took. She was Jewish, but liked a Christmas Tree too. Her white fluffy Samoyed was a canine therapy dog who visited the young people at Juvenile Hall. Phyllis was a docent at the Art and Cultural center and had been a collector and promoter of Art and Artists. She never missed a performance of Theatre Works and she was active until recent years in the Audubon Society and Conservation of the Baylands etc. She could always motivate others and drum up a following to join her working on any given cause. Her grandson, now in college, was part of a sponsored read every year. The amount collected for charity based on the number of sponsors and the number of books read. We all knew when it was time to sign up to sponsor him. Phyllis was always ready to pounce with the paperwork. 

There were several hundred people at the Memorial Service and we all enjoyed the personal stories; of Phyllis wanting to get from her Hotel in Paris to the Arc de Triomphe and enlisting the local Gendarmes to halt many lanes of turbulent traffic so that she could cross one of the busiest intersections in Europe; of Phyllis joining her book group for a weekend in Carmel, finding that the front steps of the private home she'd been invited to, were not manageable in her wheel chair, calling the local Firemen (who were always cute when she spoke about them), to lift her in and out of the house a few times.

Travel was a passion for Phyllis and there were photos of her in a hot air balloon over Dijon, on the Great Wall of China and in Peru and Egypt. She made friends wherever she went and nurtured those friendships, as we all should.

Phyllis had Multiple Sclerosis but she lived alone. Her independence was her most precious possession, even if it took her 2 hours to get out of bed and dressed every day. She was usually showered, dressed and presentable, including lipstick by 7am. I know because I was on her Life-Alert call list so if she fell or got her chair stuck under the edge of the dining table my phone would ring and I would zoom to help. She was frustrated by some of the indignities of needing help. No-one wants to have a friend see them stretched out on the bathroom floor with her head beside the toilet and her skirt all every-which-way. We came up with some dark humor in those situations, of which Monty Python would have been proud.

Phyllis did not let her disease define her, although she founded the M.S. Support group in our town a decade and a half ago. She bullied the Medical Center into giving them meeting space and regularly connived to get the best, most renowned speakers to participate. Competitive as always.

In my perspective, Phyllis would have been O.K. with leaving life in a flash. She hated the thought of losing her autonomy as her disease progressed. Her ancient Mom had passed recently and her old dog put to sleep at 14 years old. (She was on the waiting list for a puppy, of course!) Phyllis would have wanted to attend a few more parties, if she had had more time, and seen her grandson graduate and marry one day.

She didn't leave any loose ends and she certainly lived her life to the full. One word comes to mind when I think of my pain-in-the-ass friend - UNDEFEATED! - way to go Phyllis.

Time in a Bottle

My parents always put a lot of thought into the gifts they chose. This replica of my husband's 45 ft sail-boat, in a bottle was one of the most successful presents anyone could have come up with.

Hubby owned "The Saga" long before we met, it was moored near Toulon on the Mediterranean and known more for the great meals cooked on board than for sailing prowess. In fact, in the 5 years we were together in France, before moving to the U.S. I never saw the sails go up; too much hard work and why not chug along with the double engines; sunbathing and relaxing instead of all that effort?

Whenever we would prepare to get away for a few days we would start by buying produce in Toulon market place. The noisy, funny vendors with tables piled high, full of jewel-colored bell peppers, tomatoes and courgettes. Shaded by the plane trees; the voices ricocheting between the old buildings on either side. Laden down we would head back to the boat to stow everything shipshape in the many cupboards.

Ratatouille was our departure dish. We had a bright orange, enamelled, cast-iron pot with a tight fitting lid. As we headed out of the bay I would chop veggies up on deck then heat olive oil and garlic, pile in all the ingredients and bungee-cord the pot to the gas stove in the galley.

It took a good couple of hours to cross over from the mainland to the islands of Porquerolles, Portcros and Levant and sometimes we wouldn't make it all the way. If we were hungry we would anchor in any charming cove we came across. Ratatouille, some freshly sliced ham, the ubiquitous Rose wine and the Siesta that almost always followed; with the water lapping at the hull. We would rock the boat and then the boat would rock us to sleep.

It turns out that hubby has many talents, mooring a boat is nowhere near the top of the list. Our anchor often dragged along the sandy bottom whilst we slept and we would awaken a few miles distant from whence we had slumbered. At night he was more careful so, in-general, we survived.

We are making Ratatouille tonight and though it is late February I anticipate being transported by the olfactory time machine to a blue sea where salt crusted skin on skin and satisfying the senses was all that mattered.

Optimism

Optimism is hope in sneakers - it makes life more comfortable but doesnt have to be taken too seriously.

An Optimist looks on the bright side, walks on the sunny side, and gets up on the right side of the bed every day.

This may lead to the impression that optimists are slightly out of touch.

But they are the ones who strike the match that dispels all the dark.

Who else reminds us that a glass half empty is also a glass half full?

Who else looks for the pony wherever there's a pile of you-know-what?

Who else pictures life a little rosier than it is?

And often, because of them, it really is.

author unknown

Inescapable Pancakes!

I am tired and grumpy. We have house guests who flew in from France yesterday so we already did one major dinner - on a Monday night no less! Between the wine I consumed and having jet-lagged people wandering around talking on the phone at 4 am. I am not my perky self today. Now we add in Fat Tuesday and the French hankering for "Crepes" this evening, plus a premonition of what my kitchen will look like after husband has spread flour and eggs everywhere, and you get the picture. I almost hope he really does burn us down tonight. We have a family motto that has stuck over the years: If there's no Fire and no Flood how can you call it a party? 

Friendship Award

"These blogs are exceedingly charming. These bloggers aim to find and be friends. They are not interested in self-aggrandizement. Our hope is that when the ribbons of these prizes are cut, even more friendships are propagated. Please give more attention to these writers. Deliver this award to eight bloggers who must choose eight more and include this cleverly-written text into the body of their award."

http://halfwaytofrance.blogspot.com/
http://atidingsofmagpies.blogspot.com/
http://le-puy.blogspot.com/
http://mollyredux.blogspot.com/
http://follywoods.blogspot.com

This award was given to me by Solitairemare and is greatly appreciated. I have only been blogging for a few of months so I can't come up with 8 recommendations. Of course Solitairemare would have been on my list if she didn't already have the award. The blogs I have listed are part of my daily travels. I hope that you also enjoy where they might lead you.

Riding Progress

I have ridden every Saturday for a number of weeks. This alone is an achievement. It is all too easy to let life, work, money, and self-consciousness about my rusty skills intervene to prevent me sealing the deal with myself that this is important to me and not to be denied or postponed any longer.

The stable I visit is less than ten minutes away; up the hill; past the reservoir and through the vineyards. The surroundings are pleasant, the horses well cared for. 

Yesterday I was given Amadeus to ride. Deus is a big bay gelding with a long neck and a slow, rhythmic stride. He is obviously an older horse but appears to have had some schooling in his long ago youth. Once I woke up his dead-to-the-leg sides he was lovely into my hands and his snaffle bit. 

More progress; I can now ride for the whole hour without too much huffing and puffing, and I am talking about the (supposedly) advanced class now. We rode quite a bit without stirrups. This I have been able to do fairly easily since the day I bought my first pony and Dad said I would have to wait until my birthday to get a saddle to go with him. Funnily enough the emergency dismounts that we practiced yesterday at the trot were learned back then as well. King Arthur the Great, as my strong, Cobby 13.2 hh Thelwell-derived pony was called, had a mouth of iron. Even in his kimblewick and curb chain he could bolt at the walk. King never deigned to waste the energy to take off at the gallop, but he was always very successful at going where he wanted to go. It was often easier to jump off and pull him along by the reins than try to direct him from above. 

There was a pony in the class yesterday who turned to bite the rider's foot a few times. I am convinced that most ponies have some devil in their blood-lines. They are usually good for a laugh, if not from the rider, from the spectators.

Forecast-Rain

This morning was a cacophony of birds. Chirping, cheeping, warbling, whistling; a few who could hold a tune performing and competing, as if they too had heard the weather forecast and knew that time was short.

At lunch-time we watched the bees in the ornamental pear by the dining room window. In and out of the bright-white blossoms. Busy, busy; Now or never. 

By 3pm the trees are restless. The sky is a uniform pale grey; not too menacing yet, but this will not be an evening where dark hesitates politely at the threshold.

I take the dog for a walk an hour early this afternoon, unsure if we would make it later without bringing home gallons of water on her full, furry, collie coat. Diva likes the promise-wind before the rain. Her pointy nose gathers messages that her old ears cannot hear. She smiles into the wind. Diva was a puppy in the El Niño years; she loves puddles and saturated playing fields.

We have had a few days' break since the last rain. Gardeners have tidied up the ripped-paper strips of eucalyptus bark. The fat, pink camellias lusciously carpeting the ground are decaying, no longer perfect as they were last week. My invincibly bright daffodils, relentlessly beaten into translucent defeat have been replaced by a new army, stoically ready to face their fate.

As we head for home I see a newly flowering white Camellia by a neighbor's wall. Tight geometric blooms perfect and pristine as new snow. The round buds a suspended hail storm hovering over the dark, shiny leaves.

Sound-effects from a tall palm tree. Dry clack-clacking of old, untrimmed palm leaves; each desiccated, cricket-colored layer rubbing on those of the year below.

Today is Saturday. We will surely wake tomorrow to the sound of rain. Comfortably cocooned in our beds, sleeping easily in the fake darkness.

Later Diva will have her fun. She doesn't know it yet but tomorrow is bath-day for her anyway.

Ghastly Toad

The sun oozed over the horizon, shoved aside darkness, crept along the greensward, and, with sickly fingers, pushed through the castle window, revealing the pillaged princess, hand at throat, crown asunder, gaping in frenzied horror at the sated, sodden amphibian lying beside her, disbelieving the magnitude of the frog's deception, screaming madly, "You lied!"

2006 Bulwer-Lytton aka "Dark and Stormy Night" Contest, wherein one writes only the first line of a bad novel. (I don't have author's name, sorry)

"Tragic" School

My hubby is never happier than when driving a powerful machine. Add to that the fact that he doesn't see how the rules of the road apply to him and that he is usually mentally elsewhere; thinking about his next painting or what's for lunch, and you will understand why he has been invited to sign up for traffic school a few times now.

Funnily enough there are often other French Drivers at "Tragic School", as they call it. They commiserate with one another and go in search of lunch together, as the classes are often held in out of the way places.

I always sign him up for the Saturday, 8-hour, comedic class. I am told they are sometimes asked to act out examples of how drivers get distracted. The class rises to the occasion, literally, shuffling around making "vroom-vroom" noises with imaginary steering wheel in one hand and finger (imaginary I hope) of other hand inserted in nose. Bad boys every one.

Now I do know that traffic school can be completed on-line. That remains my little secret. Sometimes it's worth the fine to have a whole Saturday to myself!

Memorable Moments -Good & Bad- from my Past Life as a Girl Groom

I was twenty when I went to work in Germany. I had worked at a Riding School and Livery Stable in Cornwall, near my home, and then a Show-Jumping Yard in Epping Forest. I took a temporary spot with Hunters on the Island of Bute off the Scottish coast and then set my sights on an overseas position.

I found myself living on a farm, North of Hamburg in Schleswig-Holstein. I lost my heart to Holsteiner horses in general and a stallion called Romantiker, in particular.

The family I lived and worked with bought, sold, bred and trained horses. Their son had a half-dozen good horses and was competing at a National level. They had an indoor arena, thank goodness-(boy that weather), and we were always riding something. There were days when we got through 16 horses; I'd warm them up; get them going forward on the bit; serpentines etc. and then hand them off to Dirk for some jumping. Bring out the next one and start over. I never had any trouble sleeping, that's for sure.

We were on the road a lot; leaving on Wednesday or Thursday and returning late Sunday night; depending on how far away the shows were. We would make a strange caravan of two-horse trailers hitched to older diesel-Mercedes driven by however many acolytes were needed to get the horses to their destination. There was never a shortage of female volunteers; horses alone are a girl-magnet but add a tall, blond athletic rising star to the mix and it's amazing they had to employ anyone (me) at all.

I always slept with my horses on the road; usually in temporary stabling, under a marquee; freezing in my sleeping bag, no matter how hard I tried to burrow into the straw. Up before dawn, feeding, watering, grooming, braiding manes and tails. Checking to see if party-boy Dirk was sleeping it off in his car or if he had remembered to sign in for the day's classes.

My two and a half years in Germany are a blur, as far as the geography of where we went is concerned. We went everywhere. Lots of wins, lots of camaraderie, lots of English Grooms. Getting to know all the riders and horses; seeing the same faces in new places as we all chased our dreams.

I loved to watch Olympic and World Champ Gerd Wiltfang ride. His calm, long-legged style somehow raised his horse up in front and engaged behind; apparently on a loose rein. Something I couldn't hope to replicate. One day he came out of the ring and handed his horse to me to hold. To this day I consider that moment with pride. He knew my name and he trusted me with Goldika.

Driving home from that show, half asleep in the back seat, the hypnotic swish-swish of wipers and bright-blurr headlights of Sunday go-home traffic. Sudden braking wakes me as we go into a bend and another car is facing us where there should be road. The Mercedes swerves and avoids the oncoming idiot who overtook blind. He has nowhere to go and clips the horse-trailer that we are pulling behind.

The vignette of our trailer tipping and sliding, spinning away from us on it's side, seen through the rear window, brings a lump to my throat today, almost 30 years later. Those horses were in big trouble.

I flew out of the car and ran to the trailer to open what would have been the ramp, if the thing were upright. I struggled with the weight and wedged myself in the gap shedding a little light into the dark interior. Derek; promising young Hanoverian; 17h3 at the shoulder, was lying flat on his side; his halter still attached by a lead-rope to the front tether-ring. Where was Lord? Small courageous Lord; compact, hardworking, reliable. Our standby horse who sometimes took first place by sheer tenacity. A white head popped up between Derek's forelegs. They looked at me in confusion and trust: "Get us out of here, Mum"

My boss grabbed the ramp and I went in the grooms' door at the front-now topside, like entering a submarine through the hatch. I cut the ropes with my ever-present John Deere pocket knife and somehow Lord raised himself from underneath Derek, got turned around and out. Now my boss is holding the ramp with one hand and the side of Lord's head collar with the other. Other people are coming to help, some of them horse-people returning from the same show.

Derek is trying to get up but he's a big boy; not completely grown into his legs and neck at six years old and the fiberglass walls and ceiling give no purchase. He surely has no room to turn around. He manages to wriggle backwards with a few scary slip and slides until he too is out. Someone passes me a belt to hold him with. If this baby puts his head up he is so much taller than me I'd as easily hold a giraffe.

The horses are O.K. considering. Miraculously all 8 limbs appear intact. Derek has a cut above his eye that needs stitches; we're standing at the side of a major road, in the rain and dark and flashing lights. The idiot who hit us crashed into a tree and broke his leg. Boo Hoo!

When the urgently-summoned horse transport truck came to get us those horses climbed right on board. Back to familiar surroundings. Sigh! We drove to the vet for x-rays and stitches and then home for a much needed sleep.

Physically, Derek and Lord recovered completely. A few days of stiffness walked off in pasture turn-outs. Big Boy Derek went on to a great future - Lord quit. He had used up the last of his courage and no longer wanted any kind of challenge. The verve and nerve went out of him that night. He was returned to his private-owner home and retired into a non-competitive lifestyle.

I know these horses have been long gone for decades but I remember every name and face and foible of personality of the horses who touched my heart.

Watercolors

Who can depict windy solitudes unchanged by time?
Who shares gold-complexioned landscapes where Eternal-Summer resides?
Renot's watercolors melt down the ingredients of a flower garden; alternating between forests hot as fire and evening-pale mists veiling long, dappled grasses.

Coyotes are Party Animals

It seems appropriate to discuss evolution as we celebrate Darwin's birthday. Although far from The Islands of the Galapagos, Silicon Valley may have animals that are at the forefront of their species.

Coyotes are depicted as reticent, shadowy creatures we usually see briefly in failing light. Cartoon animals, unattractive and sneaky.

Our local Coyotes have transformed this image. They throw parties and play games at night on the golf course below our bedroom window. I can't see them but the yipping and chattering and ebullient school-yard noise transmits such naughty humor that I wake up smiling.

Their voices are neither wolf nor dog; tipsy transvestites jostling and laughing is the best description I can come up with.

I am seriously considering some kind of night-vision camera so that I can see as well as hear the fun.

Fire, Fire! - Get out of the way!

The town I go to every day for work has some history and charm. It is the vibrant County Seat, with traditional domed Court-House, Planning Dept. Jail etc. Lots of business areas with cabinet makers, towing companies and tile stores.

The next small town is purely residential; if you don't have 2 acres don't bother trying to build. It is the place where houses increase in value if they are within walking distance of the Polo Club and where it is not uncommon to be held up for a Presidential motorcade come fund-raising season.

One town serves the other as a place for all the suppliers and purveyors; gardeners and maids. I am a supplier. I am not complaining. I need and, mostly, enjoy this symbiotic relationship. 

We have a section along the main North/South thoroughfare that is Little Mexico. Middlefield  is lined here with Mexican Restaurants, Grocery Stores, Check-Cashing, Cell phone Sales and Gaudy Bridal/Formals with lots of tulle, satin and bright colors. There is one window sign that makes me smile as I wait at the light; I don't do much Spanish but I understand "No Papers, No Credit, No Problem!"

I was headed home recently down this busy 4-lane road and I heard sirens. The Fire Truck was powering along a few hundred yards behind. I checked my other road warriors and heaved-too on the right curb; I was the only one. Four lanes of traffic (2 north-2 south) continued; oblivious to the rules of the road. 

My analysis includes the sad truth that people who go out and purchase I.D. papers and drivers licenses with their first paycheck have never had instruction, nor taken a test. That is one scary thought.

On the same theme; it is purported that one in four drivers here is uninsured. That is not just immigrants but kids and repeat DUI's and people who sign up for insurance just to register their car and then let it lapse instead of making payments. 

A few years ago I suddenly had no brakes and rear-ended an old clunker. When the light changed they drove off. I always assumed they had issues with the law. Why else would you flee?

In California we all pay (those of us who are insured), uninsured motorist premiums. It has come into play for us a couple of times when hit by others; including one car-jacker who was being chased by police. That's a story for another day.

I don't have a solution to offer other than recognizing what a dangerous problem this is. I would prefer to share the road with people who know at least some of the niceties of circulating safely. Miss Manners takes on the Wild West. Defensive Driving is a survival skill.

The Fire-Truck Unfurled a Long Red Scarf of Sound.

The fire-truck unfurled a long red scarf of sound.

-Melissa Fay Greene

Death by Chocolatini!

I could say that I have travelled to New York for showings of my husband's Art, or I could say that I have driven around Manhattan in a U-Haul truck in the snow; delivering paintings. Both would be equally true.

Every couple of years we book a booth at the Javitts Convention Center and head off to ArtExpo International as exhibitors. Initially under the auspices of another Gallery but more recently under our own steam.

The logistics are stressful; paintings have to be crated and shipped from California. Transporters won't take them too soon as they don't want to store them. There is always someone with the horror story of an empty booth and missing Art. Press releases, invitations and brochures get designed, written, proofed and printed. If they don't get done on time you find yourself bringing heavy boxes on the plane; not to mention fitting one last canvas in your suitcase; with a prayer that it won't be mangled.

Lining up to get exhibitor passes. Everyone fresh in from an airport dragging a wheelie suitcase. Relief that the crate is in the right place at the right time; hours of unpacking, hanging, lighting paintings. Hugs and hello's to co-exhibitors from prior years. Excitement and concern; tomorrow is opening day. Will people come? Will they like what we have to show?

The days are long; the smiles bright; I wear "put-together" clothes with heels and even make-up. I am the sales staff. I travel with my trusty wireless credit card machine.

The show lasts 4-5 days with a day each end for hanging and then repacking art. We are in New York for a week; too tired to go far from our Hotel; making friends with the barman or woman. I have never visited the Statue of Liberty but I have plunged into the depths of the Chocolatini!

One evening we grabbed a drink in the Hotel bar. We were lucky to get a table in a standing-room only crowd. Cuba Libre; a great drink for February in New York. Sweet bubbly coke; spicy rum and the tang of green lime. We relaxed and decided to stay and order food where we were. A Cointreau on the rocks to round out the evening. Damn! They have no desserts. Oh, well sure; let's have an Irish Coffee. 

That was the cusp of a great evening; the moment beyond which it was fool-hardy to linger. We were going to call it a night as soon as we were done with coffee. 

Another couple was obviously looking for seats in the still crowded bar. We offered to share our table as we would be leaving soon. They offered to buy us a drink...

I asked the barman's advice on what I could have to satisfy my craving for sweetness and so I was introduced with little planning and less malice to my undoing: Chocolatini!

The best thing about 2009 is that we are not going to New York this year. They will hopefully have had time to "Forget-About-It/Me" before we show up again next year.

The Dentist-part II (circa 1989)

August 25th, 1989 - A warm Friday afternoon. 

I was working with my CPA in the home office; monthly accounting for our small business. My 4-year old daughter was napping in the next room. I answered the phone to hear that there had been an accident at our work-shop; my husband and his brother were both hurt. They had been crushed by stone slabs that had shifted whilst unloading them from an ocean-container.

I grabbed my daughter, told the CPA to call and cancel my next appointment and was work-shop bound in minutes. 

The ambulance had just left when I pulled up but the sheriff and firefighters were still there and told me it was going to our local Kaiser E.R. The Sheriff reminded me to drive carefully as I followed in their wake.

At the hospital I was brought straight back to see my husband and brother-in-law. Our El Salvadorian employee who had picked up some French whilst working for us had ridden along in the ambulance to translate as best he could. He then took over baby-sitting in the waiting room so I could concentrate on what was going on.

My husband who is above all an Artist had his right hand lying on a pillow next to his wrist; the bone had been crushed and the tendons had contracted. Portable X-rays had been called for. He also had scrape marks all down his chest but said that didn't hurt. Brother-in-law had a fractured left wrist.

There were a lot of people busily working away with bags of fluids hung and tetanus shots going in. The Doctors wanted to know what their patients had had to eat recently and we had everyone laughing as we described the interminable lunch menu of salad, roast beef, cauliflower, cheese, wine, coffee and dessert. 

It turned out that the E.R. doc could speak some French, then the hand specialist showed up and he had just completed training with the best hand surgeon in Lyons France; my Artist-hubby's home town. Things were definitely going our way.

I remember that Dorothy, the E.R. Nurse, called attention to the fact that French Artist was complaining of the cold despite warmed blankets and that she kept hanging more fluids but his pressure was lowering anyway.

They called for a surgeon to do an exploratory stomach-tap but said it was precautionary and not expected to show much. Minutes later; after a fountain of blood rose up everyone hauled ass for the elevator to the Operating Room.

The end of the story is that French Artist survived; hand back on and working quite well considering. He recently had X-rays for other stuff and showed up 2-dozen staples all through his insides where they put him back together to stop the bleeding.

The reason this is a Dentist story is because during that long night waiting for the surgeons to complete their magic I got a tooth-ache; the first and only time in my life. I took pills but the throbbing in my jaw was hot and painful.

I owned a cell-phone the size of a car battery. I had won it. I used it to call the office of my Dentist. I say "My Dentist" but he really had only seen me once before. I left a message saying I was at the hospital with my husband and I had a tooth ache, which was just one thing too many for me to handle. 

Early the next morning my phone rang. "My Dentist" drove to the hospital and treated my tooth-ache in the front seat of his car in the E.R. parking lot. He gave me a hug and said he would be praying for us.

That little man made a big impact. He did what he could to help a stranger. There were other people who came through for us in many ways that make me remember that event in positive more than negative ways.