Stylish and Resilient?

I have a pale pink, merino wool cardigan that is my current easy-wear of choice for the California Layered Look. CLL is a local necessity as the hot, hot days are often curtailed by nature's own air conditioning; the marine layer, otherwise known as fog, which rolls in, visible in the distance, stretching its ghostly tendrils down from the crests of the hills that block its roiling, inexorable march inland. This happens most at the end of the day and is a welcome relief. There are times, however, when we are subject to "June Gloom". There are coastal areas, San Francisco included, that can go days without a glimpse of sunlight or blue sky. Happily we live under blue skies most of the time, but a wrap or sweater is always wise to have in reach.
My early morning forays with dogs are a great example of optimum use of said cardigan. I get dressed in the semi-dark so it has the added advantage of a light color that makes it easy to discern. I splash water on my sleepy face, feed old Diva and zoom out with the wide-awake Foster-dogs, usually only just missing contact between my head and the lethargically rising garage door. I make my coffee upon my return, after feeding Darcy and Boomer and before walking Diva. I remove my cardigan because the house feels warm compared to outside and I am warmly exhilarated by the leaps and bounds I have had to take to keep up with D & B as they sniff the fresh trails of visiting deer. They are fascinated by the one glimpse they had of a raccoon sliding its fat, seemingly boneless, body into the gap of a storm drain. I think in their minds they call him "the melting creature" and endow him with many scary talents because they can't resist staring into every gutter we pass but they won't step over one and seem ready for instant flight. I admit I can't resist making sudden noises to make them jump and scare them further.
Boomer had an appointment last week for minor surgery to have a cyst removed from his back. The Collie Rescue Group organized and paid for this. We had to be at the vets' by 8am for a consult and drop off with a hungry dog who had had his walk but was not allowed breakfast. That wasn't too hard but I felt torn leaving his sister, Darcy alone in the garage, also hungry (because I couldn't feed her, not him) and wondering why I took him and left her behind. The best I could do for her was to whip off my pink cardy and leave it on the floor to snuggle or destroy as she chose. I ended up coming home between vet and work so her breakfast was not too delayed and at the end of the day, good news, Boomer's cyst was benign and my sweater was still intact.
Last evening we were invited at short notice to dine with friends. We knew it would be relaxed and outside on their patio. They have two dogs and I opted for cotton capri pants and a black t-shirt, not a big deal if slobbered on by lab-mix, bulldozer dogs. But what about my layers for when it got cold later? I inspected my pink cardigan, briefly; it looked none the worse for wear. It was perfect as the wind at sunset was quite cool and our hosts' dogs were highly interested in sniffing the hidden stories that no-one else could imagine just by looking at my deceptively pristine pink cardigan.

Other Nations by Kate Barnes

I used to think women who talked baby talk to their animals were the rock bottom.

Now I'm not so sure. Now I open my mouth and hear, coming out of it,: Is you a good, good dog?"

-words that are falling in their light, descending order to two pricked ears,

a hairy face, a glowing eye, an unbroken concentration on the excellent, bone shaped dog biscuit

I'm holding up, increasing our pleasure with some slight, prolonging chitchat.

My neighbor Zoe, at twelve, cries to her cat, "Oh dearest, darlingest Wooshiekins!" as she presses extravagant kisses on the round head of a pale, torpid marmalade who doesn't seem to mind (but her silent father gets up and leaves the room).

"They are other nations," my own father wrote, "caught with ourselves in the net of life and time." Of course, he meant the wild ones, but our household allies, too, link us to a greater world.

We wish we could speak their languages; and, meanwhile, they learn ours.

When the rein snaps while I'm driving home in the buggy, with Blackberry trotting hard, grabbing the bit, through the rush of a blustery March day, I don't start hauling on the other rein and risk tipping us over or starting a runaway; I call to him loudly, "wa-alk...wa-alk..."

- and after he does that he hears me say, "Whoa!" - and he does that.

So how can I ever praise that huge person enough, those twelve hundred pounds of best behavior who may just have saved my life? I get out and tie the ends of the parted rein as he rolls his questioning eye, and I pat his strong, damp neck, repeating, over and over, without thought, a mantra of gratitude to gods and animals. "Thank you," I say, "thank you, thank you, kind fate, thank you, my good, good friend!"

Thanks to "Tidings of Magpies" for introducing me to the poetry of Kate Barnes.

Prosperity

I can hear prosperity raining down from the clouds
but, for now, it is a faraway sound:
the patter of raindrops on the rain forest canopy.
It is beginning to accumulate, to drip and slide from the tips of the
leaves of the tallest trees.
It falls and bounces and falls again; gaining momentum, as we wait below,
faces raised, thirsty, parched, optimistic creatures of the forest floor.

Brussel Sprouts and Pirates.

I may have had a useful idea, or the train of my thoughts may be way off track. I don't really mind, either way.
As I was preparing Brussels sprouts for the lunch menu this weekend, it occurred to me that August is not Brussels sprout season. Thought number two: who thinks enough of Brussels sprouts to push cultivation and ship them in from some foreign clime? Cherries at Christmas, I understand. Asparagus year round, we now take for granted, but mundane little green Brussels sprouts. Talk about a niche market!
Thought number three. Images of ocean going containers full of Brussels sprouts and the subsequent surprise on a Pirate's face when he discovers what he has hi-jacked. The conversation with the foreign government expected to negotiate the release, for ransom. The loud raspberry said foreign diplomat sends down the satellite phone link. A noise he has refrained from making since he went to Diplomat school. A new found respect for a previously under appreciated vegetable.

Seagulls and Other Flying Memories

I began this post with the intention of writing about seagulls and their ever-present swooping, squabbling and squawking. Cross, demanding sandwich-snatching beach seagulls; transformed into beautiful wraiths with plumage lit rose-gold, by ocean sunsets, wheeling and corkscrewing in the last of daylight. Huddled, hunch-backed on the green grass of an inland field; harbingers of a wicked storm beyond the shore. Seagulls have been the background singers in many of the memories of my life.

Peter Warlock writes "I am living now in a little wooden house on the highest part of the moor that separates the two seas, north and south, between Zennor and Penzance. All around, on all sides, nothing but open moorland and rock-strewn hills, mostly crowned with marvelous Druidic temples. Without leaving the house I can see the sun rise at five in the morning, and watch it sink at night into the sea. The sky never grows dark; the darkness seems rather to come welling out of the earth like a dye, oozing into every shape and form, every twig and every stone, keen, intense blackness..."

The quote above is from a book called "From Cornwall with Love". It is a collection of evocative photos by Bob Croxford, and is accompanied by an anthology of writings about the part of the world I call home, even though I don't get home very often. It is the kind of coffee-table book that is a great gift to bring back from vacation to give to the friend who watered your garden or fed your cats whilst you were away. This copy was my gift to me. I can glimpse the little villages and safe harbours of the rocky Cornish coast and smile in agreement at some of the things that people have written.

I went to school in Penzance, of Pirate fame. The local rugby team are called The Pirates. I rode sure-footed ponies of my youth up across these granite-strewn, treeless hills; and, more recently, walked these moors with my sister and "Danny the Disappearing Fucking Greyhound"; as she likes to call him. Top of Zennor moor, with a view of Mounts Bay on the one side and the Atlantic Ocean on the other, is where my ashes will one day be scattered to the blustery winds, or dumped down a rabbit hole; I know my sister!

"And talking of seagulls, I was about to enter Seagull City, otherwise known as Mevagissy. Here the birds swooped down the alleyways in squadrons like something Barnes Wallis had designed, dropping their bombs with a white splat on the pavement. Fortunately, these didn't bounce, but in a place like this, it was only a matter of time before one was hit". - Mark Wallington

And here I came upon another descriptive paragraph; this one serving as a sign post; "Turn Here", "New Direction" it said, as it reminded me of a movie about bouncing bombs; a true story of innovation, persistence, courage and well-spoken leadership. The Dam Busters.

I remember watching this black and white movie several times over the years, with my Father. It was and still is a good story, with many compelling characters. It exemplifies the indomitable spirit of wartime Britain, and the theme music is stirring and triumphant; so much so that we chose this as the final tune to accompany our Father's coffin as it swept through the curtains and away to the crematorium.

If you have played this video you must realize that this is a spoof of the original, very serious, film. It was turned into an advertisement for Carling Black Label Beer. My Dad would have loved this humour too. He raised us with a firm hand and a lot of Monty Python and Benny Hill. Quirky by nature and quirky by nurture, that's us. He died in August a few years ago. I'd have to look up the exact date and year. I am not diminishing the importance of his death, I just don't believe that revering the date changes anything. I don't want my warm, seagull filled memories sullied by the Alzheimer ghost vultures that pursued him at the end of his life. I prefer to imagine him laughing and telling me I have a school-girl sense of humour.

Can You Hear the Drums Fernando?

Grumpy Monday: I don't want to go to L.A. I don't think I have much chance of success taking a Collections Company to court, for not fulfilling their contract. My flight is delayed. No wonder United Airlines are the cheapest alternative. I hate using a toilet that thinks it's smarter than I am about flushing decisions. I just had a toasted ham and cheese sandwich that, even to someone like me, who considers bread "but a vehicle for butter", was too greasy to eat, (and, by the way, it wasn't butter, it was certainly a petroleum by-product that was excreted by the oozing, rubbery mess they euphemistically call cheese)! I also want to know what ingredients there could be in mustard that have stained my trousers neon yellow?

There is a sleeping traveller stretched out on the waiting area seats, coughing pitifully. As I wonder about Swine Flu and contagion, I realize that he is an employee of the food-court, complete with apron, taking his break before going back to spread whatever he has to the maximum number of passengers, who will pay through the nose for the privilege.

Update - 6:10 p.m. I must be doing something right because, even though I haven't yet embarked on my flight, I have already received a preliminary settlement offer phone call from the Collection Agency's lawyer. I tell him it is insufficient and that I have an appointment the next day with the District Attorney, to present my case of their fraudulent practices. I don't really have an appointment, but I am convincing. He disputes my reasoning. He has a pro-forma contract. I say that I have a copy of a fax sent eight months previously that trumps his contract. He is willing to wait by his fax machine for me to travel to my hotel and transmit my Ace in the Hole. I feel as though I have them on the run.

LAX is teeming with life. It seems appropriate that the balmy late-evening air carries the saline scent of the Pacific Ocean. I find my shuttle bus and arrive at the car rental desk 5 minutes before they close at 9 p.m. They have a fax machine so I take care of business, faxing my new best friend, the lawyer, whilst my car is brought around. I call his cell and leave a message to confirm that the ball is now in his court. It is never sufficient to assume that faxes or emails will automatically reach their intended target.

The drive to my hotel (motel) in Van Nuys is a straight shot and surprisingly agreeable. On the 405 freeway, traffic is cleanly zipping along at 60 mph, unheard of in L.A. I head north, passing well known exits for Wilshire, Santa Monica and Sunset Blvd. The City is so much more attractive softened by darkness. The sleaze factor is transformed; jewel bright as all that is visible are the colored lights.

The air is, again, surprisingly breathable; warm citrus is the predominant tone. This may well be a once in a lifetime L.A. moment.

Tuesday - 1 p.m. I've been at the Municipal Center since 7 a.m. Court wasn't until 8:30, but the address was ambiguous and I wanted to be sure to have time to relocate if I was not in the right place. I have been trading phone calls with the company attorney who had made the initial settlement offer. I feel as though I can't leave this place, or I will lose my leverage of threatening to lay out my case with the commercial fraud unit.

The pedestrian plaza is modern, well-groomed; a combination of trees, grass, cement and even a water feature; surrounded by Court buildings, The Library and Police Department Buildings. The jail is around the back and there are an array of bail-bondsman's storefront offices, conveniently lining the street nearby. Not a Starbucks or Jamba Juice in sight. I've moved around from varnished wood backless bench to granite wall seat. The criss-cross grid pattern of the green metal stools, which are now in full sun, is permanently imprinted on my rear end. I have a book and people-watching to keep me entertained. I am feeling at home here, my temporary world delineated by the stately monoliths and their supplicants. I become one with the Municipal Plaza. This is my fleeting cosmos.

Three well-mannered, fresh-faced boys and a Dad sat near me for a while. The youngest wearing Clark Kent reading glasses and twiddling away at his Game boy. Dad went to take care of business and I moved to a new spot near a walkway between two buildings, enjoying the contrived breeze blowing from the man-made canyon. Later, I grew tired of reading and gazed straight ahead. A suited, lawyer-type with a woman companion bends to retrieve something and looks questioningly around. He addresses another man, who shakes his head and shrugs. From 100 ft away I interpret what I see; I had heard the young boy mention he had his Dad's car keys. They've wandered off and left them there. The lawyer-type is grateful to hand them over to me. I have time to fill. I revisit the square, keeping my eye out for "my" lost boys. Keys reunited, my Mom-job done. My feet are starting to hurt in my smart shoes, the soles are warming from the heat of the ground.

The line to enter the courthouse has grown long now. Every size and shape and color of humanity is represented, dressed in every style and un-style imaginable. They wait, two-dozen deep, to pass through the security check point to the lobby.

I too am waiting. Has the lawyer been unable to reach his client for a response or are they playing me, trying to wear me out?

The light beige sidewalk is a sticky polka dot hazard of circular black chewing-gum embellishments. I widen my territory in search of a decent cafe. Crossing the street by the jail to go to the Workers' Comp. building, I experience sudden exposure to overhead sun, which drills down on my head and reverberates up from the black-top road, like molten lava steaming the humidity out of the air.

The cafe is a pleasant surprise; I don't care about the food or decor; the seats have cushions! I select a sandwich and bottle of water. There is a wisp of an old woman sitting on a stool at the register. Small of frame, accented voice, dark olive eyes. She tells me she is Greek and thanks me for smiling today. As I pass some time with my book and food I hear her interacting with her regulars. She is well liked. One professional woman in a smart suit and heels takes napkins and wipes down the coffee serving area where she said she had spilled a little sugar. I didn't see her spill anything. It seems to have been a gentle gesture towards easing an other's life.

The sun is fully overhead. I claim a seat in the leafy dappled shade of a plane tree. The birds that were chatty and chirping in its branches this morning are silent; not a peep or a flutter anywhere. The crowds of people have diminished too, all but a few stragglers and I, drawn inside by the lure of air-conditioning.

There goes a woman I recognize from this mornings' ebb and flow. Petite, bright orange hair, indeterminate age. Moving purposefully towards the steps, greeting other habitue-es. Her lime green blouse, titian bob and carmine lips an aesthetic assault on the monochromatic architecture. She's older than the building, for sure.

Lunch must be over. Activity increases again. There are some pretty girls and some pretty dresses. Not necessarily pretty girls in pretty dresses. The shoe choices are intriguing. I've seen a lot of flip-flops and sandals. The glint of patent leather pumps and designer shoes and purses. The best legs of the day just walked by in sneakers. Long, tanned, refined muscle definition all the way up to the short white athletic shorts and tight butt-cheeks. Shame about the grey mustache, balding tome. and the coach's whistle around his neck. Honors due to the legs still.

My eyes continue grazing the range and light upon a youthful cop in relaxed-fit summer khakis which do nothing to hide his body from my imagination. Lithe, blond, energetic with shoulders tapering to waist below. I like his poise and unconscious air of authority. He bounds up the steps and leaves the landscape a poorer place as he disappears from view.

My phone has not rung in a while. If I call the lawyer back for an update it lessens my power. If I wait too long I will be out-manoeuvred, stuck facing a mad dash through turgid freeway gridlock to return my rental car and get back to the airport.

I called him. The trouble is that I am starting to like him. We are adversaries with the common goal of moving on with our lives ASAP. We tentatively close our deal. Not exactly a fight to the death but a tussle of wills and stamina.

Before I leave, I decide to take a closer look at the large bronze statue of a Hollywood-esque Indian that has been in my line of sight all day. He is front and center, facing the courthouse doors. I approach, pre-disposed to assume this is somewhat offensive and politically incorrect. His name is the first thing I see. "Fernando', the plaque says, not what I would have expected. I lean towards being disgusted at the insensitivity of the City Fathers who belittle this hard-bodied representative of the West's dubious past, but I read on. Fernando is so named in honor of the last indigenous people of the San Fernando Valley - The Fernandeno People. This, larger than life, "American Indian Brave" by sculptor Henry Van Wolf has recently been restored and stands in silent vigil, stern and stoic; a solitary sentinel, overseeing the people still optimistically petitioning for justice today; reminding us that justice, like beauty, is in the eye of the beholder.

Can you hear the drums, Fernando?

Lozere Intime

One late-summer's evening. The day had been oppressively hot and the thunderstorm was threatening to arrive, from one minute to the next, at the edge of the mountain. Already, the first lightning bolts ripped the dark veil of the sky. The crickets, everywhere, leading the deafening and relentless percussion. A dog calls out to another, releasing a chorus of barking that pierces the obscurity, responding to an invisible menace. The air is heavy, even as a gust of bad omens lifts the fronds of leaves. Lower down the valley, it must have really rained already...
The insects go quiet and the wind becomes more violent. The storm is cresting the hill, lightening flashes bleaching the false night. Not one solitary thunder-clap but a continuous roll, worrisome, like a an army advancing in the distance. The wind gusts accentuate, the air is noticeably cooling. Now, suddenly, one, then two impacts on the dry ground. Then a hundred, a thousand; from everywhere hail explodes, perforating thick foliage, striking randomly, powerful and glacial.

Better run for cover and wait it out. The surrounding vegetation humps it's back. Surely the ditches will stay white until morning.

The plums were just ripening, too; if we'd known we would have picked them sooner...

photo by Jean-Francois Salles

written by Michel Molling