Beauty and Bread: Views from John Muir's Range of Light

An Oakhurst Sunrise

2012-01-10T18:36:00.000-08:00

This is a photo taken back in November 2008 of a sunrise I was lucky enough to catch as I was on my way to work.
My brain is very tired tonight and not up to writing a post, so this will take a post’s place for now. Regular programming will be resumed shortly.

We're live!

2010-01-19T00:28:00.000-08:00

Greetings, all!

After much groaning, gnashing of teeth and thanks to Farida's help, the sparkling new website is live and on the air at

www.beautybreadsierra.com

All the old posts are there along with some new features, as well. It'll always be a work-in-progress, but it's got its party dress on and is ready for company.

Please redirect your bookmark to the new site, and you can sign up for the RSS feed there, too.

Welcome aboard!

Ask AnswerWoman

2010-01-19T00:01:00.001-08:00

Some of you have left questions and comments after recent posts. Some answers I tried to email to you, but I honestly haven’t figured out a good way to respond. This post is an attempt to answer a few of those items. For those who might be curious, I’ve inserted links to the original posts which provoked the comments/questions.

No, Golda hasn’t arrived yet, but we did look last weekend. Farida decided that Mohammed, Jesus, Krishna and Buddha would eat Golda, and that wouldn’t be a good thing. But I guess that’s actually not too far from reality, is it? The Druze, the Jain and the Bahai are probably going to take even longer.

Yes, I admit I could have vacuumed in the time it took to write the post. But I had fun writing. I wouldn’t have had fun schlepping the Rainbow all over the house.

The only reason I know this part of the English language is because I have children and a grandchild who are technologically savvy.

Yes, you really can transfer Tivo recordings to your iPhone or iTouch, take them with you and watch them anywhere. And the only reason I know this is because I have children who are technologically savvy.

You really can’t expect me to feel sorry for you, now can you? You who are not gainfully employed at the moment should revel in the opportunity to read all these outstanding blogs that I have scouted out for you. I did all the work. You get to have all the fun.

Yes, it’s surprising how much Abid looks like his mother, but what would really surprise you is how much Nasreen looks like the aunt she was named after. At Christmas she complained about a photo that made her look “too ethnic,” and we thought she was joking–until she brought out the photo of Auntie Safia. The resemblance is uncanny.

I am amazed and thrilled that you would try out the recipe. I will bring you the garam masala on Tuesday.

Definitely yes to the cuppa once the big storm which is supposed to pound us this week gets over with and there are no chain restrictions to get to the valley. I don’t do chains.

I have been too cheap to buy Grey Eagle an automatic feeder until now. But at 20 he definitely deserves it.

Call me slow or naive or whatever. You are right that in many areas (Afghanistan particularly comes to mind) women are considered second-class citizens. To Abid’s family’s credit (or my ignorance), I never got the feeling that the men in his family looked down on the women of the family at all. Quite the contrary. Many are quite well educated, highly-respected physicians, which is a tribute to the men who encouraged their education and careers. This does not imply that this is necessarily the norm with other families. Yet at the time I was in Pakistan, all of the women of Abid's family still observed the custom of segregating the sexes at social gatherings. The women would also wear burqa when prudence dictated, although it was not the norm for them. They did it by choice, not by obligation. Abid’s family also nominally observed the “arranged marriage” custom although I know of several cases where the couple knew each other and wanted to marry but had the families make the arrangements.

Yes, I noticed this endearing trait of your son-in-law and grandson at your birthday party.

Getting published was the result of having a great writing teacher, fantastic co-authors, perserverence, several years of classes–and a certain amount of luck.

I miss you, too. Yes, Arkansas is a lot closer than the Jordan Valley.

Whew! I thought this would be a quick post, but it’s now an hour and a half in the writing. But I think I’ve caught up with everybody.

Open Letter to Betty F.S.H. in Israel

2010-01-18T00:01:00.002-08:00

Dearest Betty!

You just made my day.

You can’t imagine how happy your comment to my post of January 17 made me. For a variety of reasons.

First off, I’ve been trying to figure out a way to urge, coerce, wheedle, whine, and beg you to start a blog. But I felt guilty about doing so because writing is not everyone’s thing, even though you and shared the inspiring words of Mrs. Ohlsen lo! those many years ago in the hallowed halls of Cal State L.A. And that, my friend, is a run-on sentence the likes of which Mrs. Ohlsen would be appalled at. Also ending a sentence with a preposition. Also sentence fragments.

But consider this:

* How many of us have abandoned the ideal job as an insurance adjuster in Southern California for the wilds of a kibbutz at the tail-end of the Sea of Galilee just three miles from the Golan Heights?

* How many of us spent six months as a volunteer on said kibbutz willingly mucking out cow stalls and peeling bushels of potatoes (not at the same time, of course).

* How many of us then came back to the states and converted to Judaism (even though she has a Jewish father) so she could make Aliyah?

* How many of us hid in the bathroom as Saddam rained scud missiles overhead?

* How many of us have photos of ourselves wearing gas masks in said bathroom?

* Who among us spent years working as an administrative assistant in a valve factory in said kibbutz?

* Who else is married to a lovable Bear?

You have tales to tell, my dearest pal, and little enough time to tell them. Please get started now.

And those are just the bare-bones stories I know. I, for one, want to hear those stories again from you and all the rest that I haven’t heard.

Think of all the adventures we had before you left for Israel? I’d like to hear your side of those.

So, pal of mine, by now you should have received an email in which I’ve told you how to get started on your blogging career. From there it’s up to you.

I can’t wait!

Love, meeeeeeeee

Almost At A Crossroads of Sorts

2010-01-17T00:01:00.002-08:00

Hello, World!

It's getting close to the time the brand-spanking-new website will be revealed. It's been quite a learning experience, experimenting with themes, widgets, FTP protocols, domain hosting and all that stuff I swore I'd never learn. But I love it, after all.

It's got a ways to go, and the target date is still February 1, although the switchover may well happen before that date at the rate we're progressing. The thing is, although the blog will always be a work-in-progress, I want it to be as close to my ideal as I can make it at this point--and I keep finding pages to add or delete, widgets to tweak, modifications to make. Of course, when it goes public, your comments will be taken very seriously, as to what you like and what you'd prefer to see changed.

To say the least I'm excited about the new look and the new possibilities. It'll be much more user-friendly, and you'll be able to easily find entries on subjects of interest as well as following along with each day's posting as usual.

We are getting close to the end of the story on Khyber Dreams, with probably 5 more chapters to go. As Elnora has always urged, I've just "slammed it down" with very little editing. When it's all over, I'm going to give it its very own page on the new website. If all goes as planned, I'll do some serious editing to make the story flow better, expanding details where I can, and have it posted so that anyone foolish enough to want to read it cover-to-cover can do so.

I've set a personal goal of a post a day for the month of January, and so far that goal has been met. As I spend time developing the new website, there's a possibility of a missed day or two. It makes me upset when one of my preferred bloggers doesn't post, so I'm just tellin' ya it's temporary. Especially once the new site goes public, I'm gonna go for it big-time.

An Alternative to TIVO

2010-01-16T00:01:00.003-08:00

In a prior post I lamented that among many other things, I'm addicted to Tivo, thanks to younger daughter Nasreen.

I'm pleased to say that I've conquered the Tivo addiction.

Because . . . now I'm tethered to my newest toy, my iTouch, also thanks to Nasreen. She's had hers for years, loves it and has shared it with me on occasion. I've craved one for years but was able to resist the impulse until she told me about its "Kindle app," which I'll tell you about in a minute.

What is an iTouch, you ask? It's just like an iPhone, except without the phone service. You can play music, watch videos, play games (which I don't but could) and access the web through it.

You can even read books on it, with an application that allows you to download books in Kindle format. All in a device that's the same size as an iPhone. You'd think that an apparatus that small would not be comfortable to watch, but it is. In fact, since it's purse- or pocket-size, you can take it with you anywhere and have a good book at your fingertips. In additional fact, if you have Wi-fi access and you finish a book, you can download another instantaneously. But as Nas quickly found out, if you're an avid reader, as we are in our family, you can also rack up a big bill very quickly. I have yet to break down and actually purchase a book to read on my iTouch, but the important thing is, I could. I downloaded the sample of Vince Flynn's Pursuit of Honor and found myself almost ready to buy.

What I have really come to love is the Pandora music service. It's Internet based, so you have to have Wi-fi, but it allows you to create your own "radio station" with artists and music you love. For example, if you like Vince Gill's music, you can tell Pandora that. It will supply you with Vince's music--as well as other artists that Pandora deems similar. I have found myself turning the TV off because I enjoy the music so much. I have a Vince Gill "station," a Bonnie Raitt "station," a U2 "station," and a Celtic Woman "station." Because of Pandora, I discovered Susan Tedeschi, a previously unknown-to-me blues singer who sounds amazingly like Bonnie Raitt. Unfortunately Pandora is not free. After 40 hours of listening, they charge you .99 for the balance of the month. I think I can spring for that.

Oh, and to give credit where it's due, it's Farida who originally introduced me to Pandora.

Lest you fear that I've abandoned Tivo for my new love, not to worry. I now take my Tivo recordings with me, because I can transfer recordings I want to watch from my Tivo to my iTouch and have them available anywhere, anytime. (No worries about Wi-fi once they've been transferred.)

And with 32 gb of space, I should be able to have plenty of space for books, music and video. I hope.

Even Hunter loves the iTouch and knows how to use it.

What electronic devices or services are you addicted to and why?

Growing Up Cricket

2010-01-15T00:01:00.001-08:00

In response to one of my earlier posts, friend Betty took exception to my description of Farida as "ecumenical."

Sorry but I have to take exception to her exception. I'm proud to proclaim that Farida and Nas were brought up with a very wide spectrum of acquaintances from all sides of the planet. For much of that we have cricket to thank.

Cricket is the second-most popular sport in the world, after football (soccer), and is played anywhere in the world where the British had influence. I guess they had influence here in the U. S., too, but cricket hasn't caught on in a huge way here. But among the U.K. expats stateside it has quite a following.

During their younger years, Farida and Nasreen spent many a Sunday afternoon out at the Griffith Park equestrian area, which transformed itself into a cricket pitch for the day. The sport enjoys a rather illustrious history in the Los Angeles region, with actor British C Aubrey Smith taking the lead in establishing the sport in the area. If you've ever seen the old George Burns movie, "Oh, God," much of it was filmed at the equestrian center and in the neighborhood. Besides being a pretty cute movie with George playing God, I always enjoyed observing the places we used to hang out.

Unfortunately the Griffith Park site is no more, at least as a cricket venue. The fields were moved out to another San Fernando Valley location, called the Leo Magnus Cricket Complex, after one of Abid's Jamaican teammates who, besides being a great cricketer, spent a lot of his later years introducing the game to disadvantaged men in south central Los Angeles.

Although British accents abound, Aussie, West Indian and southeast Asia accents are commonplace, too, so Farida and Nas grew up well-schooled in foreign cultures (not to mention their father's Pakistani roots). Believe it or not, Ms. Betty, there was even a Jew or two or three.

Cricket bears a slight resemblance to baseball in that it's played with bats and balls, but there the resemblance ends. And if you thought baseball boring (sorry, Frank, Deb and Laurie--there are those out there who are not the passionate fans you are), you ain't seen nothing till you've endured a cricket match. A short game lasts a full day. Test matches can drag on for five days. Luckily ours were "only" of the one-day variety.

Abid is such an avid cricketer that he has played all over the world--Mexico, Britain, Australia, New Zealand, China, British Columbia and probably many others that I don't know about, both for the United States Cricket Team as well as the Golden Oldies, made up of well-seasoned gentlemen who still have a love of swinging the bat and bowling the ball. On one occasion, which shall be chronicled in an upcoming post, one of the gentlemen actually made his final appearance on a Mexico City pitch.

To his great credit, Abid to this day continues to participate in cricket activities, even coaching youth games in Southern California.

Khyber Dreams Chapter 16: Next Stop, Lahore

2010-01-14T00:01:00.002-08:00

From Multan we traveled to another city in the Punjab: Lahore. This is the second-largest city in Pakistan, and perhaps the richest in heritage. It is home to the Badshahi Mosque and the Shalimar Gardens, among its treasures. Much of Pakistan's most impressive art and literature has come from within its borders.

At left, we explored the Shalimar Gardens in company with my sister- and brother-in-law Jamilah and Iqbal, and SiL and BiL Safia and Nayyir.

Bhai Iqbal was the first of Abid's family ever met, when he came to the United States for a visit. In fact, it could well be that Iqbal's visit propelled us into making the trip to Pakistan. Abid was decidedly ambivalent about returning to Pakistan, especially not knowing how he would be received with an American wife. After his brother-in-law assured us that we would be quite welcome, we went ahead with our plans.

Needless to say, Iqbal was right.

Abid's mother, sister Safia and husband Nayyir went with us to Lahore, and I'm sure his mom felt that she was returning to her roots. She had the opportunity to visit with Iqbal's mother (seated next to her in the bottom photo) and others of her generation that she didn't often get to see.

One of the most delightful memories I have of our Lahore visit was observing Iqbal's mother smoking the hookah, a common-enough practice in the "provinces," but I hadn't seen it in the city.

Photo at left: me, Jamilah, her daughter Shahida, and Safia

Excuse Me . . .

2010-01-13T00:01:00.000-08:00

I wish, I really wish, I could blame the travesty you're about to read and see on my son-in-law. After all, it's a typical "boy thing," and I was sure that Jason was giving Hunter an "all-American" education. I even called Farida to make sure I was giving credit where credit was due.

Good thing I did, too, because I wasn't.

I have been told that these attributes, which include the action in the photo below, as well as teaching my grandson to politely say, "excuse me, I have rectal flatulence" when he accidentally (or not) lets loose with a butt duck can be blamed squarely on his Aunt Nasreen.

Farida assures me that all the cute and nefarious things her son comes up are due to his aunt's influence. Nas is so proud of Hunter's ability to learn and correctly pronounce words beyond his age level that she delights in teaching him the finer points of the English language.

Unfortunately the fact that he can pronounce the words doesn't mean that he knows quite the appropriate time to use them. On one occasion, when "excuse me" would have been most appropriate, he got the "excuse me" exactly right and then, much to our chagrin, added clearly and distinctly "I have rectal flatulence" because he thought he'd learned that those words always followed that phrase.

Maybe that's why after Hunter was born, Nas's nickname became "Snappy," which is what we all call her today, for her snappy wit and imagination.

I love you, Snappy!

Photo credit for the below masterpiece? either Farida or Jason, I'm not sure which. C'mon, one of you. Step right up and own up to your treasure.

Khyber Dreams Chapter 15: A Pakistani Game, of Sorts

2010-01-12T00:01:00.002-08:00

Before arriving in Pakistan I could recognize one or two words in Urdu, the language of Pakistan, but that was about it. Abid's family set about trying to change that.

One of the great games played during our visit was "Teach Judi to Speak Urdu." To me this was great fun because I've always been something of an amateur linguist, fascinated by the ins-and-outs and relationships between culture and language. My college degree is in Spanish, something that has proved useful from time to time on jobs I've held, including ECCO, but has never resulted in anything employable.

I also took four semesters of Arabic at Cal State LA, which ultimately resulted in my meeting Abid. One of my classmates, Sharon Mackay, became a great friend, and we're still in contact sporadically today. She's one of those amazingly-organized people who never forgets a birthday, and every year like clockwork I receive a card from her. Public apology to all my friends: I'm sorry. I'm a nerd about birthdays, and if you receive a card from me it's a miracle. It's not that I don't love you--it's that I can't keep things like dates straight.

Where was I going with all this? Oh, yeah. At the time I met her, Sharon had a Pakistani boyfriend, Haider, who lived in Wilmington in a house owned by another Pakistani--Abid. We all started hanging out together. Sharon and Haider ended up married, although later they divorced. Of course, so did Abid and I.

Anywho, over the years, in my linguistic pursuits, I took two days of French, which I hated, and a summer session of German, which I loved. You can see that languages have been a long-term passion of mine.

All of this is to say that, when Abid's family tried to teach me Urdu, I was all over it. I wanted to learn. But Urdu, and its sister-language, Hindi, are not like any other languages I've ever studied.

Arabic, of course, has a completely different alphabet, written right to left, and sounds that don't exist in English. I still don't comprehend how I couldn't grasp the sounds of French and yet one of my Arabic professors, who hailed from Beiruit, once complimented me that my Arabic sounded like "a voice from home." To this day I can remember a sentence and a half of Arabic, in close-to-perfect pronunciation. The complete sentence is: "The teacher came, gave the lesson and took roll." Very useful. The fragment is even more so. It is something like "There came from Damascus today news about the Palestine War something something Abd-ur-Rahmani something something . . . "

All of this indicated to me that I should at least be able to master a smattering of Urdu. Unfortunately that wasn't necessarily the case. Although Urdu contains many of the unusual Arabic sounds, it also has some unique unto itself and Hindi. (It should be noted here that Urdu and Hindi are related; a Hindi-speaker can understand Urdu and vice versa--it's just the old India vs Pakistan animosity that has them named differently, along with the natural changes that come with distance and a culture-in-change.)

I pride myself on being able to hear the nuances of language and to be able to pretty accurately reproduce them. Urdu escapes me. I can't even correctly pronounce the word for tea (chai) to this day.

Still, I wanted to learn, and the family wanted to teach me. I did get to the point where I could understand some of what they said (and really enjoyed watching and listening to "Slumdog Millionaire" to see how much I could remember).

In Multan we spent a couple of evenings with Razia, her husband and kids trying to teach me a rather involved sentence about an airplane. I can't remember any of it now, but by the time we left I could say it well enough that they actually understood me.

What I did learn that proved useful over the months we stayed at Britto Road was the ability to ask for the keys for upstairs and downstairs. "Niche ki chabe chayye" and "Upper ki chabe chayye" ("May I have the downstairs key?," "May I have the upstairs key?")

My mother and father-in-law spoke no English at all. Since I spoke no Urdu, there was limited communication between us. But somehow we managed. One morning Abid came out of the bedroom, surprised to find my mother-in-law and me in animated conversation. She was talking a mile a minute, and I was nodding my head in agreement. Abid laughed.

"You didn't understand a word she said."

"Oh, yes, I did. She told me she was going to the market to buy some fresh vegetables."

He looked stunned. "That's right. How did you know?"

"I understood her."

Truthfully I didn't, but language is much, much more than words. She communicated to me, and I to her, by gestures, by body language, by looks, by those one or two tidbits I could pick up.

I think I gained just a little bit of respect that day from both my husand and my mother-in-law.

A New Adventure

2010-01-11T00:01:00.001-08:00

Let's see.

Up to now: 2-day work week. 4-day weekend. (Plus 1 day off in between the 2 work days.)

Starting today: 6-day work week. 1-day weekend.

Should be interesting.

The Visitors' Bureau has invited me to take the place of their part-time employee while she recovers from hip surgery, and I jumped at the chance. The good news is that I'll be working part-time on three of the days and a full day only on one. It's also only temporary, while Lynda is on sick leave. The two days at ECCO will continue as usual.

Upon moving to the mountains almost 20 years ago, I worked five hours a day for California Builders Supply, and it was ideal. Mornings would be spent writing, afternoons working at CBS, and this continued for some nine years. During that time my partners and I published 14 "confession" stories, and I drafted a historical novel. We wrote a number of items that were never sold. Fairly productive.

I see this opportunity as a similar situation. Life for me works better when I have to abide by a strict schedule, and hopefully this will alleviate those long, long days frittered away.

Wish me luck.

Khyber Dreams Chapter 14: On to Multan

2010-01-10T00:01:00.000-08:00

The first stop on our adventure to the outskirts of Pakistan was the city of Multan, where Abid's sister Razia lived with her family. (Photo at left: Me, Safia, Razia's children, Razia)

Multan is located in the Punjab area of Pakistan, close to the northeastern border with India--and relatively close to the city of Jalandhar, India, where Abid's parents had grown up, married and lived prior to Partition.

For those who might not be aware, Pakistan (both West and East--which is now Bangladesh) was a part of India as recently as 1947. That was the year the British departed and created in their wake the mess that was to become the political situation between the Hindu nation of India and the Muslim nation of East and West Pakistan. To make things even more interesting, they left the region known as Kashmir in dispute, and both nations have claimed it. That, as I understand it, is largely the basis for the animosity between the two nations today.

The area that became Pakistan was predominantly Muslim, so those Hindus residing within the newly-designated confines were obliged to move to India. Conversely the Muslims within the area designated as Indian were forced to pick up and move to Pakistan. That was the case with Abid's parents, who resettled themselves in the port city of Karachi. I'm not sure which of the ten were born after their move, but Abid was, as well as the younger brothers Akhlaq and Munnawar.

Truthfully I can't remember a lot about our visit to Multan. Something I remember vividly, however, is the mosque adjacent to the house where Razia's family lived. This wouldn't have been a problem except that the muezzin calls the faithful to prayer five times a day, beginning at dawn. And he doesn't do so quietly.

That first morning (at somewhere around 5:00 am) I shot straight out of bed as if I'd been shot.

"What the blazes is THAT?"

I knew full well what it was, having listened to it many times in Karachi, just not at ear-splitting volume since the mosque was at something of a distance from Britto Road.

The muezzin's call to prayer is loudly amplified so that all can hear it, much like a rock concert. Since the awful day of 9/11, the opening words of the call to prayer have become frightenly familiar to western ears: Allahu Akbar! (God is great!) The Arabic language of the Qur'an is hauntingly beautiful, and I love to hear it spoken. But it has become disgustingly associated with the terrorist element of the religion. That makes me very sad.

The photo above shows the mosque in question, from, I believe, the roof of Razia's house. It doesn't look so close in this picture. It felt like the muezzin was right in the next room, however, when he did his "performance" every day, five times a day.

It's Official: I'm Addicted

2010-01-09T00:01:00.001-08:00

It's time to come clean. I'm addicted to blogging, both writing and reading. I've got my reasons.

Writing:

I started this adventure as a way to get back into writing after years of saying,"I'll write when I have more time . . . "

At this point the prose being churned out would not meet the exacting standards of either of my writing gurus, Elnora King and Susan Ohlsen, but Elnora has always emphasized that it's important to get what's on your mind down on paper/computer screen on a regular basis, and I'm doing that. Whether anyone reads doesn't really matter (although I *love* to hear that you do). It simply has been incredibly therapeutic to express these crazy thoughts.

I also wanted to chronicle a bit of family history for my girls while I still have a few brain cells left. It's sad to recognize how many of the memories I swore I'd never lose have disappeared forever. Way back in 1979 Farida, Nasreen, my mom and I sat in my aunt and uncle's home in Oklahoma City discussing how important it is to document the past. Uncle Ralph regaled us with stories of my dad and his brothers growing up in Central City, NE. Most of them (stories, not my dad or uncles) have now been forgotten.With the death of my aunt Bessie in 2009, all of that generation is gone, and those tales are gone, too.

The blog has also become a way to keep in contact with friends the world over, and this has been a blessing beyond belief. Seems like I've kept quite a bit of my life "secret" over the years. Haven't meant to. Blogging is a way to keep in touch with friends in a kind of general way. It doesn't take the place of a phone call or a personal letter or email, but it helps a bit.

Beyond all of that, the blog has also been instrumental in my looking at life in a distinctly more critical way. I see bloggable moments now that would have sailed by, and it's more fun than you can imagine to write about them.

Reading:

In the beginning it was Pioneerwoman and only Pioneerwoman. I had no idea how diverse and fascinating the blogging world is. The list has grown so much that it has developed categories.

First thing in the morning (in a league all their own). I mentioned these in a prior post, but they bear repeating:

Pioneerwoman - simply amazing. Her humor, her writing, photography and her views of country life make this a must-read on a daily basis
Jasmine Star - this should be on the photography list--except that it's much more than just photography. She's another whose view of life inspires and provokes thought.

Friends/Family

Farida - my daughter's new photography blog
Pat - long-time friend, traveling companion
Virginia Pilegard - former writing partner, forever friend, awesome author, great inspiration

Reading Pioneerwoman and Jasmine have led to other fascinating blogs that can keep me engaged for HOURS at a time. In fact I started reading the PW archives, including the comments, and have discovered a treasure-trove of literature. So many folks who comment on her posts are bloggers themselves . . . some are humorous, some sarcastic, all are witty. I've read comments where someone will have just stumbled upon PW's blog and will read her entire archive in an afternoon. I'm not sure how they accomplish that. PW began writing in May 2006. As of two nights ago, I am up to May 2007.

The amazing thing is, the blogging world is a very small community. Once you start reading you discover the same names appearing time and again in each others' posts and comments. And these people soon become almost friends as you read them on a daily basis.

I've mentioned a few previously but am repeating them here to make the list complete (as of today). Just so you know, I'm sharing these sites in hopes that you, too, will get addicted as I am and spend too many hours of the day sitting on your fanny reading! The links make it easy for you to check 'em out. What the heck . . . take a chance . . . click on one or more that whet your fancy and see where it takes you.

Dooce - Heather Armstrong, who got fired a few years back because of what she wrote on her blog and turned said blog into one of the most widely-read. It made Time's list of 25 Best Blogs of 2009, along with Pioneerwoman and Zen Habits.
I Am Bossy - Philadelphia-based Georgia Getz (BOSSY) has a style and wit all her own.
Granny Mountain - down-home tales from Arkansas, especially enjoyable now that Pat has moved to that state
Going Country - Love this tale of a pregnant city girl living on a farm in upstate New York in an old, old house with her husband, mother-in-law and a herd of animals.
NieNie Dialogues - amazing tales of a Morman wife and mother living in Utah in recovery from a horrific airplane crash. Her honesty about her circumstances and her recovery just blows me away.
Rocks in my Dryer - very diverse blog by a young woman who has just completed a book about blogging, among other things.
Daddy Scratches - one of the few male-authored blogs I've found
Running with Stilettos - I met Mary Wagner at the Visitors' Bureau when she and her son visited Yosemite, and I've followed her blog ever since. Sadly, she's too busy with her legal career (and life) to write often.

You know what's annoying? When you get connected to someone and they don't post all that often.

Self-Improvement Blogs (for lack of a better term)

Zen Habits (along with PW and Dooce, named among Time's 25 best blogs of 2009)
Blog 4 Change
50 in 52 Journey - one woman's drive to make a difference; 50 states in 52 weeks
1000 Mitzvahs - call me crazy but after being involved with a Jewish man for nearly 4 years, I have embraced the idea of "mitzvahs," good deeds, and the writer of this blog has vowed to complete 1000 of them in honor of her deceased father
Greg Mortenson - of Three Cups of Tea and Stones into Schools fame

Photography Blogs, in no particular order

Steve McCurry's Blog - he's the photojournalist who captured the world-famous photo of the Afghan girl which appeared on the cover of National Geographic a few years ago. Phenomenal images.
Joe McNally's Blog
Lighten Up and Shoot
The Strobist
Zack Arias

Yosemite/Hiking - this list includes several photography sites which often specialize in Yosemite images and is sadly lacking in entries. If anyone knows of any other Yosemite or Sierra blogs that should be mentioned, please let me know.

1/9/10 6:50 a.m. NEWS FLASH! Edie from View from the Little Red Tent came through for me this morning on her blog, with a very interesting Yosemite site:

Tree in the Door - blog by David Sharpness on Yosemite flora and fauna. As Edie says, "David is a videographer and photographer specializing in filming and photographing the wildlife of Yosemite, with a special emphasis on birds of prey." This is just what I was looking for. Thanks, Edie!

Blogs about Blogging

Yes, folks, I pretty much visit many of these blogs each and every day. Is it any wonder that I am up by 5:30 am and in bed at 1:00 am? Oh, my. In reviewing this list, I realize it is woefully incomplete. There are a number of other blogs I look in on regularly. This, my friends, will have to do for now.

What blogs do you read?
What blogs on my lists did you check out? What did you think?

Fascinating Flowers

2010-01-09T00:01:00.000-08:00

These are a few of the first photos taken with my new macro lens.

I'll be the first to admit that the picture needs help in the lighting department, but I love the way part of the photo is in focus and part not. And I love the little bits of pollen which cling to a couple of the petals.

I really enjoy photographing flowers because of the varying colors, shapes, textures and configurations. They make my spirit soar.

I hope these please you as much as they do me.

Which is your favorite and why?

Khyber Dreams: Pakistani Cuisine by Special Request

2010-01-08T00:01:00.000-08:00

Your talent is God's gift to you. What you do with it is your gift back to God. - Anonymous

I have been doing a lot of thinking lately (!) about why I love blogging so much. There are actually a lot of reasons, and they are a topic for another post, but a major one is that I've finally discovered a way to chronicle a few of those recipes that Farida regularly asks for. Now I can tell her, "just go look at my blog." And when the blog migrates, a bit later this year, to WordPress, I will have a category specifically for them. Below is one of those dishes that Farida has requested time and again. If you give it a try, let me know how you like it.

For those who might be willing to go to a little trouble and willing to explore some Pakistani cuisine, below is a recipe for Channa Dal (or Dhal). Although this is a dish served as "everyday" food in Pakistani and Indian homes, to me it is quite a delicacy.

Here's a Wikipedia description of dal (or dhal): http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Dal

Generally all commonly-used types of dal can be purchased at Indian grocery stores. You may occasionally find pink and yellow lentils at supermarkets, as well. The garlic and ginger pastes and the garam masala spice mix are available there also.

This recipe comes from my memory, so it may not be "purist." You can find a number of other versions of this dish at these sites. None of these are quite the way I remember the dish being prepared, but all look very delectable:

http://www.recipesource.com/ethnic/asia/indian/01/rec0116.html - this one looks very close to my recipe

http://www.mendosa.com/chanadal.html

http://www.indianfoodforever.com/daal/chana-dal.html

http://www.newkerala.com/recipes/Indian-Recipes/Dal-Recipes/Channa-Dal-Recipe.html

CHANNA DHAL

(You could substitute other pink, red or yellow lentils for the channa dhal, as well)

1 cup channa dal (yellow lentils)

4 cups water
1 tsp garlic paste
1 tsp ginger paste
1 tsp turmeric
1 tsp salt
1 tsp garam masala

Optional:
1 tsp cumin seeds
1 small onion, thinly sliced
2 tbsp cooking oil

Put the lentils in the water and let soak for several hours. Go through the lentils and pick out any discolored ones or any stones or other foreign matter. Drain the lentils and rinse.

Put the rinsed dal in a large saucepan and cover again with four or more cups water. Bring to a boil; skim off the foam that arises. Add the garlic, ginger and turmeric. Turn the heat down and simmer until tender, watching carefully that the water doesn't boil away. Add additional water as necessary throughout the cooking process.

When the lentils are tender, stir in the salt and garam masala and cook for a few minutes longer to blend the flavors. Taste and add more salt and spice if necessary.

If you wish, put the soup into a blender and blend it into a puree (as coarse or as smooth as you prefer).

If you wish, pour the two tablespoons of cooking oil into a small, heavy saucepan. Heat until very hot. Add cumin seeds and onions. Cook, stirring constantly, until cumin seeds are blackened and onions are browned and turning crisp. Add this mixture to the top of the dal when ready to serve.

Note: I was going to do a "Pioneerwoman" with this dish and illustrate each step with a photograph . . . until I discovered that my channa dal had somehow been invaded by some sort of little bugs--and that was less than appetizing!

Do YOU have a special recipe (ethnic or not) that you'd like to share?

Answer to Yesterday's Question

2010-01-07T06:34:00.000-08:00

At the end of yesterday's post, I asked:

Do you notice anything unusual about the upper two photos? (I know they're very fuzzy--hey, they're 40 years old and scanned from paper originals.) Let me know what you see that makes this different from the typical United States soiree.

The answer:

No men.

At Pakistani parties, at least during the time I was there, men and women were "segregated," men in one room, women and children in another. When food was served, men ate first and separately, women and children followed.

I am far from a party animal, but even I found the lack of male interaction to be stifling and . . . boring. But it was the custom.

Travels with Buddha

2010-01-07T00:01:00.001-08:00

Have I ever mentioned that my daughter Farida is artistic?

Right-brained?

Imaginative?

Well, if I haven't, let me do so now.

She would tell you, though, that what I'm about to describe has nothing to do with imagination. It has to do with love, caring and compassion. And family.

When we all went down to Southern California in November, she knew she'd be staying for a while, and she worried about her four goldfish. They'd be left alone in a cold house for several days. People generally travel with dogs, and sometimes even with cats. But GOLDFISH? Who woulda thunk it?

"Hey, Mom, they're FAMILY," she explained, as she and Jason unloaded the car upon arrival at Nas's. The McDonald's Happy Meal bucket topped with rubber-banded Saran-Wrap made a perfect traveling aquarium to transport Buddha, Krishna, Mohammed and Jesus to their temporary home and back again.

Yup. Not only is she imaginative, artistic and compassionate, she's also ecumenical.

Question: Have you traveled with a "special" pet? Tell me about it! Inquiring minds want to know.

Quote of the day: The true essence of humankind is kindness. There are other qualities, which come from education or knowledge, but if one wishes to be a genuine human being and impart satisfying meaning to one’s existence, it is essential to have a good heart. -The 14th Dalai Lama-

Photo credit: Jason Wilks

A Tiny Bit of Housekeeping

2010-01-06T17:47:00.001-08:00

Greetings, all!

This is a bit of a break in our regular blogging routine to let you in on a tip or two.

I really, really, really, really love comments.

I *want* you to let me know you've read an entry and what you think about it. Because of that and, in order to make things easier for readers/commenters, I've changed the way the blog handles comments.

From now on you will not have to create an account of any kind in order to post comments. But I have enabled moderation so that I can look at what's said before it goes public. This is so I can catch any spam or otherwise inappropriate posts. (As an FYI I've had a couple of posts which have been in an Oriental language, which I don't read or understand. I deleted those forthwith, but they were already public on the site by that time.)

Don't be surprised, therefore, when what you've written doesn't appear immediately.

Also. . . for some future posts, I *may* decide to "hide" comments for a period of time, usually when I've asked a question where I don't want anyone's answers influenced by anyone else's. Don't worry. I'll open 'em back up post haste.

Thank you for your support.

Khyber Dreams Chapter 13: Party Time

2010-01-06T00:01:00.001-08:00

Even though I was sicker'n'a dog, life in Karachi went on. It's no doubt that our visit there sparked a lot of curiosity amongst Abid's hundreds of relatives. Even more than that, the family was most anxious to show us how much they loved us. My memories have faded about the finer details of the party they planned for us (specifically for Farida), but it was so special that I have to share what I do remember.

It is the custom in Pakistan to host a party on or around a child's second birthday. If I recall correctly, it is also the occasion of the child's first haircut. Although Farida wouldn't turn two until after our departure, Abid's parents wanted to honor her in advance. It also served as an opportunity to invite those relatives twice and three-times removed to meet us.

I was down for the count, but I wasn't needed to help in any case. The Britto Road crew moved into high gear, inviting everyone and getting the food prepared. In this particular case the food included a live goat which had to be freshly-slaughtered by a mullah according to Islamic tradition then cooked into a curry. This was not something that my delicate sensibilities appreciated, so when they brought the goat around, I made myself scarce and took pains that my ears were covered.

The family began to prepare massive amounts of biriyani and raita and other delicacies, including the one Middle Eastern food group I can't abide: dessert. I'm sure for those who know me, this is a real surprise. For most people, a dish of baklavah is a treasure. I can barely look at it, let alone eat it. I also can't stand gulab jaman, halva or kheer. The one exception is seviya, a vermicelli pudding laced with almonds and pistachios and decorated with gold or paper foil. Really. Although at that time I couldn't stomach even that.

You can imagine that the smells of all this wonderfulness were overpowering, especially for someone who hadn't eaten more than a tablespoon of food in weeks. Literally. One of the relatives who decided that a dish of kheer would be mild enough for my battered stomach brought me some and suggested I give it a try. I couldn't refuse, but one bite was all it took for me to become violently ill.

I spent the rest of the party in the bedroom in a desperate attempt to hold things together.

Prior to my hasty exit, I did spend some time with the family, as shown in the photos below. In the first picture, you'll see me at the extreme left. Look to the very bottom picture to see the wedding finery in which I'd dressed. It thrilled the family to have Abid and me celebrate a "mock" wedding at every possible occasion.

Do you notice anything unusual about the upper two photos? (I know they're very fuzzy--hey, they're 40 years old and scanned from paper originals.) Let me know what you see that makes this different from the typical United States soiree.

Down with the Rainbow

2010-01-05T00:01:00.000-08:00

In the interests of full disclosure, let me declare that before writing this post I did check Consumer Reports' opinion on the Rainbow vacuum. Seems like the CR testers kind of felt the way I did in the score they gave, but they didn't really explain why. Reviewers, however, mainly raved about it and took exception to CR's ratings. A fair number, however, noted the exact reasons why I despise it.

Today I celebrate the fact that I will never have to use a Rainbow vacuum again.

For those of you lucky enough to have never encountered a Rainbow, let me tell you that it is one of the most expensive vacuums available on the market, and one of the most despicable pieces of machinery I've ever met. I'd never even heard of it until I moved in with Carol last February. She has owned a Rainbow for many years and swears by it. I, however, had never met a vacuum where I had to have lessons to be able to use it, so this was a first. And I wished it had been my last.

The Rainbow comes in various parts, each of which are heavier than the average horse. It has a reservoir which must be filled with water to catch the debris it collects. The reservoir gets connected to the motor unit which gets joined with the beater unit and hoses. ALL of that then gets schlepped to the area you want to clean. Of course you have to drag this gigantic mess along with you as you move from room to room. It is NO exaggeration that my back would be in agony within minutes after starting to use this instrument of torture. Cleaning an entire 2,100 sq ft house with it is akin to being put on the rack. (Not that I'd know how that feels, I admit. I can use my imagination though. I've watched Inquisition movies.)

After completion of the cleaning, you have to empty the water reservoir somewhere because it is now filled to the brim with all the gunk it has collected from your house. I personally take it outside and dump it into the bushes where it will return to Mother Earth. You haven't begun to know "nasty" until you see what the Rainbow collects and deposits and churns into a gloppy mess. The Rainbow is especially known for its ability to pick up pet fur--and my two friends Foxy and Grey Eagle produce an inordinate amount, so that becomes the binding agent in the concoction. Ugh. Disgusting. And if you make the mistake of forgetting to empty and clean the reservoir, it begins to stink to high heaven within a couple of days.

So . . . perhaps you are beginning to see why I hate this torture device so.

Admittedly vacuuming is NOT one of my favorite activities, but I will do it if necessary. Unfortunately it got done way less than it should have when I had to face the awful Rainbow.

Last Monday I bought myself a Christmas/birthday gift: An el-cheapo (but highly recommended) Dirt Devil upright. Gone are the days I will have to meditate for hours just to calm myself enough to vacuum the carpet. I set up the Dirt Devil yesterday afternoon, and I'm proud to say that I've already vacuumed twice.

Down with the Rainbow. Up with the Devil.

50 in 52 Journey

2010-01-04T00:01:00.002-08:00

CBS News Sunday Morning has done it again.

They are amazing in their ability to uncover human interest stories of the highest order. This time they came through with an awesome birthday present for me. The story is about one woman's drive (literally) to find those people in each of the 50 states who make a difference in their communities. Dafna Michaelson's mission was called 50 by 52 Journey, and it was completed, successfully, just before the end of 2009. As she tells it, at one point she was ready to give up. The money, including proceeds from her 401K, had dried up. She had no way to carry on. When her fiance came through for her, she was able to complete her journey, and she has inspired many of us along the way.

Check her out on Facebook, and read about the continuation of her journey at The Journey Institute.

You may remember a post a couple of weeks back in which I talk about a long-lost friend who has made a tremendous difference in his field and how I regretted that I couldn't point to such an accomplishment in my own. As Betty commented, ever the supportive friend, each of us does make a difference, each in our own way. Although I appreciate her thoughts in that regard, I still want to do more, and I want to discover that part of my psyche that dances because I have found just the right niche.

In one way I've come really close on those occasions when I've volunteered at the Visitors' Bureau, making Yosemite come alive for visitors approaching her for the first time. There's been a real spark in my soul when someone says, "Judi, you've turned my day around. I was not having a good time until I met you," or "wow, you've given me a ton of great information. I'm really going to enjoy my visit now." It's happened more than once. Maybe that's the direction I'm supposed to travel.

Reading about Dafna's determination and drive tells me that the answers are out there. While they are amorphous yet, they will appear according to Divine Right Order. Keeping an open mind and an open ear will allow them to surface at just the right time. I'm going to read her blog from the beginning to understand what others are doing in their communities and gain ideas of what I can do for mine.

Giving Our All for Chicken Spaghetti

2010-01-04T00:01:00.001-08:00

This little caper took place on November 22, but I couldn't blog about it until after Christmas because it involved a gift.

I don't quite know how I got so lucky, what with traveling to Southern California maybe four times a year to see Nasreen. The fact that Ree Drummond, the Pioneerwoman, planned her one-and-only book signing in the Los Angeles area for the very weekend I'd be there was a stroke of luck. Farida knew about the signing, in fact, was the one who told me about it, but there was no way she could get down there in time to go. I decided I'd see if I could persuade Nasreen to accompany me so I could get a signed copy of the cookbook for Farida. I read Ree's blog religiously, but I don't generally explore the cooking section. Although it doesn't look like it based on Ree's slender appearance, the Pioneerwoman cooks with wayyyyyyyy too much butter (and other fattening things) for me, so I was doing this strictly for my daughter. She often tries out Ree's recipes, including the blog-titled Chicken Spaghetti.

The signing was to take place on Sunday at 5:00 p.m. at the Border's in Torrance. Since cataract surgery at the end of 2008, driving at night has not been as much of an adventure as it once was, but I'm still not confident of my abilities, especially in LA traffic. I really wanted Nasreen to do the driving. Although she had no idea whatsoever who Pioneerwoman is, she agreed to donate her entire Sunday to helping me procure a copy of Ree's newly-published cookbook. Disclaimer: At the time she agreed, she didn't realize she'd be missing an Eagles game. If she had, I might have been forced to go it alone.

"Entire Sunday" was not much of an exaggeration. I'd read about the crowds Ree had attracted at previous appearances, so I told Nas we really should plan to be there between 3 and 4. We arrived at 3:00 to find probably 20 people already there and a line at the cash register. I entered the line to buy Farida's book and discovered they were on sale that day (buy one, get the second half off), so I had to buy one for myself, too, despite my declaration that I wouldn't cook from it.

By the time I perused the other aisles and located Nasreen in the CIA exploits section of the store, the ladies--and a few gents--were starting to grab the chairs that Borders' staff allocated for the signing. We figured we'd better stake out our spots as well. It was great fun, for me at least, to talk with other folks, some of whom had come from as far as the San Fernando Valley. Nasreen was completely mystified as we chatted about Charlie, Marlboro Man, the punks, the ranch and the cookbook as if those people were old friends. Many necks were decorated by Nikons and Canon DSLR's, and I regretted I'd decided not to bring mine. By the time we'd spent nearly two hours waiting for Ree to appear, we were old friends with some of the attendees. I found the fellow behind me fascinating as he described his THREE bassett hounds. I've been trying ever since to talk my roommate, Carol, into adopting her hairdresser's bassett, Gunner, who's looking for a new home. According to Carol, it's because he's "too needy."

Shortly after 5:00 pm, Ree appeared, looking completely composed, even though she'd just deplaned after a flight from Minneapolis. She proceeded to answer audience questions for an hour or so, as Nasreen continued to wonder at all these weird people who would give up their Sunday afternoon for a COOKBOOK.

She hadn't seen nuttin' yet. After the Q and A, we lined up according to the wristbands we'd been issued when buying our books. Luckily we were in the first 80 (that would be EIGHTY) people. Ree is simply amazing. She chatted up each one of us as she signed our books, looking completely at ease and unhurried. *I* would have signed as fast as possible in order to get the you-know-what outta there. Not Ree. She graciously allowed photos with anyone who wished, signed multiple copies of her books and answered the same question (I suspect) over and over and over. One person purchased ten copies for Ree to autograph.

Through it all Nas did her best to avoid looking bored. She'd brought a book, she'd brought her iTouch full of videos to watch. She held up well under the conditions, which included three children directly behind us who didn't want to be there any more than she did. She even took her turn in line from time to time so I could sit down.

At 8:00 p.m. we left, our two cookbooks signed at last. Nasreen shook her head at the idea there were so many crazy people who would hang out for this.

"Farida had better appreciate this," she remarked as she fiddled with the radio dial on our way down Torrance Boulevard toward the freeway onramp.

"Oh my God, the Eagles are on." She shook her head in disgust as she discovered the broadcast. "Farida really owes me for this."

***

Christmas morning we found ourselves buried under an avalanche of gifts, most of them tagged "Hunter." I think the only gift under the tree for Farida was mine. (We try not to do adult gifts in our family, although I certainly scored big this year.)

Farida reached into her bag and realized it was a book. She, of course, didn't know which one. "What in the world did you get me," she asked, puzzled.

As she pushed the tissue aside, her eyes got wide.

"It's, it's, it's The Pioneerwoman Cookbook." She was clearly overwhelmed.

"Look inside." I urged.

She turned the first page. "Keep going," I said.

"IT'S SIGNED. You went to the booksigning. You met REE!"

By this time, Nasreen was completely taken aback. "Farida, you really wanted that book?"

It took Farida some time to realize that her sister had actually gone to the booksigning, too. "Yes, I really do. Thanks, Nas. I love it."

"I want you to know those people were really crazy. I couldn't believe the line. It was practically out the door, and it was still just about as long when we left the store."

Farida kept turning the book over and over, opening it and reading a recipe, examining the photos. The book was a big hit, even more than *I* thought it would be.

Ree had been blogging about each of her stops, and I worried that the LA booksigning, replete with photos, might appear on her website--with us in full view. As it happens, we Los Angeles folk are stll waiting for Ree to tell us what she thought of us. I needn't have been concerned that our secret would be divulged before Christmas.

Farida's reaction made the effort more than worth it, although I have to admit that I truly enjoyed meeting Ree, too. She is just as real as she claims to be, just as down to earth and friendly as she appears on her blog.

I wonder how many blogs have been birthed because of her.

This is one.

Birthday Joy

2010-01-03T10:53:00.000-08:00

I don't do birthdays. I keep telling everyone that, but for some reason no one believes me. This is not a new thing. As long as I can remember, I have never wanted to become a year older. Those landmarks most kids live for (16, 21, etc.), I despised. Of course, they came and went anyway.

But for a day that doesn't exist, this one has been awesome so far (and it's only 9:15 a.m.).

The day actually began yesterday with an opportunity to Instant Message with my dearest, bestest friend Betty, who lives on the other side of the world. As we chatted, it became my birthday in her part of the world, so for the first time in many, many years, I got to spend that special day with her. We don't get to connect live-and-in-person very often, but it happened yesterday. She's someone who never, ever forgets a birthday or any other special occasion for that matter, and of course an e-card was waiting for me this morning when I logged on.

Yesterday I also got to Skype with friend Pat, another friend of long standing, who just moved to Arkansas. With Skype--what a wonderful invention--it's like we're in the same room together rather than a thousand miles apart. The world is definitely shrinking.

As soon as I logged on this morning, I had a call from older daughter Farida, along with Jason and Hunter. They sang "Happy Birthday" to me, and she asked me to come up for chicken curry, a hike and a visit. In a rare show of good judgment, I declined, deciding that I really need to follow my established plan of kicking this cold in the gut and getting rid of it once and for all.

Also enjoyed a conference call with Nasreen and another round of "Happy Birthday" with the entire tribe. Hunter has really gotten into birthdays since just before his own number four less than a month ago. He now can get through the entire song.

I also refused the invite of other long-term friend Jenny and husband Jack to go up to her house and bead, for the same reason.

But I have not been shirking my responsibilities this morning, as I have cleaned and refilled my animals' vat of water, cleaned Grey Eagle's litter box, mopped the bathroom floor and done two loads of laundry. Life is good, very good.

Soooooooo, the rest of the day is going to be quiet, with just friends Foxy and Grey Eagle to keep me company.

Another important birthday gift this date deserves its own separate post.

Photo credits:

(1) Carnation - Judi (with 50mm 2.8 macro lens given to me by Nasreen)

(2) Farida & Hunter - Jason, Christmas day

(3) Jason & Hunter - Farida, Christmas day

(4) Nasreen & Hunter - Judi, Christmas Eve

Khyber Dreams Chapter 12: Back Down Again

2010-01-03T00:01:00.000-08:00

The idea that my bout with the flu had ended after one day was rudely shattered when I fell ill again.

I'd had one good day, which had convinced me I was well. I hadn't expected to be thrown under the bus again one day later. It's likely that when the problem returned on the third day all my Pakistani relatives--or at least the ones in the medical profession--suspected what was wrong with me, but they didn't tell me. Perhaps they were figuring they might be wrong because they'd given all of us medication to be taken once a week during our stay to ward off this problem. This bug.

It wasn't until the on-again, off-again cycle of illness had been repeated three or four times that they let me in on the problem.

Malaria.

Honestly we were lucky because I was the only one to contract the disease. I'd forgotten to divvy up one week's worth of medication to Abid, Farida and myself--and that error came back to bite me. I can't begin to imagine how I would have felt if Abid, and particularly Farida, had suffered for that error.

I would learn later on that I was lucky in another respect, as well. Malaria is a disease with many variations and some of them can wreak havoc on a body for the rest of that person's life. I had one of the few forms that didn't repeat after the initial bout was finally over.

The disease controlled the rest of my time in Pakistan. I spent most days either in bed or resting because there was no energy to do anything else. I couldn't eat, and I lost weight. (Let it be known that malaria is an excellent way of losing a lot of poundage very quickly, but it's not a method I can ethically recommend.) Cooking odors which originally whet my appetite now had the opposite effect. If we went visiting, it was all I could do to carry on the most minimal conversation.

In order to make me more comfortable, we relocated to Abid's brother's house in North Nazimabad, the house that had been under construction when we arrived and was still not quite complete. But if offered the most modern conditions possible and greatly helped in my recovery.

We'd already begun to plan our journey around Pakistan to see Abid's sisters, and, not knowing when or if we'd ever be back, we were not about to forego the opportunity. I didn't know how I was going to manage, but somehow I'd find a way. As the disease continued, I did have days where I felt more or less all right, and I hoped there would be more of those as we made the rounds.

Khyber Dreams Chapter 11: Pakistani Cuisine

2010-01-02T00:01:00.000-08:00

One element of Pakistani life that required no adjustment on my part was the food. I'd been eating and enjoying it since Abid and I first started going out, and I loved the opportunity to sample the "real thing."

My mom and dad were devotees of the solid midwestern meat-potatoes-salad-vegetable type of meal, and that's really all I knew until I met Abid and his friends. In my family we ate beef and poultry. Period. My dad wouldn't eat lamb, and he would rarely eat fish.

It's been my experience that most people who don't grow up with it have somewhat of a learning curve with curry. First off, most westerners have the mistaken impression that curry is a single spice, the kind that's sold in the story labeled "curry powder." Not true at all. A true curry, properly made, is a combination of spices and herbs that are mixed together only at the moment of dish preparation. The actual combination depends on the type of dish being constructed.

Abid and his roommates, all Pakistanis or Indians, prepared their versions of food from their homeland, and whenever you'd enter their house, the air was filled with the distinctive scent of Indian cooking. Many people don't care for it, but I loved it from the first.

I learned both to eat and cook various dishes, although I've never come close to mastering its preparation as my sister-in-law Safia has. Over the years, as I've eaten less and less Pakistani cuisine, my ability to create it has also diminished--but not my love for it. Luckily roommate Carol relishes Indian cooking, as well, so we do seek it out on occasion. In all these years I've never come across a restaurant whose culinary skills are a match for Abid's family's.

Because meat is a luxury in India and Pakistan, many recipes are principally vegetable-based, with rice a main course and meat an add-on. One of the most popular and familiar dishes is a lentil soup called dhal. There are many varieties, and in my opinion, all are delicious. This is considered a poor-man's food, so it's not normally served for guests, but I would be happy eating it at any time.

During the time I was in Pakistan, the ultimate meat served for special occasions was chicken. Because everywhere we went during our time in the old country, we encountered chicken at nearly every dinner.

Thinking about it later I had to laugh. In 1979 my mom and I took Farida and Nasreen on a journey to Oklahoma, Nebraska and Wyoming to visit our relatives. This time it wasn't chicken at every meal: it was HAM.

Happy New Year, Everyone!

2010-01-01T00:01:00.000-08:00

Best wishes to everyone for a joy-filled, fruitful and blessed new year, replete with love, fun, health and success.

***

The year just concluding, 2009, has been filled with changes for me. What will 2010 hold? Who knows!

I'm hoping that at the very least it will bring some semblance of organization to my life, something sadly lacking, something that has gotten worse over the last several months since I was gifted with a two-day work week.

The year gone by . . . a few of the happenings . . .

In November/December 2008 I discovered a renewed love of photography (following cataract surgery on both of my eyes, which totally opened up a new world of light and color). This resulted in THOUSANDS of photos captured.

In January, another cruise to Baja Mexico - this is really a great vacation, with virtually all expenses prepaid ahead of time. I'm looking forward to doing it again.

In February, I ended a long-term relationship and moved from Cascadel Woods, above North Fork, to Yosemite Lakes Park, south of Coarsegold.

In April I acquired my Canon Rebel XS. Next to my family, it's the love of my life.

May saw a number of changes . . .

I lost my last remaining aunt, at the age of 102. My dad's youngest sister, Aunt Bessie was amazing, and I thank Creator that I got the opportunity to reunite with her and my cousins Linda and Carolyn over a couple of summer vacations. Despite being virtually blind and deaf, Aunt Bessie was more alert and on the ball than any of us young whippersnappers. I sent her my copy of the Heuring family book, and when we talked it over, she remembered places, events and people I couldn't begin to recall. At the age of 100 she continued to take the senior bus every day down to daughter Carolyn's house to take care of her. She had a strength of character that was simply incredible and one that I would love to emulate.

I went from working full-time at ECCO to working three days a week, a plan that I'd developed during 2008, before I ended a relationship and moved to Coarsegold. I'd tried to renege on my decision, but that wasn't in the cards. In the end I have relished the extra time it's given me to spend with my family and to pursue other activities.

I began volunteering at the Yosemite Sierra Visitors' Bureau in Oakhurst. This has opened up new worlds. I simply love being able to tell people about Yosemite and Madera County and getting to meet new people along the way.

In June I got to explore the Napa Valley with friend Pat and discovered that I want to see much more of this marvelous region of my home state.

In July

I began this blog. It's been more rewarding than I could have imagined to wiggle my way back into writing once again, with the added benefit of having found a relatively painless way to keep up with friends and family.

In September, on September 22 to be exact, I came down with the cold/flu/whatever that has been with me in some form or another ever since. But September and October also saw several opportunities to travel to the Yosemite high country, the Eastern Sierra and Lake Tahoe with friend Pat.

In November

I reconnected with Pam Hundley, with whom I worked many years ago and who has always felt more like a little sister than an employee. We picked up right where we left off 23 years ago.
I reconnected with high school friends Betty and Lowell Johnson, another blessing 45 years in the making.
I got to spend several days with Nasreen, which is a rarity. I usually only manage to see her in company with her sister, and it was a real treat to have some one-on-one time, limited though it was.

In December

I spent the Christmas holidays with my girls, Jason, Hunter and many of Jason's relatives.

I "lost" traveling companion Pat (at least temporarily) when she moved to Colorado/Arkansas with her son/daughter-in-law and granddaughter.

There are no confirmed plans for travel at this time, although I fully plan to do some exploring once spring and summer arrive. It'll be all on my own, according to my own schedule. This is something I should have done long ago.

One plan in the works is to move . . . my blog, that is . . . to a new site sometime within the next month or two. It'll feature some enhancements not possible at this location.

More, more and more picture-taking, learning how to REALLY use the camera. Favorite SiL keeps telling me, "Ma, you've gotta get the camera off 'P,' otherwise you might as well have a 'point-and-shoot.'" He's right, of course, much as it kills me to admit it.

Onward and upward, as my ECCO boss, Bill Swan, says.

I'm with you, Bill.

Khyber Dreams Chapter 10: Feeling Better

2009-12-31T00:01:00.001-08:00

What a miracle!

A day after I collapsed in a heap, barely able to move, I was feeling remarkably better.

I got up and had breakfast with the family, although I limited myself to the blandest of foods: a little egg, a little chappati. Although I thought the worst was over, there was no way I was going to take any chances that there would be a relapse. Besides, I still felt weak. Whatever stamina I'd possessed before falling ill had departed for parts unknown.

We'd begun to make plans for our travels to other parts of Pakistan to see Abid's sisters who lived in the provinces:

Razia and her family in Multan
Jamilah in Lahore
Taj in Peshawar

We also planned to visit Abid's auntie in Rawalpindi.

I dearly hoped that my bout with the flu had ended so that I could enjoy seeing these historic places and getting to meet the rest of Abid's family.

Travelin' On . . .

2009-12-30T00:01:00.001-08:00

Although this crisis in my life actually occurred two weeks ago yesterday, I haven't blogged about it before because I just finally wrapped my mind around the fact that she's gone.

Gone, as in picked up (some of) her stuff, flew off to Colorado . . . just so she could move to Arkansas.

ARKANSAS?

Truthfully, I knew she was going to move somewhere, but I thought it was likely to be Africa, Apparently she took a wrong turn somewhere and, as I write, should be in a caravan with her son and daughter-in-law, making their way toward Texarkana.

Two days before she boarded the plane for Colorado Springs to meet up with her family, she called me and announced she and her buddy Taz were leaving. Just like that. It wasn't a *total* surprise because she'd told me her DiL, Jenia, was facing a job change which might involve a major move and that she might go back there to help the family out.

Who the heck am I talking about?

Gosh, if I looked like this on my birthday, I might leave the state, too.

I'm talking about my friend Pat. My traveling companion buddy. My Hollywood Bowl buddy. My American Ballet Theatre buddy. The person who, if I said, "you wanna explore the Eastern Sierras?" would always reply, "how soon do you want me there?" The one with whom I first discovered the beauty of Sedona many years ago. The one who explored the Napa wine country with me last June.

From now on it's gonna take just a little longer for us to get together, I reckon.

Despite how it looks, I'm really not whining. Not much, anyway.

Pat has wanted to make a change for a long, long time. We've talked about it for years. She's also wanted to make a difference, and that's why she took major steps toward entering the Peace Corps in 2010 (at 70 years old! Way to go!). Although the destination has changed--and I'm thrilled, because Arkansas is a lot closer than Africa--she's still going to be able to make a difference. She'll have time to spend with her granddaughter, Stasia, as well as son Kirk and DiL Jenia. Knowing how much it meant to Pat to be able to assist her grandson, Devin, with his homework in his earlier years and to play a major part in his life, I understand that this is a great opportunity for her to do the same for Stasia.

At this point I can't wait to hear from her that they've made it safely and are getting settled in their new locale. When we last talked, just before Christmas, they were expecting to arrive sometime on Wednesday.

Best of luck to you, dear pal. I miss you!

Khyber Dreams Chapter 9: A Little Bug

2009-12-29T00:01:00.000-08:00

Aside from the afternoons spent trying to get Farida to take a nap, life in Pakistan was good. Abid and his brothers showed me much of the city where they'd grown up.

We stared at the snake charmers at Hawkes Bay, and took a camel ride. We went out to Clifton, one of the ritziest residential communities in Karachi, which would later become famous as the home of Benazir Bhutto's family.

Although I confess I never really got used to the weather, all in all I got along well.

That is, until I got The Bug.

One morning I woke up and felt like someone had hit me over the head with a massive sledgehammer. I was listless, feverish and nauseated. When Abid's mother called us for breakfast, I said, "not for me. I'll pass." I couldn't move. It was all I could do to take care of necessities, especially under the rather primitive conditions of Britto Road.

I assumed I had the flu, and in a couple of days I'd feel fine again. Abid's family pretty much thought so, too. I spent that day in bed, getting up only when I absolutely had to. I can't honestly remember who took care of Farida--whether she stayed with me or whether Abid took her.

Suddenly I was not having any fun at all.

It's A Great Day, Foxy Brown!

2009-12-28T00:01:00.000-08:00

After six days in the Big City, I'm enjoying the peace and solitude of a relaxing day at home. Foxy's taking a nap on the couch, and Grey Eagle is on my lap--as he's been most of the time since I returned.

The days away were filled with lots of family moments. Farida, Hunter and I drove down on Monday. Jason flew in on Wednesday.

The bad news: Although we were in SoCal for several days, Nasreen had to work quite a bit of it. She did, however, get off early on Christmas Eve. We would like to have had more opportunities to visit with her but were blessed with what we had.

The good news: This was the first Christmas in Hunter's experience where he really "got" the idea. He and Nasreen spent Christmas Eve making chocolate chip cookies for Santa. They left out a plate and a glass of milk for the Big Guy and carrots for the reindeer. Amazingly enough, all of them were gone the next morning, with the exception of a few carrot "nubs." And the Christmas tree was surrounded with gaily-wrapped presents. Hunter was amazed . . . and thrilled.

I believe Hunter now has every piece of GeoTrax equipment known to man, as well as a new wardrobe, which he needed. He's a growing boy. And that was just the first celebration. There was yet another later that afternoon with Hunter's Grams, O'Bob, O'Dad and his uncles Richard, Andy and Reagan. Hunter was in heaven because a number of his young cousins were there, too, and they allowed him to play with them. He had a ball . . . and scored a ton more presents.

For me probably the most gratifying and surprising moment of Christmas morning was Farida's reaction when she opened her present: an autographed copy of Ree Drummond's Pioneerwoman cookbook,The Pioneer Woman Cooks: Recipes from an Accidental Country Girl.

I knew she wanted it; I just hadn't realized how much. It had been incredibly difficult to keep my big mouth shut since Nasreen and I had attended Ree's book signing at the Torrance Border's on November 22. Farida is an avid reader of Pioneerwoman's blog, she knew about the signing, and she knew *I* would be in the Los Angeles area, whereas she couldn't come down for several days yet. I was amazed that she never asked me about it.

I have to give Nasreen a lot of credit for accompanying me to the book signing. She agreed to drive because I oppose driving in the LA basin except in cases of dire need. She hung around the entire four or five hours we were there and never complained. She had NO IDEA why all these people (and there were a few men in the crowd) would stand in line for such a long time just to get a cookbook signed. She didn't understand who Charlie and Marlboro Man and the punks are and why all these folks would care. The efforts were vindicated, however, when she saw her sister's face as she pulled the book out of the bag.

Farida and Jason had received their Christmas (and birthday and anniversary) presents from Nasreen at the time of Jason's birthday celebration in November. They returned the favor when they helped her buy a blu-ray DVD and surround-sound theatre system. Jason hooked it up for her, and she was in heaven, too.

As for me, the girls got me a luscious pair of slippers and a 50 mm 2.8 f macro lens for my camera. Whooooohooooo!! I've spent a lot of last night and today reading up on macro photography tips. I have a lot to learn, but what fun I'll have.

The last gift I received was one that I would have preferred to avoid. Once again Hunter has bestowed on me the gift that keeps on giving . . . a stuffed-up head and a runny nose.

He is such a GIVER!

Above all else, above all the tangible, hold-in-your-hand gifts, the greatest treasure was the time we got to spend together both on the drives back and forth and the days spent at the Santa Ana house and at Reagan and Courtenay's. Hopefully it's only one of many more holidays to come that we'll have the opportunity to share.

Christmas for Cats: The Sequel

2009-12-27T00:01:00.000-08:00

When we last left Grey Eagle, the nearly-20-year-old cat who rules my residence, he had just become the proud owner of an automatic feeder.

Unfortunately I purchased this item just one day before leaving for Southern California to spend Christmas with my children. I wasn't sure how this new gadget was going to please His Royal Highness and was quite nervous about having to leave him for six days under those circumstances.

As is quite obvious from the photos, the guy is long, lean, lanky and, well, skinny, so he can't afford to miss a meal.

I'm pleased to be able to report that the feeder was a HUGE success.

Each of the five sections was empty, except for one--and there was no more than a teaspoon of chow left in it. My detective skills tell me that the section with the slight remainder was the first one that he would have encountered, and I think he was still getting used to the apparatus at that point. Obviously the feeder opened each day exactly as scheduled, and just as clearly Grey Eagle discovered that it was Manna from Heaven.

That didn't keep him from giving me hell, upon my return, however. He let me know, in no uncertain terms, that he didn't appreciate being left alone for such a long time. He managed to almost forgive me when I turned on the heater, so he was able to assume his favorite position once again . . . where he remains some three hours later, as I write this post.

Khyber Dreams Chapter 8: It's Not Fair!

2009-12-26T00:01:00.000-08:00

August in Karachi is HOT. And humid. Both at the same time. The weather there is decidedly uncomfortable, especially for those of us born and raised in the temperate southern California climate. Abid, who lived in Karachi until the age of 20, also found it pretty miserable. Unlike me, he had an "out."

In the house on Britto Road, one room (and one only) was air conditioned. After our afternoon meal (and much like Mexican custom, the main meal of the day is in the early afternoon), he and his brothers would retire to that refrigerated room, close the door and talk, snooze or whatever.

Farida and I, on the other hand, would swelter in the excessive heat of our bedroom while I'd coerce her to go to sleep. Farida has never been a sleeper. From the time she came home from the hospital, she's subscribed to the rule that daylight is for having the eyes open. Even now she's likely to be up and awake at 5:00 a.m. The big difference is that she's apt to fall asleep earlier in the evening than she did as a 1-1/2-year-old. Usually after an hour or so of both of us trying to find a way to get comfortable in the oppressive heat, she'd fall asleep for a half-hour or an hour.

I have to admit that Abid's family would have gladly taken Farida off my hands for an hour or two or twenty during our stay, but she would have none of it. She refused to go with anyone except Abid or me the entire time we were in Pakistan. And because she wouldn't go to sleep without an argument, we were pretty much banished from the climate-controlled room each afternoon.

Did Abid ever once offer to spell me on the nap time? Of course not, because:

He couldn't stand the heat
He's a guy
It's not a manly thing to do
He wanted to visit with his brothers

All of those things probably made perfect sense to him, but it was exceedingly difficult for me. Life in Pakistan required lots of adjustments for this western-born female. Most of them were doable, but this one was something I never could accept (although I couldn't see that I had a choice, at that time).

And it got worse after I got bit by the bug.

Christmas for Cats

2009-12-25T00:01:00.001-08:00

This is Grey Eagle.

He's close to 20 years old; that's nearly 140 in cat-years, according to the old formula. He eats (prefers) dog food. He's so skinny you can feel every knob on his backbone, you can see his ribs through his fur, and his tail is about a foot long. Nasreen has always claimed he looks like a lizard.

But he's still as agile as he was ten years ago. He sleeps on top of me, and no matter how many times I throw him off, he comes back. Every morning when I wake up, he's staring me in the face. He's crotchety and needy and demanding. He's a pain in the neck. He's not a pretty boy, that's for sure, but he's been my faithful companion since July 1990.

One reason I like cats is that they are so independent. Give 'em a plate of food, a water dish and a litter box, and they're good to go. You can leave 'em alone for a few days with no problem. But I was headed off for six days to spend Christmas in Santa Ana with my daughters, favorite son-in-law and favorite grandson. That was just a little too long for comfort, even for King Kat.

That's why, last Sunday morning, I realized I needed to get him a present.

He had to have an automatic cat feeder. I'd thought about getting him one before, but they are very expensive, and I'd never left him alone long enough that it really was a requirement. Suddenly it was urgent. (Yes, it doesn't seem to make any sense--the guy's 20 years old and NOW he needs an auto feeder. But that's the way my brain works sometimes.)

Never mind that I'd already been to Fresno once earlier in the week, and going back again wasn't on my list of favorite things to do. My boy NEEDED a feeder. I let my fingers do the walking and discovered that PetSmart had one listed for $39.95--$30.00 less than its list price. Pretty costly cat paraphernalia, but the guy's worth it.

Three hours and $80.00 later ('cause Carol, Farida, Hunter and I had to have lunch while we were in town), and Grey Eagle was the proud owner of his very own automatic feeder.

We'll see when I get home how well it worked out.

Merry Christmas to All!

2009-12-25T00:01:00.000-08:00

This is a wish that you are all enjoying the most blessed of holidays in company with your loved ones. My love to everyone. Merry Christmas!

Khyber Dreams Chapter 7: Major Surgery

2009-12-24T00:01:00.000-08:00

When I arrived in Pakistan, I was 26 years old and probably one of the only persons on the planet who didn't have pierced ears. Oh, I'd wanted them for years, but the idea that I could cheerfully allow someone to poke a hole in a part of my head was way beyond my comfort zone.

I'd tried to muster the courage when I lived in Mexico City one summer. Made the appointment and everything. Got one of my friends to agree to take me. Even had the earrings I'd wear while the ear healed. And I chickened out. At that time I was 21. Five years later my fear hadn't abated.

In Pakistan a woman's wealth is often measured in how much gold jewelry she possesses, and Abid's family dearly wanted to give me earrings and necklaces to go with the new wardrobe they'd provided. Ears of women in the old country are pierced when they are infants or toddlers, and even the cheap cosmetic jewelry available there is only made for pierced ears. Consequently both Abid and my sisters-in-law tried to talk me into having the procedure done.

In brother-in-law Tajammul's family nearly everyone is a doctor. They own a multitude of hospitals in the Karachi area, so Abid approached Tajammul's wife, Aijaz, with an idea.

"Why don't you pierce Judi's ears in the hospital? Maybe she'll feel more comfortable that way."

I wasn't at all sure that was true, but Aijaz agreed with Abid that it was such a simple procedure and would take less than a minute.

They were going to give us a tour of their newest hospital anyway, so I decided to give in.

To my surprise Aijaz scheduled the "operation" to take place in the operating theatre. She brought me in and positioned me on the table then stepped outside for a moment. When she returned another woman was with her.

"Judi, I'd like you to meet Dr. (I can't remember her name). I've asked her to help me decide where to place the holes in your ears."

The two women conferred, studying each ear carefully, then Aijaz placed a mark on each one. They stepped back together and studied their handiwork--artists examining a freshly-painted canvas. Satisfied, Aijaz swabbed the first ear and prepared to proceed. I wondered if it was too late to jump and run. But I didn't. Aijaz took up her chosen instrument, poised over the ear and jabbed. A brief moment of discomfort and the deed was done. She came around to the other side of the table and repeated the procedure. In less than two minutes the ears had been pierced and the earrings inserted. There had been no pain.

Yes, I was embarrassed at my irrationality. I was even more embarrassed when I later learned that the woman who had consulted with Aijaz was a reknowned OB-Gyn whom Pakistani women waited months to see. She'd abandoned her patients for a couple of minutes--to observe the woman who was so frightened she had to have her ears pierced on an operating table.

Shake that Bush!

2009-12-23T00:01:00.000-08:00

A few days ago I spent an entire (and I mean ENTIRE) day perusing Pioneerwoman's archives. I'd never read her earliest posts and decided to start in 2006 and work forward. Once begun, I couldn't stop.

There was a momentary hitch when I reached this point, though.

I don't like rattlesnakes. Call it a little quirk, bordering on a phobia.

When I go searching in books or the web for hikes, those magic words, "watch out for rattlesnakes," make me cross that destination off the list, unless it's at a time when I know they'll be in hibernation. They do hibernate up here, luckily. Of course the snakes don't read the same books I do. And, after all, this is THEIR land. They were here first. So when we humans go traipsing into their wilderness, we should expect the occasional surprise.

In the years I've been on the trail, I've managed to avoid the critters, except for once. And that once was because of my being a smart-ass, pure and simple.

Shirley Spencer, our Elderhostel naturalist/instructor extraordinaire, had taught a class that week, and I was lucky enough to be able to accompany one of the program's field trips. As we wandered through the meadows in Yosemite Valley, Shirley pointed out the various species of flora that abound there. When she came to one, she remarked, "you can always tell a member of the mint family because they have square stems." She had us get up close to examine the characteristics. I've always been able to tell common mint by its smell, of course, but no one had ever taught me about its square stems.

Friends Shevy, Gail and I the following beautiful October Saturday decided to hike Eastman Lake, a man-made reservoir/dam surrounded by wonderful trails outside of Raymond, CA. All of us had done this trail previously; it's one of our favorite early/late season treks, ranging from spectacular in the midst of spring to merely beautiful otherwise. We'd walked about 4 miles out from the Raymond bridge, turned around and were headed back to the car, perhaps a mile out. Shevy, as usual, was a "fur piece" ahead of me. Gail was behind me. I looked down and spotted something familiar.

In my most officious, obnoxious, supremely educated voice, I announced, "I know what this is. This is a member of the mint family. I can tell because the stem is square . . . "

The "square" had not died from my lips when the bush began to rattle. Surprised, I backed off for an instant, then leaned forward again. The bush rattled again.

"Rattlesnake." I shouted at the top of my lungs. I jumped about three feet in the air. Unfortunately Gail, being behind me, had to skirt the part of the path where the creature was ensconced. She gingerly crept past, keeping her eyes peeled for slithering shapes.

When she was safely beyond the bush, she said, "whew, he was a big guy. Did you see him?"

"No, I didn't." And I was glad.

At the sound of my shriek, Shevy had turned around. "Where's the snake? Let me see!" He raced back to where we stood.

The thing was rattling furiously, still in its bush, but Shevy couldn't hear. "If you can't hear it, you stay away!" I yelled.

He didn't like that answer but, for once, didn't press the issue.

I assume Mr. Snake went back to his nap after we left, probably shaking his head at our stupidity.

***

Luckily this was a sound I'd heard previously, and once you've heard it, you never forget. Otherwise I might never have recognized what it was and continued to stick my hand where it didn't belong. Friend Deb likens it to natural gas escaping from a pipe. Except that generally gas escaping doesn't start and stop. A snake does.

The first time I'd ever experienced a snake's rattle was after I'd moved to Cascadel. When Frank and Deb went off on gigs, I would take care of Deb and Frank's deaf/blind/diabetic Dalmatian. One afternoon I took Spotty Dog out for her constitutional, following the tried-and-true path around the back of the house. We were creatures of habit, Spotty and I, especially after she lost her eyesight and depended on me to be her seeing-eye human. We'd just rounded the corner when I heard a hissing, rushing sound from a few feet away, from somef tall grass close to the path leading up the hill to the garden terraces.

I stopped. Listened.

It stopped.

I moved forward a foot or so. Hiss, rattle.

I stopped. It stopped.

Forward. Hiss.

Suddenly I remembered Deb's description of that sound and knew exactly what it was. But I couldn't see it. Knew about where it was but couldn't be certain. Was afraid to move in any direction but back where we'd come from. And Dotty Dog was oblivious to the danger lurking in that grass. All she knew was she needed to go potty. I turned the dog around, wrestled her back up the deck stairs and out to the area in front of the garage. This was completely opposed to our regular routine, she couldn't imagine what we were doing and fought me all the way.

I, however, knew what I was doing. I was shaking uncontrollably.

As soon as humanly possible I shoved Spot back in the house and pondered my next move. I needed to get from Frank and Deb's house back to mine, some 500 feet away, and a vicious rattlesnake was somewhere out there threatening my every step. As soon as my legs would support me, I crept out of their house and kept my eyes peeled for any wayward movement on the path to my house, ears alert for any rattle.

Home safely, I knew I couldn't face going back to Frank and Deb's later that night for what should have been Spot's last walk of the evening. But I also couldn't risk Frank and Deb's coming home to a reptile lying in wait. I called the club where they were performing and asked to speak to Deb.

"I-I-I j-j-j-ust w-w-w-ant you to know there's a r-r-r-rattlesnake outside your back door. Or at least he was when I left your house. Please don't be mad if you come home to a puddle on the floor. I just can't go back over there tonight. But watch your step when you get out of the car."

I swear I heard a snicker on the other end of the phone.

"Hey, Jude, thanks for the warning."

For all I know that snake was as scared of me as I was of him because he wasn't seen again.

Unless, of course, he migrated to Eastman Lake and got his revenge.

What's in a Name?

2009-12-22T00:01:00.001-08:00

In the big city planners devise streets with number names as well as streets with letter names. That's not unusual. Up here, in Madera County, there are streets with number names--and regular names. Trouble is, the same streets have at least one of each. Are you confused yet?

Here's the deal:

Road 222: starts in Oakhurst, winds around Bass Lake and without warning becomes Road 221, which is also known as Crane Valley Road. Where it intersects with Manazanita Lake Road, it turns south (I think) and winds down to the little hamlet of North Fork, where it goes down Main Street and becomes (in addition to Road 222) Auberry Road.

Road 426: starts at Highway 41 in Oakhurst, where it is also known as Talking Bear Road. As it goes up into the hills, it is called Crane Valley Road (again), then in the Bass Lake Heights area turns toward Bass Lake. Straight ahead it becomes Road 223, AKA Teaford Saddle Road, which dead ends at Road 221.

Road 420: is also Thorneberry Road

Road 274: Malum Ridge Road

Road 225: Mammoth Pool Road

There are Roads 425A, 425B and 425C. Trust me on this.

There are also 1/2 and 1/4 roads, such as Road 18-1/2, Road 36-1/4.

I've lived here nigh onto 20 years, and I still can't figure out the rationale behind this.

WHY is it necessary to have more than one name for a single street?

WHY does one street have to change its name without rhyme or reason? You would expect that Road 222 would continue straight ahead and that the turn the road makes at Manzanita Lake Road would take on another number (IF a number were necessary, which I contend it is not). Instead, Road 222 becomes 221 at the intersection with Manzanita Lake Road, which becomes Road 222.

The road that leads from Highway 41 up the mountain into North Fork is Road 200. As it turns, in the middle of town, where it meets with the infamous 222, it becomes 225. Go figure.

At least in Yosemite Lakes Park, as far as I can tell, the developers didn't use numbers for their streets. But they did decide there was a limit on the names they could use, so that there are Revis Road, Revis Lane, Revis Court, Stetson Drive, Stetson Circle, Stetson Court, etc., etc., etc. I guess when you figure that if you can find Revis Road, all the other Revises take off from there, and you can sort of find your way around.

In addition the passes over the mountains leading in and out of town have names, such as Deadwood Pass which goes up and and over Highway 41 between Coarsegold and Oakhurst. Some enterprising soul has installed a real-time webcam facing southbound toward the crest of the pass. This is wonderful for those of us who have to traverse Deadwood during a snowstorm. If you take a look, you can even spy a sign for Road 425B . . . so you'll know I'm telling you the truth about our street weirdness. The other pass critical to local residents is Chepo Saddle, which goes up and over Road 222 from Oakhurst to Bass Lake.

I can see you shaking your heads in disbelief. Is it any wonder visitors up here get so confused? Can you begin to see how we got so lost that first night we tried to find the Pines Resort?

I love the anomalies that set us apart from city folk, but even I shake my head when I try to figure out the rationale behind Madera County's street names.

Khyber Dreams Chapter 6: The "Homeboys" & A New Wardrobe

2009-12-21T00:01:00.001-08:00

I can't believe it's been since September since I've shared a chapter of "Khyber Dreams" with you. For those who might have just arrived, this is the story of a western woman's journey to Pakistan many years ago as a relatively new wife with her Pakistani husband and 1-1/2-year-old daughter. It's the tale of my adjustment to a vastly different culture and a huge new family.

When we left off, Abid, Farida and I had just arrived in Karachi, and I was getting acquainted with Abid's family members.

The youngest three brothers (of a family of ten children) still lived at home on Britto Road with their parents. Akhlaq was married, so his wife and infant daughter were there, too. The other two, Akhlaq and Munawwar, were unmarried. They had both completed university and worked as scientists--one at a cosmetic company and the other at a pharmaceutical plant.

All of the family members in Karachi made it a point to ensure our visit was as comfortable as possible. They went out of their way to provide everything they thought we needed. Everything from medical supplies to a complete new wardrobe for me and a shirt or two for Abid.

Once we'd managed to get a grip on our jet lag, Abid's brothers began to take us out to explore the city where they'd all grown up. They wanted to show me as much as they possibly could. But it was painfully obvious from the first that a young woman in western clothes made quite a spectacle in the streets of Pakistan's largest city. I got stares wherever I went, particularly if I wore a dress where my legs were on display.

In this Muslim country women were expected to dress modestly, and that meant "covered up." And "covered up" could mean anything from shalwar kameez to a burqa. And the burqa itself could range from the black robe-like head-to-toe garment seen in the larger cities (where the head would be covered but all or a portion of the face might be visible) to the all-encompassing burqa of the frontier provinces where women were completely covered in a heavy garment with a "grille" for the eyes. Abid called these "walking tents." These are what are often seen in photos taken of Afghani women. I can't imagine wearing one of these in a country where the summer temperatures can regularly approach 120 degrees.

Abid's family were well-educated and quite liberated as Pakistani society went in those days. His sisters did not wear burqa under normal circumstances. There were, however, circumstances where even they felt more comfortable in the burqa, such as trips to the doctor.

Needless to say, once it became clear that I was attracting unwanted attention, I spoke with my sisters-in-law and asked them to help me obtain Pakistani clothing. I didn't have to ask twice. They were all over the task of outfitting me in the latest styles that would help me to fit in. Within days I had a complete new wardrobe. It made a world of difference when we went shopping in Soldier's Bazaar, for example, or visited other public places. Although my fair skin, hair and eyes clearly marked me as a Westerner, I didn't feel as though I was on display.

Shalwar kameez (or pyjama kameez) are the third-world version of pant suits and are supremely comfortable, and I actually enjoyed wearing them. (Explanation: shalwar are "blousy," loose-fitting pants with a cuff at the ankle; pyjama are pants that are closely fitted to the leg, closely resembling western attire. Kameez is the word for a loose-fitting shirt which falls to somewhere between just above the knee to mid-calf.)

A dupatta, which completed the outfit, was decidedly NOT comfortable. A long scarf which was used to cover the hair when modesty was required, most of the time the dupatta was draped with the middle portion across the chest and shoulders, the ends hanging down the back. I never could figure out how to keep it from falling off.

In the photo above, taken at Lahore's Shalimar Gardens, I am wearing shalwar kameez, with a dupatta draped across the shoulders, as is my SIL Jamilah, at left. Safia, in red, wears the traditional sari.

But the dupatta was nothing compared to wearing a sari. The sari has to be one of the most beautiful garments a woman can wear, but it takes talent to wrap it--and luck to keep it properly arranged. (If you happen to catch the hem on something or accidentally step on it, you could possibly find yourself unwinding your clothing!)

The sari consists of yards and yards of a light fabric, such as chiffon, which is wound around the waist, tucked into a petticoat with the loose end draped over the shoulder. A short blouse, usually baring the midriff, completes the outfit. I never really learned to properly wrap the sari myself and had to have one of my sisters-in-law assist me. God help me if I had to "use the facilities" because it was nearly impossible to lift up those yards and yards of material and keep them from getting soiled. I tried to make sure to take care of "contingencies" if I'd be wearing a sari for any length of time.

Because Abid and I were not married in Pakistan, it became a well-loved family activity to have us get dressed up in typical wedding garb, so they could take photos of us. This happened in virtually every city we visited.

Above: Sister-in-law Jamilah, Abid, me, sister-in-law Safia, niece Shahida and her younger sister, dressed in wedding finery. In India and Pakistan, either red or green are the colors associated with wedding dresses.

In spite of the inconvenience, I'd challenge any woman to not feel her most feminine while wearing a sari.

Although I know Abid was secretly proud that his family had treated me so royally, he often joked that his family treated me like royalty while virtually ignoring him.

Actually that was true!

Midnight, Dark Road

2009-12-20T08:18:00.000-08:00

Moving to a rural area after living in the city for way too many years brought some changes to our way of thinking, as I've alluded to in previous posts.

I was thinking back to the time between when we made the offer on our first house in Bass Lake and when it closed escrow. Farida and I made several trips up here before the house officially became ours, and on several occasions we took the opportunity to check the new house out in the evening. After dark.

In Orange County this wouldn't mean much. There's traffic all night long on the street where Nasreen lives. What we didn't realize--until after we'd moved into the Bass Lake house--is that traffic, especially after, say, 9:00 p.m., is cause for questions.

The street on which that first house is located is a circle, situated off Road 221 (otherwise known as Crane Valley Road, but that's a whole other issue), and it's not someplace you'd generally go unless you meant to. That means that any strange vehicles are likely to attract attention. Those that cruise the area after 9:00 or 10:00 p.m.? A full-blown alert. Because it just doesn't happen. Farida and I had a good laugh over the stir we must have caused the night we cruised the circle close to midnight, just 'cause we wanted to see how the house looked late at night.

That difference was brought home even more noticeably one night not long ago when I was visiting Farida at her house in Cascadel Woods. The traffic within CW at night, especially in Farida's isolated location, makes our original house in Bass Lake Annex look like the 55 Freeway at rush hour. Imagine our surprise as Farida, Hunter and I were enjoying a quiet evening--and there was a knock on the door.

There is NEVER a knock on that door. NO ONE comes to that house without an invitation and without our knowing they're coming.

Farida and I looked at each other.

"What the . . . ?" we asked each other.

"Who the . . . ?"

The knock sounded again.

Luckily there's a window right next to the door, so Farida didn't have to open it.

Farida looked out, and I peered over her shoulder. A strange man--at least one neither of us knew--stood there.

"Is this the Hansons' house?" he asked.

"No."

"Never heard of 'em," I chimed in, with emphasis, waiting for him to turn and walk away.

He persisted. The man seemed perplexed, but not nearly as mystified as we were. Who was he? Why was he here? In the middle of the night? (It was actually about 6 p.m., but it was pitch black outside.)

He tried again. "Is this Cascadel North?"

"This is a driveway. You're not on the road."

"I know, but am I on the right road?"

He obviously didn't get the message that I--even more than Farida--wanted him gone, and NOW.

"But they told me they lived at the top of the hill."

Farida really tried to be polite, but I was getting nervous. "They don't live here, and I've never heard of 'em." If my voice could have underlined the words, it would have.

After a couple more halting attempts, slowly, reluctantly, he turned away. We couldn't see where he was, and we hadn't heard a vehicle come up the driveway, so we had no clue where he'd headed. I looked out of one living room window, Farida looked out another, and Hunter was really curious about all of this. In his innocence and youthful exhuberance, he was ready to run right out there and try to help this guy, but we held him back.

Finally, after what seemed an etermity, we heard an engine turn over, saw headlights come on--right at the foot of the driveway to our house. How could we not have heard him drive up?

I, for one, breathed a sigh of relief that at least now we knew where he was and didn't have to worry that he was an axe murderer hiding out in our basement just waiting for all the house lights to go off so he could attack. (It didn't occur to me until now that he could have dropped off an accomplice.)

For those of you who think this was clearly an overreaction to an very ordinary situation, I lived in this house for 8 years before Farida and Jason moved in. In all that time I'd had only one person who didn't live on the property knock on the door--and that was in broad daylight. We don't get and don't want unexpected visitors.

Such is the joy of country living.

If I Had It To Do Again

2009-12-19T00:01:00.000-08:00

A few posts back I opined that if I had to make the move all over again to Bass Lake, I would.

I still love the Sierra foothills just as much as the first day I set foot here, and in some ways more. This land has been so good to me. Through the years I've worked at great jobs, volunteered at organizations who've made me feel like I've contributed to their mission and lived on properties that have sung to my soul. I've met people who've made a big difference in my life.

But, knowing what I know now, I think I might just do things differently. I think, if I could, I'd move to Bishop. It's another place that has romanced me from the very first. The views of the Sierra Crest to the west and the White Mountains to the east are awesome from any place in town. I love the taste and tenor of the community. It is small town par excellance. I love having the ability to walk from one end of town to the other, gaping in storefronts as I go.

Spellbinder Books
Galen Rowell's Mountain Light Gallery
Sierra Mountaineering International
A plethora of coffee shops and restaurants just begging the walker to stop and indulge for a few minutes.

Another small town that calls my name is Bridgeport. Although I've driven through it on a number of occasions, I've never stopped for so much as a Coke. But what I've seen has always intrigued me. In fact there's a house north of town that I think has my name on it.

For the past two or three years I've carried on a love affair with the Eastern Sierra. There is something magnificent, and so different, about that side of the Range of Light. Something stark, stern, foreboding, in a way. They seem to rise to their full 10,000+ foot height in one fell swoop. No baby steps there, unless you count the Alabama Hills. I don't. To me, the Alabama Hills are the "old men" of the mountains, worn and spent, making way for the younger generation behind them.

So many trails, not enough time. So many nooks and crannies up and down the Highway 395 corridor to explore. There are those who have said that Highway 395 is boring, but to me there isn't an inch of it that I don't adore, from Olancha all the way up to Reno. Lone Pine, Independence, Big Pine, Bishop, Lee Vining/Mono Lake, off-the-beaten-path Bodie, Bridgeport, Walker, Coleville, Topaz Lake, Carson City. Each one has its own special beauty.

I haven't explored all of the west side, not by a long shot. Many new trails call my name, but the eastern Sierras sing a siren song, enticing me ever back.

TIVO is a Tool of the Devil

2009-12-18T00:01:00.001-08:00

For more than two years I lived without TV.

Way back in 2005, we had someone come to do some brushing on our property, he accidentally cut the cable line. I'd already been thinking about discontinuing the cable service, and I took this event as a sign from Creator. Besides, I was just a week away from my annual journey to the Navajo Reservation, so I figured it would be easy enough to see how I fared without television over the course of the weeks until my return.

To tell the truth, I never really missed it. I did rent movies from Netflix on occasion, so it wasn't like I had nothing to watch. Besides, my neighbors, Frank and Deb, had quite a collection of videos that I could access.

In 2007 I moved in with a friend who had both cable and satellite, but for the most part we watched whatever he wanted, so I still didn't feel any real pull to change my viewing habits. Even so, my daughters began to talk to me about TIVO.

"Mom, you can find programs you want to watch no matter what time they're on. If there's a show on about Mt. Everest, you can always see it at your own convenience."

I should have known I was doomed when Nasreen offered to record on DVD all the episodes of "Everest: Beyond the Limit" for me. I watched those DVD's over and over because anything having to do with mountain climbing--especially in thae Himalayas--fascinates me.

Every once in a while the girls would make snide remarks about how THEY could watch anything they wanted anytime they wanted. I'd make equally snide remarks back about how "I don't watch TV."

When I moved in with Carol in February 2009, I started watching more TV, simply because I could. Carol wasn't home that often, and Foxy and Grey Eagle generally are not too demanding about the shows I put on. It was totally my choice. But that's also when I began to notice that a lot of the programs I'd really like to see were on at times not conducive to my viewing pleasure.

Farida and Nas, and even Jason, from time to time, would insinuate how much better my life would be with TIVO. In fact, Nas reminded me, she even had a TIVO she wasn't using that she could give me. To sweeten the deal, she'd throw in a year's subscription.

"It's Mother's Day next week. It'll be your present." I tried to protest that I didn't need a present, but secretly she'd convinced me. I'd at least give it a try. After all, what did I have to lose?

That was a big mistake, 'cause now I'm hooked. I love my TIVO. Oops, there I said it.

I set up my Wish List Searches every two weeks or so, so I can be sure to record everything I crave. I look for anything on Yellowstone, Yosemite, Grand Tetons, Alaska, Everest, mountain climbing. I also record A LOT of true crime and forensics. Anything on India and Pakistan and Iran. All of that is wonderful. The world at my fingertips.

What's NOT so wonderful is that now that I've recorded all of this, I have to actually WATCH it. I spend way more hours than are healthy making sure I don't miss anything. The idea, as everyone told me, is that you can watch shows at your convenience--but when you have so much recorded, you don't have as much convenience.

Of course, when I complained to my children about not having enough time to watch TV, my favorite son-in-law, sweetly replied, "but, Ma, you don't watch TV, remember?" He loves to make fun of me and my former scoffing at TIVO.

I blame TIVO for my current state of sloth and the backache I suffered during my walk today. (Don't even BEGIN to tell me that I have a choice in the matter.)

TIVO and the Rainbow vacuum. They're the roots of all evil.

But I'll leave the scourge of the Rainbow for another post.

You Can't Go Home Again . . . or . . .

2009-12-17T00:01:00.000-08:00

. . . there's absolutely nothing you can't find via Google, if you're diligent about it.

For all the years I've had access to the Internet, I've periodically searched for a friend from college days, someone dear to me who disappeared from my life. I've always wondered what happened to him and where he ended up. Those searches proved fruitless, until Monday.

I can't imagine what parameters I entered differently, but all of a sudden there he was. So much of him that it blows my mind I didn't locate him before, over the years. It seems that Creator has a grand plan, and it's for Him to know what it is. For some reason THIS was the right time for me to find my friend.

To find this person was at once heartwarming and disconcerting.

He's been extremely successful in his chosen field and clearly discovered exactly the right path for him. When I knew him, some 45 years ago, he had a vision of where he wanted to go but no defined way of reaching that goal. He floundered, as we all did, changing his major two or three times, itching to find the right fit. That he did is evident. In doing so it's also obvious that he influenced many lives and effected positive social change along the way. He's made a difference.

He married about the same time I did and has remained married all these years. He raised two sons and recently became the grandfather of twins. He's now retired, at the pinnacle of his career. All this I unearthed over a few hours' reading, where I couldn't find a trace of him before. A life well-lived, from all appearances, and I'm pleased beyond belief for all of that.

Thomas Wolfe wrote, you can't go home again. Having gained all this information, there's nothing I'll do with it. Except think about it, long and hard.

He's made a difference.

In this lifetime we have a limited amount of opportunities to make a difference. What's clear to me, more than anything, is that I haven't done that yet, haven't found--after 66+ years--that magic path that, when you're on it, your world lights up. You know, you just know, you've found your calling. Like my heroes Greg Mortenson, Ghandi, the Dalai Lama and others lesser known but equally committed, dedicated and courageous. Those are big shoes to walk in.

Could I take a stand for something I believe in, against all odds? Could I work for a goal regardless of monetary returns?

I've done many things that have meant a lot to me. More than anything I brought two beautiful daughters into the world, and they've turned out to be incredible, marvelous human beings who are a joy to be with and who make me very, very proud. But that has much more to do with them than me. While my daughters are a legacy I'll leave behind, there has to be more, in the end. What is it? Where is it? When will I discover it?

I'm convinced this realization that the search must begin now, not a moment to waste, is the reason this gift was placed in my hand.

I'm hoping that I can keep my favorite Ghandi saying, Let us be the change we wish to see in the world, at the forefront as I look for the answer to that mystery.

P. S. After writing this and scheduling it to post, I decided to do a bit more web exploration and came across the Blog 4 Change which challenges its readers and writers to answer the very question(s) posed in this entry. Is this the beginning of the answer?

Blogs I Like

2009-12-16T00:01:00.000-08:00

A year ago I don't think I'd ever read a single blog. What a difference a year makes. I now have a list of reading material as long as my arm, and it keeps growing day by day. It's tough to find time to write a blog when I have so many fantastic ones to read.

It all began with The Pioneer Woman.

Ree Drummond, The Pioneer Woman, is a blogging phenomenon. Daughter Farida turned me on to her site, after her sister-in-law Courtenay told her about it. To me, Courtenay--a worldly Los Angeles-based actress--would have been the last person I could imagine being a fan of a blogger located on a cattle ranch in the middle of nowhere Oklahoma.

But that's the way it's gone over the years since Ree started her site in 2006--as a way to keep in contact with friends and family. She's gone way beyond friends and family as her readership has grown exponentially, mostly by word-of-mouth, over the years. Some of her posts garner over 20,000 comments. The mother of 4 young punks (as she calls them), she homeschools, cooks, takes photos and blogs on a very regular basis.

Her "confession," "Black Heels to Tractor Wheels," chronicles the chance meeting and resulting romance with the rough-hewn cowboy who stole her heart and dragged her off to the wilds of rural Oklahoma.It's a kick-and-a-half, and she's now revamping it into an honest-to-goodness book.

Her recipes are admittedly not waist-friendly, but they have so many fans that she's produced a cookbook, for which she's done book signings from coast to coast. Some of the signings have caused lineups as long as five hours just to get an autograph and a few words with her. Although I've never tried any of her recipes, Farida is a big fan and often makes her chicken spaghetti, chicken scallopini and enchiladas.

She was chosen as No. 22 of Time's 25 Best Blogs of 2009. She's made her blog into a more-than-thriving business.

The "homeiness" of her blog immediately made me a fan, and I've followed it ever since. And reading the comments to her blog have led me to other sites that I follow regularly. Many of them are the same homespun type as Pioneerwoman: Granny Mountain and Going Country, to name two. Others:

Rocks in my Dryer
The NieNie Dialogues - will uplift your soul and break your heart, all at the same time
Livin' Louisiana

In addition to the country-lovin' blogs, I also follow a number of photography blogs. My favorite in this category is Jasmine Star's. Again Farida introduced me to this site. Jasmine is an Orange-County-based wedding photographer who more than willingly shares her insights and is absolutely up for helping new photographers achieve success. Her site is inspirational even to those of us who are photo neophytes and total amateurs. Reading her blog comments has also led to a number of other sites.

Jessica Claire
Sylvia Cook - I *love* her baby photos!
Zack Arias - he's the newest of my faves, and if it weren't for him, I wouldn't have discovered the killer Kelby Training annual subscription deal. Kelby Training does the absolute best training videos on Photoshop, Lightroom, Dreamweaver and other Adobe products. That's the gift I gave Farida and me for Christmas this year. Jason may just enjoy it, too.
G. Dan Mitchell - great Yosemite and Eastern Sierra photos. He, of course, doesn't know it, but he jumpstarted my love affair with Photoshop because he gave a tiny tutorial about making photo frames--something I'd tried to figure out on my own with no success. I felt great when I could pass a bit of his tutorial on to Farida. It's not often that I've figured out something she doesn't know.
Niebrugge Photos - Alaska images par excellance as well as other nature shots
Michael Frye - again, awesome Yosemite images
The Strobist - great lighting information, which I sorely need

I have to quit the photo list now, because I'll keep finding more and more that I just have to share. If you're interested, explore these on your own, which will lead you endlessly to other intriguing and educational sites.

Pioneerwoman and Jasmine Star "must-reads" every day, and if there's no new post on either one of them, I'm down in the dumps for the day.

Whew. I've taken three hours to write this post, because I had to examine each and every one of these blog sites, just to capture their URL's and make sure they're the ones I really want to share, for now.

It's a beautiful sunny day outside (miracle of miracles), and I really NEED to get out there and RAKE SOME LEAVES.

Happy reading, y'all. (And let me know of your own favorite blogs, as well!)

Good News, Bad News

2009-12-15T00:01:00.000-08:00

The good news is that I took a walk today.

The bad news is that it hurt like hell.

I really hate to admit how lacking in exercise and how out of shape I am, but this is confession time.

Up till now I've had plenty of excuses not to go for walks, most of them beginning with the letters "s" or "r." Today's letter was also an "s," standing for "sunshine." The weather was simply too beautiful to ignore, and all my excuses had run their course.

It was a minor walk, just down to the mailbox and back--no more than 2 miles round trip. I've done this walk or similar plenty of times, but not recently. Since September 22 I seem to have been fighting off one problem or another, in addition to the occasional inclement weather. But I seem to have shaken off the cold and lingering cough that I've suffered since September.

What I discovered during this walk is something that really deserves some action. My lower back hurt the entire time. Didn't matter if it was uphill, downhill or straightaway. It hurt. That's scary because my mom suffered from back problems for at least the last 15 years of her life, and it was a pain that never left her. I really don't want that for myself, especially when my preferred activity over the last five years or so has involved walking at a much more intense level than today's little jaunt.

Maybe this will be the wakeup call I need to take control of my health once again. Spring and summer will be here before we know it, and I don't want to miss all those hiking opportunities.

Snap Decisions

2009-12-14T00:01:00.000-08:00

Disclaimer: This is a stream-of-consciousness, rambling, sappy and much-too-long reminiscence, brought on by the empending move back to California by Hunter's co-grandparents. I started thinking a lot about my own escape from Southern California to the Sierra Nevada foothills. This is the result.

You might want to quit now, while you're ahead.

***

It's not like I gave my move to the Sierra Nevada foothills a lot of thought.

Twenty years ago this past November 10, our family took a weekend excursion to Yosemite. It was the first time I'd even HEARD of Bass Lake yet alone visited there, but we'd wanted to go to Yosemite, and Bass Lake seemed a nice alternative to staying in the park. We had reservations at the Pines Resort, but we thought we might end up sleeping in our car because, try as we might, we just couldn't find the Pines. We drove around and around, trying to make sense of the street signs. Finally, nearly ready to give up, we found the magic turnoff and rolled up to our chalet. It was midnight or a little thereafter.

I'm not kidding when I say that the minute my foot hit the dirt, I fell in love. So did Farida. There was just something miraculous about the scent of pines wafting on the gentle breeze and a sky filled to bursting with the Milky Way.

A night's sleep further fueled our determination to look at real estate magazines. We were amazed to realize how much lower property values were up here, in the sticks.

Even though the Sierra Nevada foothills were a new experience for me, living in a mountain setting was a long-held dream. For as long as I can remember, I treasured visits to local Southern California mountain resorts. When my girls were growing up, we spent as many weekends as we could up in Big Bear at the cabin owned by the company friend Betty worked for. Each time--no matter the season--we struggled to figure out ways to extend our stays. Getting snowed in didn't work too well in the summer, though. But our walks in the pine forests surrounding the Fawnskin cabin often centered around if only I could live in the mountains forever. Although at that time it was only a dream, it was one I buried deep within my soul, taking it out and polishing it up every now and then. Later on, when we'd lost access to the Clark-Porche Fawnskin cabin, we shifted our mountain fantasies to the tiny community of Idyllwild, again thanks to friend Betty's connections. The love affair continued.

Each time I'd set foot on mountain soil, my spirit would rejoice. Even if only for the few hours I'd be in that environment, I would relax and leave behind all those worries that inhabited my everyday life.

Anyhow, back to Bass Lake.

We spent that next day, a Saturday, exploring Yosemite Valley. It wasn't the first time we'd been there, but it really was the first time it so captivated my heart. I loved every minute of the day. Once again I felt as though I had come home.

That evening Farida and I pored over the newspapers and real estate literature we'd gathered. We realized that property prices were lowest in a little town called North Fork, some 16 miles from Bass Lake.

"Let's check a few places out," we agreed. "What do we have to lose?"

On Sunday morning we made an appointment with a realtor in North Fork. The rest of the family didn't believe we were serious. In any case they were not interested in spending the day exploring real estate. Luckily we' d driven in two separate vehicles, so everyone except Farida, Abid and I went off to do their own thing--agreeing to regroup at 3 that afternoon.

We looked at five houses that afternoon.

One was an A-frame with a broken kitchen window, a very narrow wrought-iron spiral staircase and no driveway. It was located on the road up to Cascadel Woods. If we'd bought it, we'd have to park somehow on the road and schlep anything we needed to carry to the house a few hundred feet down the hill. The next house was on Cedar Lane in Bass Lake Annex. It was small, older and cute but didn't quite hold the appeal we'd hoped for.

The third house we fell in love with: a three-bedroom, two-bath home on about half an acre in an area known as Bass Lake Annex No. 3. An inauspicious name for a lovely place. Backing up to Sierra National Forest land, the property actually seemed larger than it really was. The house wasn't terribly large, but it was in excellent condition, and it fit what we thought we were looking for. The area, too, appealed to us. It was a quiet circle of about 30 houses or so, set a mile and a half from the south end of Bass Lake.

By 3 p.m. Farida and I had made up our minds. We told the realtor we had to meet with the rest of our party and got him to agree to take us back to the house to show it to everyone else--who really couldn't grasp the idea that we were prepared to make an offer on the house that afternoon. They toured the house, liked it but thought we'd come to our senses the next day.

I'm not a courageous person, and I have a tendency to think things through so long that I end up giving up on them. This time I faced a life-altering decision. As long as anyone could remember, I'd said I wanted to live in the mountains. Here was my chance, at a price I could afford, along with Farida's help. Would I chicken out or would I follow through?

Actually, it was my mother who made the purchase possible. After years of ill health, she'd passed away unexpectedly in June. During one of those rare occasions where we'd had a heart-to-heart, she'd extracted two promises from me: that I'd share the money she'd scrimped and saved with Farida and Nasreen and that I'd use a share of it to make a better life for myself.

I did both.

My mother would never have considered such a move herself. She hated country life, and she despised snow. Growing up in tiny Clarks, Nebraska, she'd experienced enough of both to last a lifetime. Yet somehow when I was three, my dad had persuaded her to move to Vista, a small town 15 miles east of Oceanside in northern San Diego County. She lived there with my dad and me for some 13 years, until she ked my dad into moving back to the Los Angeles area, where they'd lived before I was born. That decision, made and executed in the summer between my sophomore and junior years of high school, devastated me, and I honestly don't think I ever recovered from it. That's a lot of life lived as "what if" and "if only."

Thinking about all of that as I sat in the chair in the North Fork realtor's office, I faced a crossroads. Here was the chance I'd claimed I'd longed for. I could make it happen if I were brave enough. Was I?

We signed the offer that day and drove home the following one, on pins and needles awaiting the outcome. During the two or three weeks we negotiated back and forth with the home's owners, I tried to talk myself into backing down. The whole thing didn't make a lot of sense, but all the pieces of the puzzle were there, and it was up to me (and Farida) to put them all together.

If we had to have a mountain house, Abid tried to talk us into looking for one closer to home, up in Big Bear perhaps. We made a trek up to Big Bear City and looked the area over. As much as I'd once loved the area, there was no contest. The properties were more expensive, the lots small, the houses too close together--and the area more congested and dirty than I'd remembered. No, Bass Lake was the place. Thanks to Abid's suggestion, I'd erased all doubts.

Finally the deal was sealed, and we agreed to a 30-day escrow. Farida and I talked things over. For her the home would be a vacation place. Although eventually I wanted to move fulltime to Bass Lake, I figured that would be way in the future, at least a year or more.

From what I could tell, jobs in the area were scarce, and I had no desire to drive 45 miles down the hill to Fresno to work. I, too, was quite content for the house to be a vacation place until a job materialized. I subscribed to the Sierra Star, watched the want ads and tried to learn all I could about my new home.

On February 1, 1990, we closed escrow on the house.

Over the next months I watched the Star. Few help-wanted ads appeared, but a couple caught my eye, and I decided to submit resumes. I held no hope that I'd get responses. Why would anyone want to take a chance on someone who lived five hours away? Two interviews later, I landed a job in Oakhurst. I had a week to make the move from Santa Ana to Bass Lake Annex.On April 29, 1990, I loaded up my most important possessions, waved goodbye to Nasreen and Abid as they stood in the driveway of our Santa Ana home and drove away. They couldn't see the tears in my eyes.

The following day I started work at California Builders Supply, where I remained--except for a hiatus of six months during which I worked for the Agribusiness division of Travelers Insurance--for the next nine years.

***

Do I regret what some might perceive as a rash act?

Not for a moment. I've felt right at home here from the very beginning.

***

The Bass Lake Annex house is no longer mine; I moved out in 1998. In fact maybe it never was. It's now owned by my dear friends, Jack and Jenny. Jenny and I go way back--to the first day of college at
L A State in 1962. I think I just held the house "in trust" for them until they realized it was theirs. But that's a whole other story.

The Great Snow of Aught 1

2009-12-12T22:10:00.000-08:00

I'm sitting here tonight listening to the pouring rain and thinking back to another storm, eight years ago. For me, it was the biggest, baddest storm I've ever experienced. Anytime. Anywhere.

Back then I was living up in the wilds of North Fork on a 7-acre property at the tail end of CDN. If you go as far as you can go, you end up at our driveway, which, except for the gate, appears to be a continuation of the street. We've had a few people come up the driveway thinking they were still on the road . . . much to their eventual surprise (and to ours if they happened to knock on our door). Strangers are few and far between in our neck of the woods.

There are two homes on the property. My friends, Frank and Deb, live in one and I lived in the other, where my daughter, favorite son-in-law and grandson currently reside. In 2001, although there were other homes nearby, they were mostly unoccupied vacation places. I was completely alone on the street and on the property. My neighbors were off in Visalia playing music and the vacationers had enough common sense to stay home. I was there for the long haul, by myself.

The storm was predicted, and the weatherpeople said it would be a doozie. By that time I'd lived up in Cascadel for nearly four years and had seen my share of snow, so I wasn't exceptionally worried. Where we are, people say we are in a "microclimate." Although our true elevation is somewhere around 3,800 ft, we are likely to get snow when it's predicted at 5,000 ft. Up here when you hear there's going to be WEATHER, you lay in provisions, so I did that. I knew I could go a few days without a trip to the store. No problem.

The details have gone a bit sketchy over the years, but I believe the snow started on Friday evening, February 23. What it didn't do is stop. It snowed all of Saturday, February 24, and continued on into Sunday. Big, fat, fluffy, wet, flakes that accumulated with amazing speed. There is a three-foot-high railing around the deck--and before the end of Saturday the snow was up to the top rail. How the deck didn't collapse from the weight, I'll never understand.

Usually when we know we're going to see the white stuff, we park our vehicles down at the bottom of our long driveway, within a stone's throw of the gate, giving us a straight shot at getting out. I think I did that--but with the accumulation, there was no way the car was going to budge in any direction. I was snowed in for the duration.

On Sunday I figured I'd better let Frank and Deb know about the conditions at the homeland. I mainly figured I would just clue them in so they wouldn't try to get up to the house and get stuck. What did they do? THEY CAME HOME. They decided that they did not want me to be on the property alone. Thank heavens they did because the worst was yet to come. I can't remember how far they had to walk, but I know they couldn't get the car up to the gate.

By the time Frank and Deb arrived, the driveway was buried under at least two feet of snow, and I sank into drifts up to my hips going from my kitchen door to the first turn of my driveway. Shoveling wasn't an option. I had to accompany my poor dog outside to take care of business because she'd get into the snow over her head and couldn't find her way back. To make matters even worse, she was a cocker spaniel mix with long fur which clotted with snow. After a time we managed to tromp something of a path for both of us.

It isn't unusual anywhere in the mountains to lose power during a storm. In fact it's almost expected. During the 2001 onslaught, the electricity failed all over the mountain area. For some, the outage lasted a couple of days. For us, it stayed off for a week. At the time the only non-electric appliance I had was a propane water heater. My only heat came from a tiny pot-bellied stove that didn't take wood. It burned twigs. If the house happened to already be warm, it MIGHT keep it that way, otherwise it did virutally nothing to provide heat. (I replaced that stove as quickly as I could afterward.)

No electricity meant no water, other than what we'd stored in bottles in case of an emergency because we needed electricity to operate our pump.
It meant no cooking.
It meant no electric blanket.
It meant COLD.

No computer.
No radio.
No television.
No music.
No bathing.

Storing freezer food outside in the snow.

(But by some miracle I don't think we lost telephone service, so we still could call PG&E every half hour for outage updates. We also called friends, family and work on a daily basis to keep them apprised of our situation.)

What I remember most about that time is the silence. You don't realize how much ambient noise electrical appliances make until they don't. During that time I discovered that I have tinnitus . . . a ringing in the ears. I'd never heard it before, but it's still with me years later.

For a number of years I supported a traditional elder on the Navajo reservation. She lives 15 miles from the nearest trading post over rough roads that wash out in winter. She has no electricty, no running water and no neighbors close by. It's all she's known and the way she prefers to live. I thought a lot about her during the time I was stuck on the property and came to appreciate her resilience. But I also learned to appreciate the raw beauty and simplicity of her way of life.

We survived, obviously, and we were a team. Because Frank and Deb had propane for cooking, they shared candelit meals with me. We spent hours together by their woodstove, and those were special times. We laughed a lot. We shoveled together, once the snow stopped, and we dug the ATV out of the mud more than once. Frank even ended up making a trek down to North Fork for provisions in the ATV--the only vehicle that could negotiate the icy roads.

When the power came back on, we couldn't wait to shower. That's when we discovered that during the power outage our water system developed a problem. After all that time, we still had no water. That didn't get repaired for yet another week.

Could I do it again? Sure.

Do I want to? Not really, and I certainly don't want my family to have to, either. But these experiences happen here in the country. They certainly make me appreciate all the conveniences I have and how much I can do without, if I have to.

I still wouldn't want to live in any other place.

Hi, Stranger!

2009-12-11T00:01:00.000-08:00

Eddie and Sunny, my favorite son-in-law's mother and stepdad, have made a decision to move back to California. They've been living in Tulsa, OK, since before Farida and Jason were married. I'm not sure when their move-back decision was finalized, but we talked about it a bit during their recent visit to California, and Sunny has since emailed me to confirm that they've made up their minds. I think it's a great idea, and I look forward to assisting them however possible.

As of right now their plan is to look for a house near where I live in Coarsegold, and that seems like a good plan. But I wonder how much adjustment the move is going to require. Before they settled in Oklahoma, they were in Southern California. Living in an urban or semi-urban area can be very different than living in the country.

For example, on one of Nasreen's first trips up to our Bass Lake home nearly twenty years ago, she brought some friends with her. They arrived quite late at night. I asked them if they wanted something to eat.

"No, that's okay," Nas's friend replied. "We'll just go to Taco Bell and pick something up."

That would have been a good plan, if:

a. It hadn't been close to midnight
b. There had been a Taco Bell within twenty miles of my house

But it was, and there wasn't.

That might be a major reason why I've never been able to persuade Nasreen to consider moving up here. The lack of city amenities does not fit with her preferred lifestyle at all.

My daughters spent their junior high and high school years in the Tustin/Santa Ana area. Where we lived (and where Nasreen still resides) is a very nice area with well-kept yards and manicured lawns. Even so, no one in his or her right mind generally speaks to a stranger on the street, just like you don't eyeball the driver in the car next to you. Up here, in the sticks, if a car passes you as you walk down the road, you wave. My daughters found that very hard to understand.

"Mom, who is that person you just waved at?"

"I don't know."

"You wave at STRANGERS?"

"Sure."

The girls shook their heads in disbelief.

Now Sunny and Eddie may not find any of that a difficult adjustment, but they may want to give it some thought, just like we have to give consideration to making sure we have enough gas in our cars and enough milk in the fridge. Those conveniences aren't necessarily right around the corner up here.

Personally, I *love* the friendliness I found when I moved up here, and I think Farida did, too, once she experienced it firsthand for more than just a weekend.

I can't imagine ever living in a city again. I hope Sunny and Eddie find exactly the right place for them and that they love it here as much as I do.$

Four Years Ago Today

2009-12-10T00:01:00.000-08:00

The little boy in the photo is the light of my life.

Four years and one day ago I could never have imagined that anyone could capture my heart the way he has.

On December 9, 2005, we arranged for a family dinner--Farida, Jason, Nasreen along with Sunny and Eddie, Jason's mom and stepdad. Farida was to be on her way to the hospital later that evening, with Hunter scheduled to be born the next day. This was to be a last get-together before the Blessed Event.

Nasreen and I went on ahead to BJ's Brewhouse in Irvine to await the arrival of the others. We ordered Cokes and waited. And waited.

Hunter has always marched to a different drummer, so enroute to dinner that night, he decided to change his parents' plans.

"Let me try to call Jason," Nas offered. "No answer," she said, after the phone went to voicemail. Still we waited, figuring they'd gotten caught in Friday night traffic. She tried again; still no response.

Suddenly Jason rushed into the restaurant.

"Don't you people ever leave your phones on? Farida's water broke, and we're on the way to the hospital."

Why we hadn't received his call, I don't know, but that was before the days when my cell phone became my primary means of communication. I probably didn't have it on. In any case, we scouted out our server, let her know we wouldn't be dining that evening and let her know why. As I recall, she even comped us our drinks. Obviously she didn't want to delay us any further.

She needn't have worried. Hunter decided he wouldn't be born immediately. About 10:30 that evening Jason suggested that we might all want to go home to get some sleep, and he'd call us with any news. It made sense to us since it looked like Hunter wasn't going to make his appearance anytime soon.

At a little after 7:00 am the next morning, Jason called.

"You have a grandson."

Whoohoooo!!! I couldn't wait to see the little dark-haired, brown-eyed boy we'd been expecting. After all, how else could he be with a Pakistani grandfather and a half-Pakistani mother with beautiful olive skin and big brown eyes?

Once again Hunter had us fooled. What hair he had was blonde, his eyes were clear sky-blue, and his complexion was fairer than mine. Needless to say, he was gorgeous--and he looked exactly like his father.

He still does.

These photos are the latest I've taken of Hunter, shot on Saturday, December 4, as we had breakfast at Pete's.

The eyes are still blue, the hair still blond and spiky, like his father's. He has a sense of humor and makes me laugh every time I'm with him.

And he's still the most gorgeous little boy I've ever seen in my life.

Winter Wonderland 2009 #1

2009-12-09T06:48:00.000-08:00

It's usually all I can do to manage one blog entry a day, but this rates an exception.

On Monday, December 7, the Oakhurst/North Fork/Coarsegold area enjoyed its first snowfall of the season.

The drive to work yesterday morning was just incredible, with snow down to 1,500 ft. Frrrreeeezzzzing temps kept the snow on the trees through the day on Tuesday.

Although I'd taken my camera with me yesterday morning, ECCO's driveway can be so treacherous that I didn't chance taking it into the office with me; thus I missed all the really good photo ops early on. These two photos were taken at 4:30 p.m., as I started to make my way home. The first one offers a hint of sunset, but doesn't come close to showing the glorious, brilliant orangey-pink it really was.

Of course there are those who see these photos and equate the snow on the trees with difficult driving conditions. Actually when I finally hit the road yesterday morning at around 9:15, the highways were just fine.

And, who knew! Co-worker Nancy clued me in to the new webcam installed at the top of Deadwood Mountain, the most potentially dangerous part of the road I drive from Coarsegold to Oakhurst. Now, during daylight hours, at least, I can take a look from home to see if there are (at that very moment, of course) any traffic snafus awaiting me.

Happiness Is . . .

2009-12-09T00:01:00.000-08:00

Happiness is . . . being anal.

Well, I'm not REALLY anal, as anyone who REALLY knows me can attest. I'm too scattered for that.

But about one thing I *am* anal, and it finally paid off, in a way.

I have done my banking online for years, ever since such a novelty was possible. I follow each of my accounts (checking, savings, credit cards) religiously. Usually I check balances and postings at least every other day, if not daily. Some of my friends, for whatever reason, still maintain their accounts the old-fashioned way, waiting for monthly statements, writing paper checks, and either mailing payments or--horror of horrors!--delivering them in person. Some of them even prefer to deal in that ancient commodity, cash.

Not for me.

Everything I can pay online, I do. Paper checks are few and far between. Bank statements are filed unopened, "just in case" because by the time it reaches me, I'm already far beyond what it shows me. I don't carry cash because . . . well, I spend it as soon as I get it.

Not only do I monitor my accounts online in order to make sure my account is never, ever overdrawn, but I also do it so that I can be sure none of my accounts is compromised.

My American Express account even emails me whenever a change occurs in my account, and when I receive that notice, I take a look at the account. Last Friday it paid off. There, in black and white and blue was a transaction I didn't recognize.

11-30-09 LDS Mingle Provo $14.99

Not a huge amount, to be sure, but it wasn't mine. I hadn't gone ANYWHERE on Monday, November 30. Hadn't made a single online purhase, either. Yet there it was . . . $14.99 posted to Amex that someone expected me to pay.

I immediately sent an inquiry/dispute to Amex.

In researching LDS Mingle Provo, I discovered it was a dating service. For Mormons. Based in Provo, Utah. First off, I'm not a Mormon. Although I have lots of friends in Utah, thanks to my previous participation in the Adopt-a-Native Elder program, I would never have signed up for a dating service. And probably not one aimed at Mormons. Not my charge. Definitely not my charge.

Amex was right on it, credited my account within a half hour for the $14.99.

I'm convinced that somehow or another I hit a button I shouldn't have, which resulted in the incorrect charge. At least no other errant postings have appeared on any of my accounts since then, and I've checked each of them daily.

Happiness is

. . . online banking
. . . immediate access to information
. . . immediate reversal of erroneous charges
. . . being anal.

Eight Years Ago Today

2009-12-08T20:50:00.000-08:00

December 8, 2001.

That was the day Farida Hussain married Jason Hunter Wilks.

It was at once one of the happiest and yet one of the saddest days of my life.

I was happy for Farida and have always liked Jason. Even before the wedding I felt that he was family. Since then I've often told him he's my favorite son-in-law. He responds that he knows that's true--because he's my ONLY son-in-law. I do love him dearly, though. He's a blessing in our lives. And Jason's family has embraced us, as well. I can't say enough about how welcomed into their world they all made us feel.

I was sad because shortly after their wedding, Farida and Jason would return to Orange County to load up their possessions and head for Tulsa, OK, where Jason would enter flight school to become a pilot. It was a great opportunity for him but hard for li'l ol' selfish me because I'd never been further than a five-hour drive from either one of my daughters. Since I'd moved to Bass Lake, I didn't see either Farida or Nasreen as often as I'd like, but it was comforting to know that I COULD if either they or I were willing to make the journey.

The wedding, held at ECCO, was incredibly beautiful, and we were surrounded by friends and family. Farida, Jason and Jason's family arrived the Thursday prior, so they'd have time to organize the wedding. It gave us all time to get to know each other, as well.

Farida had worked incredibly hard on this wedding. She'd not only created her own dress, she'd also sewed those of her bridesmaids and flower girl. She and Jason did everything possible themselves.

We'd originally wanted to do an outdoor ceremony but opted instead for a ceremony inside Sumner Walters Chapel because there was a possibility of inclement weather. Instead, Saturday, December 8, was amazingly warm. I think the temperatures ranged in the high 70's.

The wedding itself was an amalgam of Farida and Jason's tastes and beliefs. They did a handfasting, a Native American blessing offered by Mono tribal chairman Ron Goode and a ceremony they created themselves, officiated by Stella Pizelo.

Friends and family came up to me later and remarked about how beautiful and unusual it was.

During the reception we had the opportunity to visit with friends from near and far, including people I hadn't seen in years. Special among the guests were Farida and Nasreen's Auntie Safia and Uncle Nayyir, who were able to arrange their United States visit to accommodate the wedding. Longtime friends Stan and Stephanie Stanislaus attended, as did Farida and Nasreen's childhood friend Carisa, with her husband and son, Devin, and her mother. my good friend, Pat. Nasreen's friend, Cindy Diaz, brought her daughter Sierra to be flower girl.

In addition to the gorgeous wedding cake created by Laura Zabicki of Sweet Dreams Cakery, Jason's grammy brought along her famous lemon cake. I'd wager the lemon cake was the better of the two!

I stayed at ECCO with Nasreen that night. The next morning we awoke to snow falling. It was not a major storm, just enough to coat the trees and leave perhaps an inch on the ground.

It's hard to imagine how the wedding could have been more perfect.

Fun

2009-12-07T14:21:00.000-08:00

According to Hunter, he had fun on Saturday.

If you'd been there, you wouldn't have believed it.

For the second time in less than a month, my favorite grandson developed an earache. This is just another in the string of colds and runny noses that have plagued him over the months since school started back up. He hasn't yet learned to blow his nose, so when it gets stuffed up, the problem seems to travel rapidly to the sides of his head.

Poor baby. As Farida and I watched on Saturday morning, we saw the situation progress rapidly. First he started pulling on his left ear. Then when he realized that action had caught the attention of his mom and might culminate in the insertion of eardrops, he tried to hide it. But he couldn't. The more he tried to hide it, the more we noticed. Farida finally did get the eardrops installed, and they made no difference.

That's when we started talking about the dreaded "D" word.

I'm not sure why, but Hunter is terrified by doctors. When Farida, Jason and Hunter first moved up here, I got to accompany Farida to Hunter's first visit to a local physician. The scene wasn't pretty. For some reason it was roughly equivalent to a visit to Santa. Much hysteria.

The last time Farida had to take Hunter to Urgent Care for his ear, the doctor told her that ear infections never go away on their own, so as soon as it was apparent that Big H was on his way to another episode, she knew she had to take him in. He begged. He pleaded. He cajoled. He wheadled.

"No, Mama. No doctor. I don't want to go to the doctor."

As if she were taking him to the executioner.

It made me want to say, "Farida, can't we just wait this out?" But I knew we couldn't. Farida suffered from her share of earaches growing up, and I remembered how painful they were for all of us and how quickly they cleared up once she got treated for them.

Of course once we got to Urgent Care, we sat. And waited. And waited. As we waited, Hunter began to pull on his other ear. In the space of an hour the earache had progressed from one to both earls.

Then the nurse came to take Hunter's vitals. We think he has blood pressure, but we'll never know for sure. She hardly got his temperature. She managed to hear his heart, barely.

Then she took us to the treatment room. Where we waited. And waited. And waited. And waited. And waited. After over an hour in the treatment room, Farida decided to see if we'd been forgotten.

"You're next," the nurse told her.

So we waited. And waited.

Hunter kept telling us he wanted "to get out of here. Let's go to our house."

While we agreed, we told him we had to wait. And wait. But then you probably have already gotten the picture. He and Farida walked the halls to pass the time. We talked about birthdays. We counted the spots on the wall.

FINALLY the doctor came in, and Farida and Hunter went through the struggles all over again. Hunter was determined that NO ONE was going to look into HIS ears. Luckily the doctor prevailed, and it took just a few seconds for him to pronounce the verdict: Hunter has an ear infection. Big surprise. The doctor told Farida he would write a prescription, so again we had to wait.

Back in the aptly-named WAITING room, we waited. And waited. And Hunter fell asleep on his mama's lap before the nurse brought out the prescription and the instructions.

As Hunter dozed, we made plans. I would take the prescription to the pharmacy and pick up the few items she needed from the grocery store while Farida would stay with Hunter in their car. But the moment she got up from the chair, he awoke and muttered something.

"Did you hear what he said?" Farida asked me.

"No," I replied.

"He said the doctor was fun."

What I'm Thankful For Today

2009-12-07T08:26:00.000-08:00

Today is the first day of winter for the Sierra Nevada foothills--according to Creator, if not according to the calendar, and I'm happy that I don't have to get out and drive in the promised rain and snow.

Up to this point, here in the wilds of Yosemite Lakes Park, it looks like we've had just a touch of rain. Nothing to write home about. But the weatherpeople promise that the best (worst?) is yet to come. There's been talk of snow down to 1,000 ft, which would mean us. But that seems to have changed now, and the snow level has risen to 2,500 ft at some time within the next 24 hours.

We can only wait and watch.

In the meantime, I can look forward to spending the day at home catching up on blog entries. I confess that over the past couple of years I've become a Winter Wimp, and the thought of driving in snow just doesn't appeal to me--although I'll never lose the love of having actual SEASONS. And I treasure the sight of snow-covered pines against the bright blue sky sure to follow a storm.

Hooray!!

2009-12-04T20:16:00.000-08:00

AFTER

Well, shucks. There really is no "after."

The "before," you know if you read this morning's entry, is Hunter's photo with Santa from last year (or maybe the year prior).

This morning we were supposed to see if Hunter really had grasped, as he claimed, that Santa is a Good Guy and not someone to be feared. Unfortunately there was a snafu along the line, and Santa will not arrive in Oakhurst until tomorrow morning. Even more distressing, Hunter will probably miss this appearance because he once again seems to be suffering from a stuffy nose, which affects his ears. Because of the change in elevation from Cascadel Woods to Oakhurst--close to 2,000 ft difference--the poor kid's ears give him fits.

Lucky for me I was still able to enjoy a delightful breakfast albeit sans Santa with Hunter, Jason and Farida, at one of our favorite Oakhurst eateries, Pete's. Once he got inside the restaurant, he seemed to be doing fine, with all signs of the ear trauma gone.

Since I'd brought my camera to capture Santa and Hunter for posterity, I couldn't resist whipping it out to snap a shot of the boy. One can NEVER have too many pictures of one's only grandson.

He's a cutie, isn't he?

2009-12-04T07:50:00.000-08:00

BEFORE

Here it is! Proof positive that I would never, ever want to be Santa Claus. Can you see the fear? The abject terror? The glassy-eyed stare?

Not on Hunter . . . on Santa!

Probably it isn't quite as bad as it seems, because I honestly don't remember other kids freaking out the way Hunter did--but it could be that the others paled in comparison to Hunter's reaction.

Today will tell the tale.

Is Santa still the bogey-man?

Will Santa need recuperation time at the funny farm?

Will Hunter need cough drops and a soothing gargle after it's all over?

Time will tell.

This reporter will update all very, very soon.

Stay tuned!

Breakfast with Santa

2009-12-03T06:28:00.000-08:00

This morning I'm giving thanks for a phone call.

Farida rang me up yesterday to invite me to breakfast with Santa on Friday morning. There are certainly those who are convinced I'm slipping back into childhood more each day, but this post isn't a function of that.

Those of us who've been associated with Hunter Jackson Wilks over the nearly four years of his life know that Santa has been the bane of Hunter's existence. Farida and Jason have faithfully taken their son to meet Santa each year (except his first, I think, when he was less than a month old). It's always been an ordeal. Our boy's Christmas portaits feature him bawling his head off--and Santa looking around wondering how he can apply for combat pay.

That's why the call was somewhat of a surprise.

"Um, Farida, does this invitation include Hunter?"

"Yes."

"Does Hunter KNOW he's going to see Santa?"

"Yes."

"Is Hunter okay with that?"

Instead of answering, she turned away from the phone and addressed the young man in question.

"Hunter, do you know who Santa is?"

"Yes." I could hear his voice in the distance.

"Do you want to see Santa?" she asked him.

"Yes."

Hmmmmm, what a difference a year--and preschool--make.

You can be sure I'll be there with bells on--and with a camera around my neck--to record the event for posterity.

Wish Santa luck.

Thanks for a New Day

2009-12-01T07:04:00.000-08:00

This morning, in the shower, I made a decision.

From now on, even if I don't have anything remarkable to report (and I usually don't!), I'm going to post what I'm most thankful for this day. There's always something--and I need to acknowledge that.

For today . . . an opportunity to go to work at a place I love with people I love . . . it's almost criminal to call it "work."

Also . . . figuring out what to ask my Secret Santa for. When Farida told me I had 12 hours to come up with something, I couldn't even imagine what to request. I don't need anything. But after taking 23 hours to meditate on it, I finally came up with something I just couldn't live without.

Love to all!

Much to Give Thanks For

2009-11-30T18:37:00.000-08:00

It's been quite a week.

A whirlwind visit Down South gave me a special opportunity to spend several days with younger daughter Nasreen, something that almost never happens. We did a bit of shopping, some fine dining and a lot of relaxed visiting. I totally enjoyed it. Knowing how much her mom enjoys fresh flowers, she had some waiting for me. I couldn't resist taking photos of them.

I also got the chance to reunite with two friends whom I hadn't seen since high school/college years. We found each other on Facebook and decided to catch up with a bit of each other's lives. Betty and Lowell have been married over 40 years (and theirs is the only wedding I have ever been in). I loved seeing them--and well as the booklet prepared at the last San Gabriel High School reunion. I have never been to any of the reunions and--based on the fact that Betty was one of three people I recognized--I won't be going to any future ones either.

Then on Tuesday evening, Farida, Jason and Hunter arrived for their Thanksgiving visit with Nasreen, Grams, O'Bob, O'Dad, Rich, Dylan and Andy in Trabuco Canyon. Since I'd thought we'd be waving to each other as I traveled north and they went south, it was wonderful surprise to get to spend a night and a bit of the next morning with them.

The drive back to the Central Valley featured a lack of major traffice (a blessing since Farida, et. al, spent some time in bumper-to-bumper traffic the night before), so I made good time and had a chance to regroup and get ready for Thanksgiving at ECCO.

I can only speak for myself, but even though Thanksgiving is definitely a day of work for ECCO employees, it's also a wonderful opportunity to see friends who come to spend the holiday with us. We hosted folks who traveled from Bakersfield in the south, Chico in the north and the Bay Area to the west as well.

An Exploritas group of 18 arrived on Monday to begin their Thanksgiving a bit early. Participants from Minnesota, Massachusetts, Nebraska, Colorado and various parts of California enjoyed classes in Yosemite natural history with instructor Shirley Spencer, a field trip to Yosemite Valley (replete with lunch at the grand Ahwahnee Hotel). They followed that the next day with a tour of the Wawona Hotel in the company of musician/historian Tom Bopp.

Although the group was smaller than in years past, I think all would agree that it was a gala celebration.

A select few stayed over for our third Artists' Creative Weekend, and we spent a quiet few days pursuing whatever activity we chose.

It was a terrific week/weekend.

Beautiful Face

2009-11-24T08:13:00.000-08:00

The old saying is "you can't go home again." Maybe you can't, but sometimes the Universe offers you a chance to recapture a little bit of magic from times past.

That happened for me yesterday when I got to enjoy a two-hour visit with a friend I hadn't seen or talked to in a long, long time.

Pam tells me we worked together some 23 years ago. You couldn't prove it by me, and it doesn't matter. As we talked and talked, the years drifted away . . . and it was as if we'd seen each other just yesterday. We reminisced about good times and not-so-great, picking up where we'd left off so long ago.

What a blessing to have an opportunity to refresh a long-cherished friendship. I hope it will be the first of many times to come that we'll be able to catch up on each other's lives and families.

I love you, Pam Hundley! I'm so glad you're back in my life.

The House Horse

2009-11-21T00:01:00.000-08:00

This post really should belong on Nature's Heart, my photoblog. It would be there, too, if the subject in question would cooperate with me.

Since I moved to Yosemite Lakes Park and began commuting to ECCO "the back way," via Road 415, I've been watching something that brightens my day. I can't help but laugh.

The first time I saw the House Horse, I thought my eyes were playing tricks on me. Traffic on Road 415 travels pretty fast, especially at my commute hours, so I had no opportunity for more than a quick glance.

"Was that a horse at the front door?" I asked myself.

After that first glimpse, I kept my eyes peeled every time I rounded the curve. Sure enough, often the horse would be right at the door.

"Let me in!" it seemed to plead.

At other times, it would be completely out of sight. (Inside the house, perhaps?)

The house in question is actually a small concrete-block structure accompanied by a couple of outbuildings on a tiny plot of land, all enclosed within a chain link fence. I've never seen a residence which was so freely shared with its hooved companions. Rather than having the horse and his doggy pal enclosed in a separate enclave, they have free run of the property within that confined space. It's all quite civilized and friendly, it seems.

Friend Kaye Duncan of Portland, OR, makes a habit out of photographing the ordinary and making it look extraordinary. She produces gorgeous photos of carrots and lettuce, exercise balls, dog frisbees at the Dollar Store and more. Over the months that I've been watching her Flickr pages, I've really tried to hone my photographic skills and attempted refine my ability to pick out those little moments she captures so well. The House Horse fits that category for me, so I've taken to carrying my camera daily, watching for opportunities to catch him in his favorite spot.

So far I've had no luck. When the coast is clear for me to pull over to take a shot, the horse is not to be seen. A couple of times he's been in position, but another car was right on my tail, and I couldn't stop. During inclement weather I've noticed there's more of a chance the horse will seek shelter on the porch, so I try to be especially watchful under those conditions.

That involves keeping an eagle eye out for his whereabouts as I negotiate the curve preceding his house, watching traffic behind me so I don't get rear-ended. If the subject is in position, I have to whip off the road into the miniscule pulloff just beyond the house--and hope the horse's human friends don't see me. I'm afraid they'll think I'm a really sloppy private eye spying on them.

Finally, after a month or two of this active surveillance, the stars aligned, traffic was light and the horse cooperated. Or so I thought. I tried to be as quiet as possible as I tiptoed from the car to the fence, camera in hand. (There's no possibility of a telephoto shot because of the chain link.) All was going well, except that I didn't bargain on how socialized that darn horse is. The dog barked, but the horse ambled toward me--obviously expecting an apple or a sugar cube or a carrot.

Curses. Foiled again. I jumped in the car and sped off, determined to try again another day.

I refuse to give up. The next time I see the horse's humans out and about, I'm going stop and talk to them. I'll let them in on my plan. Hopefully they'll understand why I'm sneaking around their fence, camera in hand, trying to catch the House Horse unawares. After all, a horse is just a horse unless I can catch him on the porch . . . proving that he's the House Horse.

Hopefully I can update this post in the near future.

Way Outside My Comfort Zone

2009-11-19T00:01:00.000-08:00

When I began working at ECCO, it took quite a while for me to get really comfortable even making routine announcements during our Exploritas (Elderhostel) programs. Now it's like water off a duck's back. No problem at all. Give me a microphone, and I'm all over it. A ham was born.

Appearing on Spanish-language television to talk about visitor opportunities in Eastern Madera County is another story entirely.

Jarrod Lyman of the Yosemite Sierra Visitors' Bureau obviously caught me in a moment of weakness. I was trying to recuperate from the cold and cough that has plagued me for the last month and resurfaced with a vengeance last week. I didn't even argue with him when he asked if I'd consider going with him to tape a Univision program about a press release he'd just published.

It's a good thing the appearance took place only a day and half after he'd asked me. If I'd had more time to think about it, I'd definitely have found a way to beg off.

I would have folded for sure if he'd told me it was going to require me to talk for 30 minutes, about a variety of the venues in our area who are offering autumn/winter specials. I'd AS*umed it'd be a five-minute spot, at most, and I could muddle through that, no problem. The last time I had to carry on a 30-minute conversation in Spanish was in 1993 when I helped to extricate a body from a police morgue in Mexico City. But that's another story for another time.

What Jarrod didn't know was that I had a killer cough that would erupt without warning. I'd kept it pretty much under control until we got to the television station. Sandy, the young lady, who'd booked the appearance, led us to the studio where the spot would be taped and offered us the opportunity to watch the episode currently being filmed.

"Just please be as quiet as possible," she cautioned as she opened the door for us.

As soon as we sat down, I knew I was in trouble. I tried to stifle the cough for as long as possible then had to make a mad (but silent) dash out of the room to erupt in a coughing fit. I couldn't stop. Jarrod found me some water, and one of the studio hands rounded me up a cough drop.

It helped. For about five minutes.

In all, I made three quick exits even before it was our turn to tape. I'm sure the show's host was wondering how either of us was going to get through the segment.

To their immense credit, the staff of Univsion, from the host to the camera people to the studio hands couldn't have been nicer. The host was careful to phrase her questions so they were pretty easy to answer--and she bailed me out more than once when the right word just wouldn't come to mind. I'm sure I said the same thing over and over, though. The cameraman fixed me up with two bottles of water, surreptitously hidden from the camera's view. The host assured me it wasn't the end of the world if I had to cough.

"It's a natural thing," she said.

The thirty minutes flew by with amazing speed.

"That must have been about 15 minutes," I told Jarrod. "They must have allowed for commercials."

"No, it was a full 30 minutes," he replied. "And you made it through almost to the end before you had to cough."

The host was so friendly, so accommodating, so interested, that she made the whole interview much less than the ordeal I'd anticipated.

"I'll even do it again if you want," I told Jarrod afterward. "I'll even do it in ENGLISH."

He shook his head. "No, if it'd been in Engllish, *I* would have done it."

Ah, shucks. My budding television career shot down before it even got started!

You owe me, Jarrod, and don't think I'll forget it!

It's a Miracle!

2009-11-17T00:01:00.000-08:00

She may not believe it, but Pam has crossed my mind many times over the years.

Pam was one of the employees at the TV repair business Abid and I owned in Costa Mesa. From the moment she started working for us, she and I developed a special bond. We spent a lot of hours laughing and a not a few in tears, as well. We just seemed to hit it off. Through what had to be some of the darkest years of my life, she was there to make things a lot brighter. When she quit, I completely understood her reasons. I missed her terribly, but she'd made the best decision she could under the circumstances, and I accepted that. Over the years we had other employees, but none of them ever came close to being "family," as Pam was.

We've never spoken since that day, but Pam's never been out of my thoughts. At times certain things would trigger a memory--such as seeing a car that looked like the huge boat she drove at the time I knew her.

When I got to a point in life where contacting her would have been a possibility, I had no idea where to start. Didn't know where she was living or what she was doing. Had no idea of her last name or how to begin to search for her. I figured she was gone forever from my reality.

Ten days ago I got this message on Facebook:

      Hi, Judi,

      This is Pam. I used to work for you. How are you and the kids doing?
      You taught me how to use my first computer. I got a little better since then but not much. Let me know if this finds you well.

To say I was surprised doesn't begin to cut it.

Next week I'm traveling to Orange County to participate in a convention for ECCO. At the same time I'm going to get to spend some quality hours with Nasreen.

I'm also hoping to reconnect in person with both Pam and my high-school friends, Betty and Lowell. They, too, popped up on Facebook earlier this year.

Who says miracles don't happen?

I knew it!

2009-11-16T13:51:00.000-08:00

I was living dangerously, and I knew it. How long would it be until I got the "dreaded" message (dreaded only because it was deserved). Where ARRREEEEEEEE YOU? It arrived last week.

Through thick and thin Betty has always been there to make sure I'm okay. If I go too long without blogging, she'll nudge me just a little. When she finally got email a few years back, I told her it was wonderful because I'd be able to be a better correspondent--something I've failed at miserably since she moved to Israel waaayyyyyy too many years ago. I lied. Email didn't improve my communication skills. Then when I started my blogs, she applauded that because at least then she could keep up with me whenever I'd post. Yeah, right.

Anyhow, here I am, after almost a month's absence with no excuses and nothing to show for my disappearance.

Not a single trip to Yosemite.

Not one hike.

Can't even blame work. How can you blame something you do only two days a week? Except that I did actually put in five days in a row in October. That was tough!

Hardly any photos.

Foxy looks depressed.

So does my granddog, Dakota.

Even Hunter looks a little down-in-the-mouth. But that's only because he was waiting (and waiting . . . and waiting . . . and waiting . . .) for his dad to light the candles on his birthday cake, blow 'em out and CUT THE DARN THING. His hangdog look has nothing, nothing whatsoever, to do with his Ani's missing blog posts. (BTW how many of you grandmas out there have a name created especially for you by your one-and-only grandson? We have NO idea where the name "Ani" came from, but Hunter adopted it, and it's stuck. I love it!)

And now Farida will be dejected--because she didn't like the "heart background" I used on the above photo.

Just for her, here's one of the other edits I did. Don't think she especially liked the maroon/purple texture on this one, either.

That should tell y'all that a lot of time since the last post has been spent experimenting with Photoshop and trying to learn all the program has to offer. I've got a long, long way to go yet, but every day I master some new tidbit.

We were lucky enough to have two (2) visits from Nasreen during October. She couldn't resist the opportunity to spend Halloween with her favorite nephew and help celebrate Jason's birthday. It was a quiet weekend, but filled with lots of great family time.

Unfortunately another family gift has been making the rounds over the last month and a half--a cold that keeps recurring like clockwork. We figure Hunter's going to school might have a bit to do with the fact that we've passed it around and around. I've had one version or another consistently since September 22. (The date sticks in my mind because I originally got sick on my way back from a photo shoot in Yosemite that date.) The cough has been brutal and a lack of energy means that I mope around a lot more than I'd like. Farida, Jason and Hunter have all "enjoyed" repeated episodes, as well.

Speaking of Farida, she's been doing some photo shoots lately and has recently put up the initial version of her website, wilksphotography.com . She's been working hard on designing a bigger, better site, but you can see some of her awesome photographs at this one for now, until she's ready to publish the final version. Both she and Jason are very talented artists, and I'm excited to see them exploring their abilities and their creativity.

This afternoon I'm going out to shoot a few photos around Yosemite Lakes Park. We've got some great fall colors cooking, and my camera hasn't been out of its bag for over a week.

That's it. That's all the excitement around here.

Sloth--Not!!

2009-10-20T07:54:00.000-07:00

For those of you who think that I've just been kicking back enjoying my leisure time . . . THINK AGAIN!

As I alluded to in my last post, I have become addicted to Photoshop, of all things. Since that post, I've spent an inordinate amount of time playing with the powerful features the program possesses. Of course I haven't even scratched the surface, but at least now I have a rudimentary understanding of both layers and actions. It's not an exaggeration that several evenings now have lasted until 2:00 or 3:00 a.m. because I've become so involved in learning "just one more" facet of the program. (Can you say obsession?)

Even more important than that, I have been gifted with the opportunity to spend some real quality one-on-one time with favorite grandson Hunter. He and I played at the park on Friday while Farida went to get a TB test--and we had a great time.

Yesterday I got to pick Hunter up from school, and we hung out at his house while Farida and Jason attended to Farida's first paying photography assignment. Those of you who remember how gifted Farida's photography was way back when she was in high school--and way-too-conservative mom offered her insights into how difficult it would be to make a living being a professional photographer--will understand the monumental step this is.

Time, circumstances and Farida's own talents have perfectly positioned her to recapture those dreams..

Years later she's rekindled her photographic passion and is setting about to make it pay off. (YES, Farida, you can say "I told you so!")

You go, girl! You have the eye, you have the passion, you have the talent and you are gaining skill by leaps and bounds. Leap for all you can achieve!

(Obviously "passion" is a big deal to me this morning, having used the word abundantly.)

Farida, any time you need an Ani to try to entertain Hunter, just ask!)

By the way, Jason, too, is an excellent photographer, so they really make a great team. I can see Hunter, too, getting into the "family business" as he grows. It's exciting to see all the opportunities coming their way.

Love to everyone! More soon.

Confession is Good for The Soul

2009-10-15T07:03:00.000-07:00

I confess. I haven't been blogging because I have been "playing."

With Photoshop and Photoshop Elements.

I'm not often intimidated by computer software, but Adobe programs are so intensive that they really have a long learning curve. Up to now I've learned the bare minimum to do what I need to but not really using anything like the real capabilities of the programs.

Because of my new passion for photography, I've been following several photographers whose work I really admire. What a blessing that G. Dan Mitchell just happened to post a brief "tutorial" on making frames for online photos. That's something I'd asked daughter Farida about, but she didn't really give me a lot of help, probably because no one has ever shown her the tricks--or because she's never been interested.

After reading Dan's blog post, I screwed up my courage and decided to give it a try. It worked! In the process I learned a lot more about layers in Photoshop and Elements, which is an essential part of using the power Photoshop is famous for. Now I'm addicted and can't wait to learn about other features I've been avoiding.

It feels sooooo good to reach even a small Photoshop summit! Thanks, Dan, for the inspiration.

Mea Culpa, Mea Culpa, Mea Maxima Culpa

2009-10-11T22:18:00.000-07:00

When I started blogging, not that long ago, I promised myself that I would post regularly--my goal was at least three times a week. For a while it worked, then I caught the galloping crud (or whatever it was) and lost all energy, at least for writing. I did find enough strength to make an expedition out to the Sierra Vista Scenic Byway, a journey to Yosemite Valley and yet another out to the Yosemite High Country. But I didn't have energy enough to write.

By some miracle best-friend Betty, who lives in Israel, caught me online today and said, "what's the matter? Got writer's block? I've been watching for a new post for WEEKS!" It pleased me more than you can imagine that she looks for my posts--and made me feel guilty as well.

The trek out to the Yosemite High Country (Olmstead Point, Tenaya Lake, Tuolumne Meadows) was extra-special because my companions were roommate Carol, daughter Farida and favorite grandson Hunter. It was Farida's and Hunter's first view of my favorite part of the park, and I loved showing it to them. What made it even better is that Farida was a geology major in college and delighted in describing all the geologic features and processes that shaped this incredible place. I confess that I don't remember all the terminology, except for "cryobiotic soil" . But this place has always fascinated me, and I want to know even more.

These boulders are "glacial erratics," left in place by the glaciers as they moved through the Valley.

That big hunk of granite in the background is called Clouds Rest and has been a hiking target of mine for several years. It's a 14-mile round trip from the Sunrise trailhead to the summit, and the views are supposed to be incredible. The summit, at 9,930 feet, is higher than the summit of Half Dome.

This area of Yosemite National Park is chock-full of granite domes and magnificent peaks just begging to be explored.

What I most enjoyed, however, was watching Hunter play. He may be a budding rock climber, based on the way he tackled the boulders he came across.

What I would most like is to be able to share with him my very favorite mountain hike of all time--Mt Dana, right at the eastern entrance to Yosemite. The second-highest peak in the park, it rises to a magnificent height of 13,056 feet. I confess I didn't make it to the top, but I came fairly close--probably within 100 vertical feet. The talus boulders at the top were just too large for my short legs to negotiate. But I did get to the point where I could see the Dana Glacier and Couloir as well as Mono Lake and the Kuna Crest. It is quite amazing to start a hike with mountains towering around you--and end up at a height ABOVE them. It is at once humbling and empowering. I really hope to be able to share that feeling with Hunter and impart to him the love I have for mountains--any mountains.

I think there's hope!

P. S. I really DO intend to get back to Khyber Dreams within a few days. Thanks to those who've shared with me that they've been enjoying it.

Resurfacing - Finally

2009-09-29T06:54:00.000-07:00

For those who are wondering what hole I fell into . . . I finally feel on the road to recovery from the cold (or whatever) that attacked me a week ago today and laid me flat. I've slowly and painfully crawled out of my hidey-hole and am emerging into the world again.

For those who thought I was in Arizona . . . nope. Couldn't go. Couldn't face the 13-hour drive, twice in five days. We're hoping for the first weekend in November, if weather permits. Because everything was in place for a visit with those we love and miss, it really hurt to have to postpone. Looking back on the last few days, though--it was for the best.

Watch for new postings within the next day or two, including a new chapter of Khyber Dreams.

Love to everyone. Stay healthy.

Happy Birthday, Dearest. Bestest Friend!

2009-09-20T12:01:00.000-07:00

September 21, 2009 - a very special day for a most special friend . . . and if I've timed things right, this will post at 12:01 a.m. on 9/21/09 in Israel.

I wish I could be with you today to celebrate in person. It's been way too many years since we've spent birthdays together, and I miss you a lot.

Writing this blog has made the memory juices flow in earnest, and over the last few days and weeks, I've been thinking about some of the wonderful places and people we've shared.

Do you remember . . .

Slipping and sliding through the snow in Fawnskin as we city girls watched the white stuff fall for the first time in our lives?

The Amtrak trip to Las Vegas, where I boarded in Santa Ana, you boarded in Santa Ana, and we picked up Bill and Rich in Ontario? What a wonderful, raucous party of four that was! It's a good thing the train pulled right into the Union Plaza Hotel; we couldn't have driven anywhere?

The Elton John concert in Dodger Stadium where the audience yelled and stomped so loudly as Elton sang "The Bitch is Back" that the stadium shook?

Twohey's?

That horrible drive back from Las Vegas where you pretended to be asleep the entire way?

Jesus Christ Superstar at the Universal Amphitheatre with Gail and Evita in Century City?

Looking for the Tate house in Benedict Canyon . . . and finding it (at least the gate)?

Dinners with Farida and Nas at the Hollywood Ol' Spaghetti Factory? In the days when there wasn't an Ol' Spaghetti Factory on every other corner . . .

Coming back from a Las Vegas trip to find that Auntie Flo had fed the girls bacon for the first time in their lives?

Checking out the vanity in Bill and Rich's bathroom--and having Bill come up behind us?

Sundays driving to Palos Verdes to buy strawberries and straw flowers?

Cutting class to drive down to Ports 'o' Call?

The Thanksgiving I removed the pumpkin pie from the oven and dropped it, steaming hot, onto my foot and had to wear socks to Thanksgiving Dinner 'cause I couldn't get my shoe on?

The holidays when Champ realized we had had too many glasses of wine and took the opportunity to take a nap on the bed?

Those Idyllwild weekends where we'd have to call to let work know we were "snowed in" because we couldn't bear to go home?

Three-hour telephone conversations?

The purple swan from Nellie?

Driving somewhere--I have no idea where--with Auntie Flo singing Old Macdonald's Farm at the top of our lungs?

The night Abid and I stayed overnight at the El Molino apartment and we slept in your bed, awaking absolutely petrified to find Poopsie staring at me?

Your wonderful Camaro?

Sharing a room at the Wawona Hotel, with a bath down the hall?

You, Doobie and me sitting at my dining room table during your visit to Bass Lake, watching the deer frolic outside?

There were many, many more people, places and events that we've shared over these almost-fifty years. I'm sure you can add to them.

If you never remember anything else, please know that I love you and cherish the years and the friendship we've shared. May this birthday be the best of all birthdays to date . . . and the least of those to come.

I love you, my friend.

meeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee

Every Day Is A Gift

2009-09-17T00:01:00.000-07:00

I had two choices this morning: get my rear out of bed really early and head to Yosemite to try to get some sunrise photos or stay home and do housework. Because a meeting of the Yosemite Sierra Visitors' Bureau was scheduled for 2:00 p.m. in Oakhurst, my time was limited, so that factor added to the decision-making process.

The choice should have been easy, right?

Actually it was. I chose the housework. It's been several weeks since I've slept well, and last night, for some reason, was very restful. I awoke at 5:15 a.m. and decided to sleep a bit longer. It was absolute heaven.

Even the dusting, mopping and vacuuming were relaxing in a strange sort of way, once I got going. The animals weren't quite sure what was happening because they don't see this kind of activity very often, but they managed.

Once done with the vacuum, I took its reservoir outside to empty the water--and came face-to-face with "our" herd of deer. Yosemite Lakes Park is overrun with mule deer. They are pests, and they trample all the gardens they can get to . . . the ones they don't prune to the ground, that is. That being said, I still have an affinity for the beasts . . . their twitching ears, their massive brown eyes, their wagging tails. Despite their negatives, for me they have an undeniable beauty. The herd that often hangs out at our house consists of two does, each with two fawns and usually one or two additional does who accompany them.

Quite often I'll come home to find one of the does and her babies camped next to the house taking a nap. Of course they jump up and scamper off as soon as the car comes up the driveway. Although I often carry my camera with me, I never seem to have it when "the kids" are around.

That's why today was a gift.

I was home; the deer were far enough away that I didn't startle them when I walked outside. I quickly went back inside, grabbed the Canon and the 75-300 mm and shot away.

Although the lighting conditions weren't ideal, and the guys were in the shade, I got a few shots to play around with. Rather than running off, they all stood around and allowed me to shoot away. One of the fawns actually had laid down in the field and continued to stay there. Unfortunately my photos of her were out-of-focus and unusable.

When the herd decided to leave, I came back in the house and prepared to download the photos. As I looked out the dining room window, a raccoon ambled by, outside the fence. There was no way I could position myself to get a picture, but I watched him until he disappeared into the neighbor's yard.

I love living here, in the mountains/foothills. What a blessing each day is.

Inspiration - CBS Sunday Morning

2009-09-16T00:01:00.000-07:00

You probably realize by now that I'm not shy about sharing what I'm passionate about. When one of those life-altering moments that occur all too rarely happen, I talk about it. Like last Sunday morning.

I'm not a huge television fan, and in fact lived happily for over two years with no television at all when my cable broke, and I elected not to repair it. The one program I am absolutely wedded to is the CBS news program, CBS Sunday Morning, which just celebrated its 30th anniversary.

Over the years I've enjoyed many of the segments they've aired, but one they broadcast last Sunday, September 13, was one of the best, first aired on CBS Evening News then spotlighted on CBS Sunday Morning.

It's the heartwarming story of a grizzled and grouchy Phoenix cabbie, Tom, who gets lost going to pick up a client. (Apparently he regularly gets lost!) He arrives thirty minutes late. He and his rider, Rita, get off to a rocky start as he takes her to a medical clinic for an appointment. The rider declines to give the driver a tip and hopes never to see him again. Tom feels the same. Of course fate pairs them over and over, and the cabbie decides to find out why she goes so regularly to a kidney dialysis clinic. What he learns about dialysis gives him a new perspective toward Rita. She needs a new kidney, and up to now she's been unable to find a match. Something about Rita and her story touches Tom, and he tells Rita he'll get tested. She doesn't expect him to follow through. Both doubt he'd be a match even if he does since every member of Rita's own family has failed the test. He keeps his word, though, and the doctors tell Rita and Tom that if they were any closer matched, they'd be siblings. They've got a date with the surgeon in December, 2009. In an adjunct to this story, Tom realized another benefit from his gift. Tom's daughter, lost to him for 30 years as a result of a bitter divorce, contacts her father and introduces him to his grandchildren. Told with grace, wit and empathy, the story left me in tears.

I'm proud to say I've been a CSM follower since the beginning. I've traveled with Charles Kuralt all over the US, followed all the human interest stories, laughed at Bill Geist's slices of life, learned details about the lives of singers and painters and politicians and just-plain-people. They seem to get to the heart of whatever story they're covering and celebrate the best (or worst) in their target of the moment.

I cried when Charles Osgood took over the CSM reins--and even harder when Charles Kuralt died, much too soon, not too long thereafter.Although Charles O has grown on me over the years, I still miss the original Charlie K. Probably always will.

In a way, I credit CSM for the start of my writing career, as a result of a formerly-regular segment called "Postcards from Nebraska" written/produced by Rodger Welsch. That segment fast became dear to my heart because my parents grew up in Clarks and Central City, Nebraska, not terribly far from Welsch's town of Dannebrog. Although I've visited my parents' home state a few times, I've never lived there. Something, though, draws me to the rural life they lived and that Welsch described in his segments. One postcard, in particular, hit home in a way no other accomplished. Welsch talked about how high school kids spent months of their summers helping their parents and neighbors in the corn fields that so dominate the Nebraska countryside. He described particular techniques that are used to make sure the corn pollinates properly.

I don't know why that segment captured my imagination, but it sparked a story I called "Coming Home" which I wrote early on in my classes with Fresno writing teacher Elnora King. Although it was far from an overnight success with Elnora, it proved to me (and eventually to her) that my writing had potential. That was not the first story I published, and eventually my firiend Virginia Walton Pilegard--who has actual farming/ranching experience--helped polish it up. When we submitted it to the editor at Sterling Macfadden Publications' True Love magazine, we got a call. "We want to buy your story, and I want you to know that this is the first time EVER that we have decided to buy a story as soon as we read it."

It's important to mention that by this time, in conjunction with my first writing partner, Sunny Baker, I had a track record with Sterling Macfadden. We'd sold some twelve stories to the "confession" market. It was not by accident that they looked at "Coming Home." But it touched my heart that those editors caught the love I poured into that tale and eventually published the story Virginia and I wrote.

Since that market seems to have dried up in the years since I stopped writing, it's not likely the Kidney-Cabbie tale will end up as a short story, but it's good for the soul (my soul, at least) to see that the compassion embodied in the tale still exists.

As Ghandi says, we must be the change we wish to see in the world.

Khyber Dreams: Chapter 5 - Keeping 'em Straight

2009-09-15T00:01:00.000-07:00

Notes to readers: I have included links to terms and places that you might not be familiar with, in case you want to learn more about them.

Any details or customs I relate reflect my experiences and my knowledge at the time I was in Pakistan, in 1968. I confess that memories have faded and some details are not as sharp as I'd like. I tell the story as accurately as I possibly can given the 41 years that have elapsed.

As I introduce members of Abid's family, I should let you know that it is not customary to call relatives, particularly older relatives, simply by their first names. Brothers would be addressed as "bhai" and sisters as "bhabi," as marks of respect, for example, "bhai Tajammul" and "bhabi Aijaz." I have eliminated those titles in this narrative, but the respect remains, all the same.

***

Abid comes from a family of ten children: four sisters and six brothers, not to mention an unbelievable amount of aunts, uncles, nieces, nephews and cousins. I'd been hearing about all the brothers and sisters before we left the States. Now it was time to put faces to names and hope to heck I could keep them all straight.

Luckily I didn't have to learn all nine at once. Three of his sisters and their families lived in outlying towns, so I would meet Jamilah in Lahore, Razia in Multan and Taj in Peshawar later in our stay.

Of course, I'd met Abid's sister, Safia, as soon as we reached Britto Road. I'll write much more about her later because, of all the family members, I probably became closest to her over the months we stayed in Pakistan and throughout the balance of my marriage. She and her husband, Nayyir, even attended Farida's wedding in 2001, after I separated from Abid and moved to Bass Lake.

That left the brothers:

Akhtar, the oldest. This picture is of sister Safia, Akhtar's wife (whose name I don't remember), Akhtar, and his mother. I can't remember ever visiting his home. He'd always come to visit us at his mother's home.

Tajammul, who is a doctor and the owner of several hospitals in the Karachi area. He married Aijaz, who is also a doctor. She is the daughter of Dr.Sir Ziauddin Ahmed, a prominent, well-respected physician and educator, for whom Tajammul and Aijaz named their first hospital and the teaching university the family operates. They raised four children, Asim (not in the photo) and Rubina (here standing between her mother and father), who are also doctors and well-known in their fields. As you can see, they were children at the time Abid and I visited. Sabina (in front of Aijaz) and Arif (in arms) are the youngest of their children.

Although Akhtar was the oldest brother, Tajammul would be the person the entire family turned to whenever there was a need. He was the acting patriarch of the family and became its de facto head upon the death of their father.

At the time of our arrival in Karachi, Tajammul and Aijaz were in the process of building a new residence in the suburb of North Nazimabad, a new development where some of the most prosperous Pakistani citizens of that era lived. The home was large, open and airy, two stories, with a spiral staircase connecting the floors. When complete, it would be a house to rival United States mansions. That wouldn't happen for a long time.

Construction in Pakistan takes place over years, not months, so the house was nowhere near complete when we first saw it. A rudimentary kitchen had been installed upstairs in what would later become a bedroom as the modern, efficient "official" kitchen took shape downstairs. The servants prepared meals upstairs, carried them downstairs to serve and then transported dishes and utensils back upstairs to be washed. It was not an easy process, made more challenging by the work schedules both Tajammul and Aijaz observed. It seemed like there was never a time of day when one meal or another wasn't fin preparation.

The situation would probably have been unbearable if it hadn't been for the quiet, moderating temperaments of both Tajammul and Aijaz. They brought calm to what would otherwise have been a tempestuous existence.

As I recall, the downstairs kitchen finally became serviceable shortly before our departure.

No matter the chaos that sometimes reigned over Tajammul's house, it was always a haven for us, particularly during the last month of our stay. And best of all, it had western plumbing.

Next Episode: The Homeboys

Focus, focus, focus

2009-09-14T00:01:00.000-07:00

It isn't often that I set out with the express intention of taking photographs. A period set aside for picture-taking. Friday was that day.

Of course in a determined effort to make every moment count, Carol and I included a trip to Fresno. We started off with a car wash at our favorite Chevron station at Blackstone and Minarets (or thereabouts . . .). They do a great pre-wash with soapy water and a brush, and they always do it with a smile. Then a claustrophobic ride through pink suds and hot air, emerging into the sunlight sparkling like the showroom floor.

We continued on to breakfast at Mimi's, figuring we'd be seated right away since it was nearly 10:00 a.m. No such luck. We still had to wait. As we sat, two ladies asked if they could join us.

"Sure, please do" we said, and they pulled up chairs.

They proceeded to introduce themselves and told us they'd just returned from a short vacation to Mt. Shasta. That certainly broke the ice since Mt. Shasta is something Carol saw often during her years of driving to and from her home in Brookings, OR, and I fell in love with the peak during driving trips to Oregon and Washington with Shevy. This trend toward instantaneous friendships seems to be a hallmark of my "new life," boosted by my volunteer time at Yosemite Sierra Visitors' Bureau. This previously-shy individual now doesn't hesitate to talk to people, whether on the trail or in a restaurant. Somehow that must show on my face or in my demeanor, as people approach me, as these ladies did. Bless you, Shevy, for teaching me there are no strangers.

After a quick stop at Cost Plus to barter for a bargain end table, Carol and I headed up the mountain to Shaver and Huntington Lakes. Carol had never been there, and it had been years for me. Carol recently acquired a new camera (a Panasonic Lumix DMC-FZ28S), based on recommendations from Carol's photographer friend Miguel. When Carol told me what she was thinking, I thought of the marvelous photos my friend Kaye Duncan of Portland takes with her Panasonic. Kaye's photos shared via Flickr always inspire me. The Panasonic, considered a high-end member of the point-and-shoot category, takes photos every bit as as detailed and sharp as my DSLR--just doesn't have the removable lenses. If I were going to go for a point-and-shoot, that'd be the one, and if it weren't for Kaye, I'd never have known about it.

My self-stated intent for the photo shoot was to learn to use my camera's focusing apparatus. Farida and Jason, ever my teachers, showed me how to set individual focus points with my Rebel Xs, so I figured I'd try it out. Bingo! Success! A couple of my better results are shown on my photoblog, Nature's Heart entry for September 11.

The composition may not rival Ansel Adams', but you should be able to tell where my focal point is. Probably 90 per cent of the photos taken that day showed that I'd gotten the idea.

The "fisherpeople" picture was taken with friend Kaye in mind. Her photographs capture lines, angles, perspective and colors and always make me want to see ordinary things (like farmers' markets) in the extraordinary manner she manages to memorialize. Check her out. She's known as ohkayeor on Flickr.

Kaye and I met at ECCO's first Artists' Creative Weekend last Thanksgiving, and I've had the pleasure of following her photos ever since.

***

Flushed with triumph, I was thrilled when grandson Hunter actually was willing to pose for me on Saturday. With three photographers in the family (four counting him), he sometimes gets a little tired of being our favorite subject, so when he's willing, I'm there.

My vision of becoming the next Annie Lebowitz went down the drain as soon as I downloaded the first batch. They were all blown-out, out of focus, backlit and miserable. Sometimes all in the same picture.

Back to the drawing board.

By the time the afternoon ended, I'd amassed some semi-acceptable Hunter renderings, a few with focus softer than Farida probably would accept--but I think they show a softer side of Hunter himself.

One of my favorites is shown here. Others are posted at Nature's Heart. I like the bokay, the colors both in the face and the tee shirt, the pensive expression. It's far from perfect . . . but it makes me happy, as does the subject himself.

The best part of a photography passion is that there's always tomorrow, always a next shoot, changing subjects. It also causes you to look at everything through a photographer's lens, observing life in terms of light, color, texture and flow.

Khyber Dreams: Chapter 4 - An Intro to Pakistani Life

2009-09-13T00:01:00.000-07:00

I was completely blown away by the welcome Abid, Farida and I received when we arrived at Abid's childhood home on Britto Road. His parents lived there, along with Abid's brother Altaf and Altaf's wife and baby and Abid's two younger brothers, Akhlaq and Munawwar.

During the years Abid and I had been married I'd learned a bit about Pakistani customs. I knew that Pakistani elders depended on their children and grandchildren to take care of them as they aged. In the Pakistani version of Social Security, it was (and is) completely normal for adult children (and their children) to share a home with elders. Abid's parents appeared to be in their late 70's and slowing down. Having their children around allowed them to continue to live in the home they'd occupied for many years. In addition Abid's sister Safia, who had her own home with her husband in the area known as Defense Society, came to her mother's home daily to make sure everything was okay. She would help prepare the food and take some meals with them.

While we "Americans" often prided ourselves on our acceptance of other ethnicities, I'm embarrassed to admit that my own family had not been welcoming to Abid. To the day she died, my mother never completely accepted him, although she cherished her two granddaughters. Here his family was, opening their arms to me and greeting Abid as if he'd never been away. I honestly had not expected that, and I was grateful.

As soon as we'd lugged our suitcases upstairs to the living space, Abid and Safia gave me a tour of the house. I was struck by how similarly it was arranged to Mexico City houses I'd lived in. Built in a square with a large open area in the middle, the various rooms all opened onto the two-story-deep central "courtyard."

The rooms were large, the walls thick and stuccoed (very like southwestern adobes) to insulate against the heat and encourage air flow in a country where temperatures regularly reached into the 90's and beyond . . . with 90% humidity. As I remember, there was a living area, a kitchen, another living area which Safia used as a painting studio, a bedroom where Abid, Farida and I parked our stuff, another small bedroom, which was the only air-conditioned space in the house.

After all these years I can't remember where Abid's parents slept. I suspect the bedroom they assigned to us was theirs and that they probably slept on pallets in the living area during our stay. They were always awake before me during our entire stay, so I can't say for sure.

Abid rushed to show me the bedroom he occupied before he left for the States, atop the roof of the house and accessed by a set of rickety stairs. For years he'd told me about it.

An accomplished athlete, Abid loved competing at cricket, soccer and bicycle races. His parents, however, saw no value in sports and forbade him to participate in anything not having to do with book learning. The rooftop room allowed him to escape whenever he wanted by shinnying down the mango tree that hugged the side of the house. Even if his parents discovered his absence, they couldn't do anything about it until he returned. They'd chastise him, he'd listen--and do it all over again.

One area I remember vividly is the bathroom. And I use the term "bathroom" advisedly. Although I'm sure sanitary facilities have changed over the past 40 years, in many homes of that time, the "toilet" was an old-fashioned hole in the ground. I hadn't known about this in advance, so it took a few moments (!) to get my mind around the facilities. I've never been known for my coordination, so the prospect of having to squat on my haunches was a bit daunting. I adjusted, however, although I never liked it and never accomplished it with any grace.

Both Abid's sister Safia and brother Tajammul had recently built or remodeled their houses prior to our arrival and both included western bathroom facilities in their construction. I swear they timed the building to coincide with our visit. That's how accommodating they were to this complete stranger. Although Tajammul's house hadn't been fully completed by our arrival, he and his family made sure it was most comfortable when we visited or stayed there.

As a concession to my western sensibilities the family provided toilet paper for my use. The usual way of cleaning oneself was by use of a water pitcher. (I'll leave it to your imagination as to how that works.) That's a big reason why you won't see Pakistanis eating with their left hands . . . the left hand is for cleaning, the right is for eating.

The shower occupied a tiny room next to the toilet. I can't remember how or if the water was heated. Karachi weather was hot and clammy, so a hot shower probably was not necessary and not desired. In fact, as soon as I'd exit the shower, the stifling humidity made me crave another. I never felt really clean for more than a minute during my entire time there, except during our visit in Peshawar toward the end of our stay.

I came to admire the agility of Pakistani women (and men) who could sit on their haunches as they worked, whether it was cleaning or cooking. Each morning Abid's mother would squat for an hour as she prepared chapattis from scratch and cooked them over what in Mexico was called a comal, a flat piece of metal or cast iron set over an open fire.I have no idea what it was called in Urdu, the language of Pakistan.

Perhaps the trickiest part of my earliest days in Karachi was figuring out who was who in Abid's family. He is one of ten children, and all of them except for three sisters lived in Karachi. A parade of brothers and their families appeared over the next few hours, anxious to welcome Abid home and meet his family.

Next episode: Keeping 'em straight

Ghost Towns & Cemeteries - Bodie, CA

2009-09-11T02:00:00.000-07:00

Seems like the car (whichever car Pat and I happen to find ourselves driving) automatically turns off at ghost towns. The first one was Virginia City. It did the same thing at Bodie. I'd intended to turn left at the Virginia Lakes road, at Conway Summit on Highway 395. Next thing I knew, I'd sailed right past it with no convenient way to make a U-turn. Pat and I made a quick decision to take the car's suggestion and explore Bodie.

The road out to Bodie is 12 miles of pavement followed by 3 miles of washboard gravel. Wouldn't you know it? I'd run the car through my favorite Fresno car wash just the day before. The heretofore silver Saturn took on a patina of dirt. Fitting, I think, for a town who'd seen its glory days nearly a century before.

Bodie, too, had its share of electrical poles and wires, but they didn't intrude on the senses as they did in Virginia City, especially when I read that electricity to a certain extent did exist during Bodie's heydey. The whole town had an old west aura that seemed so much more appropriate than Virginia City.

The town's skyline was dominated by the old wooden church on Main Street as well as the mine complex on the hill. Down the street a block or so sat an old-fashioned schoolhouse.

Despite the rundown condition of all the buildings (maintained but not restored according to the California state park system), it's not difficult to visualize Bodie as a bustling mining town with some 60 saloons at its peak.

A number of residences had survived the brutal Sierra Nevada winters, although they appeared dilapidated and worse-for-wear but amazingly stylish with large mullioned windows and high-peaked roofs.

Above: A Bodie residence in disrepair

Above: The mining complex

The cemetery on the hill outside the town boundary is quite a bit smaller than one would expect given the violence that was known to take place under the influence of gold and alcohol. According to the California State Park system there was sometimes a killing a day in Bodie.

Above: Children's graves in Bodie were marked with a lamb atop the stone monument.

Khyber Dreams: Chapter 3 - Family Ties

2009-09-09T23:22:00.000-07:00

Abid's parents couldn't have been more welcoming. Everyone there, including Altaf's wife and baby, Abid's sister Safia and the students who came to the Britto Road house two or three times a week to study oil painting with her gathered around, anxious to meet the returning brother and glimpse the American wife and baby daughter.

Another hurdle overcome.

I began to relax a little.

Farida, on the other hand, screamed at the approach of anyone other than Abid and me. She adamantly refused to consider getting to know any of her Pakistani relatives. To her, of course, they were completely foreign. She didn't understand a word they said (even though many spoke excellent English), and she didn't recognize the saris and shalwar kameezes the women wore.

That hurdle would hold fast the entire three months we remained in Pakistan. Pakistanis adore children, and I sympathized with Abid's relatives who wanted nothing more than to hold and cuddle her--not to mention I was aching for a break from the constant child care.

Group photo: The family gathered at Abid's parents' house on Britto Road, shortly after our arrival. I'm surprised the photo reproduced as well as it did, being 41 years old and not stored under the best of conditions.

Standing, from left: Abid's oldest brother Akhtar, Abid's father, brother Altaf, mother, Abid.

Middle row, seated, from left: brother Munawwar, Akhtar's wife, me, sister Safia, (unknown).

Seated in front are Akhtar's children, I believe.

If I look tired, it's because I was . . . Pakistan is 12 hours ahead of California and a whole world away. It took at least a week before Abid, Farida and I didn't wake up in the middle of the night expecting to see the sun shining. That was my first experience with jet lag. Although I'd spent a lot of time in Mexico, Mexico City wasn't enough of a time change to be uncomfortable.

Not only that, but going from being an only child into a family of ten brothers and sisters--not to mention hundreds of cousins, uncles and aunties--required a huge mental adjustment. There was never a time when the house was empty of people, and that was a togetherness I simply wasn't used to.

To be continued. Next episode: An Intro to Pakistani Life

Party Animals

2009-09-09T06:00:00.001-07:00

August 29-30 was a weekend to remember. I can't think of the last time I attended two parties in two days.

The first had been in the works for several months. Pat's daughter, Carisa, had emailed me on April 29, 2009, to advise that she wanted to give her mom a blow-out 70th birthday bash. As Carisa's email stated:

As some of you may or may not know, my mother has signed herself up for the Peace Corps. If everything goes as planned, she will be leaving for Africa next June and will be gone for a minimum of 2 years. So i want to give her a party she will never forget! Please KEEP THIS PARTY A SURPRISE! If and when you talk to her please don't even hint that I have been in contact with you. I know how she is and if she has the slightest idea that I've talked to any of you....the probing will start and we all know what that can be like.

Carisa carried the caper off with a flourish. She'd invaded her mother's house during our trips up north to raid her mother's email address book and sneak treasured photos to create a marvelous slideshow.

In fact, between Carisa and her brother, Kirk, Pat was in for a week of surprises, starting with the appearance of granddaughter Stacia on her doorstep, followed by her parents, Kirk and Jenia. Pat thought she'd died and gone to heaven just to have her daughter, son, grandchildren and children-in-law at her side on August 27, her 70th birthday. As her blog shares, they all spent the day at Disneyland, and she figured their presence was gift enough.

What she didn't know is that some 30 of her friends and family had assembled at Carisa's friend Kim's condo to surprise her on the Big Day. That group included her big brother, Bob, all the way from Boston, along with some of his children and grandchildren. I'd sat with Pat on the deck of a Lake Tahoe Thai restaurant on August 16, as she called to wish Bob a happy birthday. He never let on that he'd be seeing her soon. (And at that point, I didn't know either. I found out from Carisa a few days before the party.)

When Pat walked into the condo clubhouse, her eyes got wide as she began to recognize those gathered there and realized they were there to celebrate with her. Her eyes darted from face to face . . . until they landed on Bob.

"Is that my brother?" she exclaimed, not believing her eyes.

I traveled with Pat to Napa once and Tahoe three times prior to the party and managed never to spill the beans. I came close, though.

Farida and I decided to put our cameras away at the party, so we have no photographic remembrances of our own from that day. We will take with us the opportunity to reconnect again with Kirk and Carisa and their families as well as others from our old neighborhood. We had a wonderful reunion with Teresa, Mary Ann, Margie, Billy and more.

Well done, Carisa. Well done, Kirk.

And for you, Pat, I hope we get to share many, many more birthday celebrations.

***

Most of the guests at the second party were a bit younger. Farida, Nasreen, Hunter and I went out to Mission Viejo to celebrate the 4th birthday of Maggie, daughter of Monica and Eric Toth. Once again it was "old home week" as I caught up with my girls' high school friends whom I hadn't seen in years.

I know you're wondering. Didn't she take photos of anyone but Hunter? Yes, I did, but because I don't have permission to post them, they'll have to stay hidden for now.

I did take the opportunity to photograph the lovely hibiscus growing in Monica and Eric's back yard.

It was great fun to catch up with new friends and old at both parties.

Much love to all of you.

Khyber Dreams: Chapter 2 - Welcome Home

2009-09-08T18:00:00.000-07:00

Abid lifted the camera high over his head, prepared to slam it into the floor of the customs room after the agent on duty demanded he hand it over. Suddenly another officer burst through the double doors which led to the passenger greeting area, placed his hand on the examining agent's arm and whispered in his ear.

Turning to Abid, he apologized. "I am so sorry for this inconvenience," the obviously-senior officer said. "Please come with me."

Abid lowered the camera as the junior agent hurriedly stuffed everything back into our suitcases and shut them.

As we exited to the waiting room, Abid searched for familiar faces. By that time I was exhausted, and I honestly don't remember who met us, but I suspect it was Abid's brother, Altaf. Whoever it was welcomed us, hugged his brother, greeted me warmly and led us to the waiting vehicle. I sighed in relief. One relative down, hundreds to go.

The first thing I remember upon stepping out of the airplane was the overwhelming smell of diesel fuel. That odor followed me the entire time I was in Pakistan. Before that time a diesel smell evoked pleasant memories from my time in Mexico City. In Karachi, the scent invaded everything, even inside residences and businesses, because taxis and buses spewed smoke out their tail pipes, accompanied by the ever-present sound of motorized rickshaws.

Traffic in Karachi resembled that of Mexico City, only worse. Although stop signs and traffic signals marked the intersections, they seemed to be ignored by everyone. Defensive driving took on a whole new meaning as we careened through the streets toward Abid's childhood home on Britto Road.

So far, so good. Now for the real test--meeting Abid's mother and father.

Old Grandad and a New Treasure

2009-09-07T22:51:00.000-07:00

No, Old Grandad isn't a bottle of booze, although I think I remember a brand of whiskey by that name or something similar. Old Grandad is a tree, a Giant Sequoia, allegedly, although during our hike in the hinterlands of Nelder Grove Gail and I couldn't exactly identify which tree it is.

Gail is a hiking buddy I met several years ago the first time I hiked with the Sierra Club. We've been friends ever since, and in 2006 she even accompanied me on a journey back to Riverton, Wyoming, to visit my then-100 year-old aunt Bessie and my cousins Linda and Carolyn. She's a great pal. I don't get to see nearly enough of her because our schedules don't seem to mesh that often since she moved to Ponderosa Basin and I to YLP.

I love hiking with her. She's way more experienced than I, having accomplished some of the significant hikes in Yosemite, such as Cloud's Rest and Merced Lake.

She and I conquered the trail to the top of Yosemite Falls together. We were hiking with some of the hotshots from the Sierra Club, and they left the two of us in the dust. It may just be a faulty memory, but of all the hikes I've ever done, Yosemite Falls remains the most challenging. It's a 3-mile (one way) slog up stone steps and switchbacks, and if you're on the trail late enough in the day, you're hiking with the heat of the sun beating down on you. Without Gail to offer me encouragement (and vice versa), I would never have made it to the top. She says the same. The hike features some incredible views of Yosemite Valley. I'm glad I did it but don't ever plan to do it again.

We also hiked Half Dome together, although she elected not to climb the cables. (I did.) For that hike we took the long way, departing from and returning to Glacier Point. We started at 7:30 a.m. and reached the car that night at 11:00 p.m.. trekking up from Illilouette Falls with flashlights and headlamps.

When Gail suggested we hike today, Labor Day, she thought we might head to Kings Canyon for a favorite walk in Redwood Canyon. The long drive didn't appeal to me, and I tried every way I could think of to talk myself out of the hike. (Too hot, too much to do, want just one more day at home, etc., etc., etc.) I'm glad to say I never hit on the magic excuse. Friend Virginia mentioned that she'd never done the walk at Nelder Grove's Shadow of the Giants, a very easy trail, so I hit on a brainstorm. Why not do that? Gail was just as happy not to make the long drive to Redwood Canyon but thought we needed more of a workout than Shadow of the Giants--and by that time we knew Virginia wouldn't be going along. We decided on the trail to the Grandad and the Kids, 6 miles round trip. She'd walked it before; I hadn't.

The hike begins just outside the Nelder Grove Campground, The weather was mild, in the high 70's when we started, at an elevation of 5,000 ft or so. The trail winds gently upward through a forest of Ponderosas, Incense Cedars and the occasional Giant Sequoia. Although patches of the trail are in sun, most of the way we were shaded by forest cover.

It was simply the perfect hike for a perfect day. Leaving the car at 9:30 a.m., we walked at a leisurely pace and reached the trees labeled as the Clothespin, the Kiowa, the Hawksworth and Old Grandad a bit before noon. We took a spur trail off to the left just beyond the Hawksworth based on the sign that pointed to Old Grandad, but we never could identify that tree.

No matter.

We delighted in the massive trees we visited, the long-distance view of the Tenaya Lodge and the wail of the Yosemite Mountain Sugar Pine Railroad as we munched on a bit of lunch. We even discovered a small cluster of Indian Paintbrush blooming in the shadow of the Hawksworth, last remnants of spring/summer wildflowers.

It always amazes me that I see things on the way back that I miss on the trek up the trail. At the point where the trail crossed Nelder Creek (just a trickle right now), Gail spotted Pacific Dogwood trees with their colorful seedpods, and a Western Sister butterfly played on a log in front of us.

We got back to the car at around 2:30 p.m. As we approached the parking lot, we were congratulating ourselves on a hike so solitary that we hadn't seen another soul all day--when a man and woman appeared in front of us. We chatted with them for a few minutes and discovered that they, like us, were locals and that they, too, like me, had never hiked this trail. We took time to encourage them onward and upward.

This is a trail I want to explore again in spring when the snow melts. It has to be even more spectacular with dogwoods in bloom.

What is this?

Khyber Dreams: Chapter 1 - The Journey from Hell

2009-09-06T06:00:00.000-07:00

Afghanistan has been on my personal "bucket list" for years. Reading Caravans: A Novel of Afghanistan by James Michener created a longing for that wild land that time has failed to erase. Afghanistan has become incredibly dangerous now, so there's little chance that dream will be realized in this lifetime.

I came close, 41 years ago. A step . . . a heartbeat . . . away.

Getting to that place was the adventure of my life.

***

In 1968 my husband, Abid, and I, along with our toddler daughter, Farida, flew halfway across the world to spend three months in Pakistan visiting his family.

For my part, I had no idea how I would be received. Would his family hate me because they perceived I'd kept their son/brother away from them? Would they accept me because I'd helped bring him back? Until this trip I'd never met any member of his family, and they were a great unknown, to him as well as to me. He hadn't been back to Pakistan in nearly 20 years, since he'd come to the United States as a young student and, until recently, he had barely communicated with them . . . afraid of how they'd react to his marriage to an American. His misgivings were as great as mine. Not exactly reassuring.

In order to make the journey I quit my job at TRW Systems and Abid closed his TV repair business. This would be Abid's first return to his homeland. In many ways his family thought he'd been lost to the West; now he was coming home with an American wife and a young child.

A big part of my ex-husband's life, then and now, is the game of cricket, so our trip to Pakistan began with a stopover in London, England, as part of a cricket tournament. We boarded our charter flight via Sudflug, an affiliate of Lufthansa Airlines. In order to maximize their profits Sudflug jammed as many seats as possible into the available space. No elbow room, no leg room—and a 1-1/2 year-old on our laps—it wasn't the flight of our dreams, to say the least. It lasted a grueling thirteen hours, with one stop somewhere in between, Ottawa, I think, before disembarking at Gatwick Airport.

Within minutes we discovered that the London of 1968 was no place for a couple with a young child. The Britain of that era believed that children should be kept out of public view. We searched for kid-friendly venues without success. The final straw was the match Abid was scheduled to play at Lords Cricket Ground, one of the world's premier cricket venues. He'd looked forward to the opportunity as the culmination of his own lifelong dream.

The hosting club scheduled a reception at a local pub, and when we inquired about bringing Farida, we were told “absolutely not.” Although other families in our group traveled with children, they were mostly British citizens who had family available to care for them. Even if someone had come forward to offer to care for Farida, it wouldn't have worked. She absolutely refused to have anything to do with anyone other than Abid and me.

We felt decidedly unwelcome.

“Let's see if we can get an earlier flight to Karachi,” Abid suggested.

“All right,” I agreed, although I wasn't sure which was the lesser of the evils: staying in London or finally facing Abid's family. I didn't express my misgivings to him, but I was very nervous.

After three days we cut our losses, abandoned the cricket tour and booked seats on the first flight we could get. The stopovers on that flight read like a “where's-where” of Middle East hotspots: Damascus, Tehran, Baghdad. How I wished we'd had time to tour any one of those cities, but all we could do was observe their fabled skylines as we landed and took off.

As we taxied to a stop at Karachi airport, my nerves mounted even further. I think Abid felt much the same, although he hid it well, wondering what sort of reception awaited us.

In London our experience with British Customs had been minimal. We'd been ushered through with no baggage inspection and a cursory glance at my U S passport and Abid's Pakistani one.

Abid had assured me his family would make our Pakistani Customs passage even easier. Baksheesh is a magic word in the Middle East, and Abid's family was well-connected besides. We shoved our suitcases along the line toward the Customs agent, juggling hand luggage, my purse. I gripped Farida's hand, as she struggled to be carried. She hadn't adapted well to all the new sights, sounds and smells that had surrounded her since leaving our Huntington Beach home, and now she was engulfed in conversations carried on in Urdu.

The customs agent reached for our passports and studied each page. Minutes passed.

“What are you doing here?” he asked.

“Visiting my family,” Abid replied, as if the answer should be obvious.

He kept glancing around for a familiar face, but no one came up to greet us. Of course the customs area was closed except to agents and arriving passengers, but in Pakistan rules are made to be broken, or so Abid had assured me. The agent opened our luggage and rifled through every inch of it. He picked up our movie camera and then examined our Pentax 35 mm. He asked about purchase papers for the Pentax. Abid tried to explain that we'd brought the camera with us from the States, so we hadn't known we needed to bring a sales receipt along.

Reaching for the camera, the customs agent shook his head in the inimitable Pakistani way. “I am very sorry, but we must confiscate this until you can provide a proof of purchase.”

We knew as well as the customs agent did that he coveted the camera. If we released it to him, we'd never see it again. I could read Abid's mind as he struggled with the alternatives. Should he give in to the agent? Should he offer a bribe. If so, how much?

Suddenly, Abid raised the camera above his head . . .

Next episode: Welcome Home

I (Heart) Book Mooch!

2009-09-05T10:33:00.000-07:00

I love Book Mooch. It's simply the greatest way I've found yet to get books on my wish list without paying a ton of money.

Actually, as with many things in my life, I didn't actually FIND Book Mooch myself. My older daughter, Farida, introduced me to it when I was lamenting being unable to find a book I was particularly interested in reading. Farida knows lots and lots about many things Internet and is always (well, most always) happy to share them with her mother. Sometimes she gets a little frustrated when she casually mentions something and suddenly I'm all over wanting to know more . . . and she's into something else. Remember pyTivo, Farida? I haven't bugged you lately, have I?

Have I piqued your interest in BookMooch yet?

Before I explain, let me ask a few questions.

Do you have a collection of books lying around your house that you've promised yourself you'll take to the local used book store?
Do you need to free up space on your bookshelves?
Are you, like my daughters and me, an inveterate reader?
Do you promise yourself that you'll make use of that wonderful local resource, the library? Me, too. I believe in supporting our libraries, but I'm lazy and really bad about monitoring book return deadlines. Besides, over the years, I've accumulated lots of books I thought I wanted to hold onto for posterity.

I love the idea of recycling books I no longer want into the hands of others across the country (and internationally). That's where BookMooch comes in. It's a way to offer your books to people you'd otherwise never meet who ask for what you want to give away. In return you have access to thousands of titles you crave. All it costs is the time to list your books, monitor your emails, take requested items to the post office and pay the postage to ship them out. I end up paying $2.38 in media-mail fees for a book that costs upwards of $8.00 if I were to buy it new. Virtually all the books I've received have been in quite acceptable condition. When a book is less than pristine, the owner can list its flaws, so the recipient knows what he's getting. I've never received a nasty surprise yet in any of the 35 items I've ordered via Book Mooch.

Go through your book shelves and pick out all those books you've read or have purchased and will never get around to. How many did you come up with? Each one you list is worth 1/10th of a point. List ten of them, and you've accumulated enough to request one book. When someone requests a book from you, you earn a point. When you ask for a book, you give up a point. (International requests are worth 2.) When you acknowledge receipt of something, you get 1/10th point, and so on. It's amazing how fast the points mount up. And you'll be surprised at the titles people order from you--things you thought you were listing just to rack up that 1/10th of a point is someone else's treasure.

As Farida warned me, you often can't find specialty books (like photography tomes) or really popular titles (like Three Cups of Tea), but what you can find is amazing, often out-of-print, and not available anywhere else except used book stores, if you have the time and energy to locate them. And they're likely to cost more than postage fees.

I requested and received all of the Vince Flynn thrillers I hadn't yet read. I discovered Sue Henry's novels of the Iditarod and have a backlog of them for my winter reading pleasure. Like daughter Nasreen, I'm fascinated with accounts of mountain climbing. Through BookMooch I discovered Facing the Extreme: One Woman's Tale of True Courage, Death-Defying Survival and Her Quest for the Summit, by Ruth Ann Kocour as well as Boukreev's The Climb: Tragic Ambitions on Everest.

Farida constantly trades books, and she quickly realized there's quite a market for Native American studies volumes when she went through the boxes I left in the basement of the house she and Jason occupy. She asked permission to put them on BookMooch and thereby acquired quite a reference library of knitting resources in exchange.

As a result of Farida's telling me about BookMooch, I now have shelves of some thirty books that I want to read and which cost me next-to-nothing. When I finish something, I put it right back on BookMooch for someone else to enjoy. A few of them, such as the two Daniel Silva novels on my shelf, will be keepers for now. (Handy hint: if you've never heard of Daniel Silva or his Gabriel Allon thrillers, you're missing a great read. Silva is a master of intrigue and his character development is incredible. I can't start one of Silva's books unless I have a block of time at my disposal, 'cause I know I won't be able to put it down. I was led to Silva's books by a friend. Now I'm passing the favor along.)

If you know you want to acquire a book, but it's not available on BookMooch, you can put it on your WishList. When it becomes available, you'll get an email offering it to you. I've done that with Daniel Silva's latest novel, The Defector.

You're probably wondering why it occurred to me to post about BookMooch.

It's because I discovered a treasure of my own as I was writing another entry, long overdue for posting, about our journey to Pakistan 40 years ago. I'd read Caravans, by James Michener, many years ago. I'd probably discovered it even before my marriage to Abid, a Pakistani citizen, and it stirred my fascination with Afghanistan, in particular. As I composed my blog entry about that long-ago time in my life, I decided to see if just possibly BookMooch had a copy of that life-changing missive so I could reread it. They did, and I now have Caravans in hand, thanks to "Kar-bie" in Louisiana.

Since the day, 40 years ago, that I stood at the border of Pakistan and Afghanistan, gazing out at the looming, snowcapped Hindu Kush, I've yearned to back. I've dreamed of being the girl in Caravans who journeyed across that wild land with her Afghan husband. With Afghanistan and Pakistan both in raging turmoil, it's not likely to happen, and I'm a bit older now, in any case. But as I reviewed those travels in my mind, I realized that I lived my own adventure of sorts way back then, a story worth the telling.

Please come along over the next few weeks as I travel back in time, as I relive those Khyber Dreams. Episode 1 posts tomorrow.


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Magnificent Trees

2009-08-28T20:34:00.000-07:00

Trees go wandering forth in all directions with every wind, going and coming like ourselves, traveling with us around the sun two million miles a day, and through space heaven knows how fast and far!--John Muir

Every year I make a point of visiting the Mariposa Grove of Giant Sequoias, within Yosemite National Park. And every year I'm struck by how much I love these huge gentle giants. Apparently I'm not alone because two of the 23 people on our Elderhostel just concluded made a point of telling me how much it meant to them to have the opportunity to see them as part of their program.

The Mariposa Grove tram tour takes about 1-1/4 hours and transports riders from the lower grove parking lot on up the hill, passing by the Fallen Monarch, the Faithful Couple, the Bachelor and Three Graces and my personal favorite, the Grizzly Giant. At the Upper Grove Museum, situated on the site of Galen Clark's cabin, the tram turns back toward the parking lot.

Despite the number of people exploring the Grove along with us, there is still a grace and tranquility that reigns supreme. I especially feel that peace in the Upper Grove where the numbers of visitors tend to thin out.

I LOVE Sugar Pines. They have such character. I call them "trees with a bad haircut" because they have branches that grow all akimbo with no seeming rhyme or reason. Just look at a Ponderosa. Just look at an Incense Cedar. Their branches seem all regular and organized. Then take a peek at this guy above. He looks like he got up on the wrong side of the bed. I think his branches remind me of my hair. Maybe that's why I like him so much.

Yes, you're really look at BRANCHES (not the trunk) of the Grizzly Giant. Its branches are larger than the TRUNKS of any other tree species in the park. This is one magnificent tree, and think of all the history it's been witness to, in its nearly 2,000 years of life. It boggles the mind.

But if you want your mind boggled even further, go take a gander at the Ancient Bristlecone Pine Forest, outside of Big Pine in the Eastern Sierras. Those trees date back 4,000 years and are the oldest living things on the planet.

This is my buddy Shirley Spencer, a naturalist extraordinaire. I'm lucky enough to have her teach most of my Elderhostels. She loves what she does, and she imparts that passion to all of her students (including me). She knows Yosemite like the back of her hand, hikes throughout the Sierra Nevada (summiting Mt. Whitney some 7 times), rock climbs with her super-husband, Mark, paints and sings. The only thing she's bad at (she claims) is math. I don't believe it. She's the one who's sparked my love of everything Yosemite and mountains in general. I can't get enough of hearing about her and Mark's adventures.

This is one of the burn scars on the trunk of the Grizzly Giant. Mountain man Galen Clark, the first superintendent of Yosemite National Park, stood right inside there.

Shirley teaches Elderhostel students the difference between Giant Sequoias (left) and Incense Cedars (right). Every time I'm lucky enough to get to accompany an Elderhostel field trip, I learn some new tidbit from Shirley. This time I discovered that Galen Clark had a second wife--who was a Gypsy fortune teller! Who knew!

Yosemite Week

2009-08-27T22:11:00.000-07:00

I must be living right . . . having to spend two days of my work week in Yosemite! We're just finishing up a 6-day Elderhostel, and we were blessed with perfect weather, relatively small crowds--and the fact that the rockslide behind the Ahwahnee Hotel happened the day AFTER we were there.

Fun Photography - A First

2009-08-26T23:14:00.000-07:00

Today was a milestone.

Today I completed my first-ever "photo shoot."

After I begged several of my friends to be guinea pigs for my newest hobby/avocation/passion, Virginia finally gave in. She said she needs new publicity shots for her website and stills for her new books. She's my hero(ine)--a real, live published author with a bunch of wonderful children's books in print and more in the pipeline. She's what I think I wanna be when I grow up. That or Ansel Adams.

Roommate Carol and I headed up to North Fork this afternoon and spent a delightful several hours experimenting with camera equipment and the new lens that just came in the mail today--a 50mm 1.8 aperture prime that I've coveted ever since my daughter got one several weeks ago. The photos it produces are simply amazing, or would be if the operator of the camera/lens knew what she was doing. But that was the whole idea of the shoot, to figure out if I can learn to take photos of moving objects, er, people. It seems I can, with a lot more practice. The sum total of the day was something in the neighborhood of 700 images of Virginia, her dogs and her beautiful teenage neighbor, Sierra.

Because I don't have their permission to post any of Virginia's or Sierra's photos, I have to be content with showing you something else. Someone who DID give me the okay to share her pictures. WARNING . . . these could be considered pornographic in some circles.

This gorgeous girl is Freckles, and this is the way she likes to sleep. She paid no attention whatsoever to me or my camera as I snapped pose after pose while she napped on the deck outside the sliding glass door.

Isn't she beautiful?

Thanks, Virginia (and Freckles), for letting me invade your space. Thanks also for the scrumptious dinner, a chance to visit with you, Dick and Muriel, and for giving us the chance to catch up on all the Pilegard news.

Can we do it all again soon--this time at our house?

Ghost Towns & Cemetaries - Virginia City, NV

2009-08-24T23:49:00.000-07:00

Seems like the journeys Pat and I have taken recently have taken on a certain . . . flavor . . . OLD. As in ghost towns and cemetaries.

We've promised ourselves that each time we venture out we'll hit someplace neither of us has been before. In early August our Tahoe trip included a visit to Virginia City, an old mining town perched at the 6,200 foot elevation on the side of a Nevada mountainside. Some will remember it as the fictionalized setting for the 70's TV series, "Bonanza."

To get there, we took the long way around from Carson City, via highway. As we wound through the mountains, incredible views emerged of Reno, in the distance. Amazingly a number of higher-end houses were tucked strategically along the highway, taking advantage of those vistas.

Virginia City, to me, at least, was at once fascinating and disappointing.

Fascinating . . . as we imagined the wild-and-wooley life of miners searching for elusive wealth. The evidence of a once booming town was obvious as we checked out the saloons that lined the main street along with the offices of the Territorial Enterprise, where Mark Twain began his journalism career. Juxtaposed against the saloons were St Mary's in the Mountains Catholic Church, which dominates the Virginia City skyline, and St Paul's Episcopal Church. Both of them are still active, although St Mary's is in the midst of an extensive renovation, so St Paul's currently serves as its subsitute.

Disappointing . . . because spider webs of wires strung along telephone poles mar the views of Main Street, along with the cars parked along its length. The mood built up by the wonderfully decrepit buildings is destroyed by the modern conveniences the autos and wires represent.

Piper's Opera House was a pleasant find, and I couldn't wait to let friend JK know I'd discovered it. What a marvelous bit of synchronicity when he told me that as a teenager he'd visited Virginia City a number of times with his mother. The Opera House was a highlight of his time there. He wonders if that might have been the start of his love affair with the world of opera.

We wandered up and down the street, into and out of the many saloons, enjoying a Sarsaparilla in one of them.

Ironically the part of Virginia City I enjoyed the most was the Silver Terrace cemetery. Unkempt, rocky and stark, the land this last resting place occupies must not allow for a a restful sleep as the wind howls incessantly among the headstones. Most of the graves date from the 1800's, with a few of them drifting into the 20th century.

Rolling Stones

2009-08-23T08:54:00.000-07:00

For my money, the very best parts of Yosemite exist outside the over-populated and much-photographed valley. Take just a few hours to cross the Sierra Nevada via Tioga Road (Highway 120), and you'll discover an entirely different face of the Queen of National Parks.

The photos here were taken at or near Olmstead Point, which is very close to the halfway point of the journey. From here you can see up-close-and-personal the centuries of glacial action.

Glacial erratics (boulders picked up as if they were handheld stones) lie where they were left as the glacier retreated. Try picking one up . . . you'll discover the massive efforts required.

From Olmstead point you also get the "other" view of Half Dome--the backside. Bring your binoculars, and you just might see the line of hikers pulling themselves hand-over-hand up the cables to the 13-acre top of the rock.

Travel a bit farther on the highway, and you'll get your first view of Tenaya Lake, set in the bowl of the surrounding peaks.

McGurk Meadow - Easy Hike, Big Payoff

2009-08-21T07:33:00.001-07:00

Spring and summer are big deals in my hiking life. I watch anxiously for the opening of Yosemite's seasonal Glacier Point Road so that we have access to all the great trails that take off from there.

Because I'm a flower nut (never met one--cultivated or wild--that I didn't love), one of my very favorite treks wanders through McGurk Meadow. A hike of four miles out-and-back yields an extravaganza of beautiful blossoms. The photos displayed here are a small sample of the blooms we encountered. (For those who can tolerate a raft of flower pictures, check out my Flickr photos (I'm hawkshearth) and look for my McGurk Meadow 7-30-09 set. It'll turn up 130+ photos taken on July 30. I tried to paste a link to the set, but couldn't get it to work right.)

If you want even more of a workout and have the time, continue on another two miles or so, following the trail signs at each junction, until you come to the southern rim of Yosemite Valley at a place called Dew ey P oint. The several times I've been there, it's been relatively peaceful; only once have we found more than one or two people occupying our favorite lunch spot. A nosh of crackers, cheese and one of those individual bottles of Merlot or Chardonnay and you'll think you've died and gone to heaven. Take a little nap before heading back to Glacier Point Road and soak up the tranquility that seems so rare in most of Yosemite National Park.

But back to McGurk Meadow. That's another slice of heaven just waiting for the flower enthusiast. The hike I'm describing here can be done by anyone in reasonable shape. Don't forget, though, that you'll be hiking at an altitude of approximately 6,000 feet, which can prove to be a challenge for those used to walking at lower elevations.

The amount of time it'll take you depends on whether you plan to take lots of photos. If you're not recording the trail for posterity, you can reasonably make the round trip in a couple of hours.

The first mile is downhill through a lodgepole pine forest dotted with Yarrow, Lupine, Pennyroyal and more. Right before the trail opens up to the meadow, a log cabin appears to the left of the trail. A metal sign marks the distance to Glacier & Dewey Points.

The expansive meadow stretches for a mile or more and displays its white carpet of blossoms. In just a few more feet you come to a bridge across a small stream .

Timing the hike can be a bit tricky. Go too early, and the flowers haven't bloomed yet. Go too late and they've already wilted. The window of opportunity amounts to roughly a two-month period from the end of June to mid-to-end August. Because my friend Dana served as group leader for our Elderhostel hiking group from July 5-9 and McGurk was one of the hikes on their schedule, I knew that I needed to get my rear in gear. The available date was July 30, and I was worried I might already be too late. Although some of the species (especially the Corn Lilies) were bloomed out, the rest of the display was spectacular. Masses of Indian Paintbrushes turned parts of the meadow into a crimson carpet. Lupine and Penstemon and Cone Flowers added their splashes of purple and yellow.

One of the interesting facts about this trail is that its terrain, along with its flora, changes constantly. In the meadowlands, bathed in sunlight, Indian Paintbrush abound. In the dryer, open areas ground-hugging plants like Pussy Paws show off their finery.

As you approach the two-mile marker, where the trail approaches a crossing of Bridalveil Creek, the flora changes again. Now you find waist-and shoulder-high displays of Fireweed, Larkspur, Arrowleaf Groundsel, Blue Monkshood interspersed with specimens of Crimson Columbine. (The Columbine were mostly done for the season by July 30, so the photos I took don't represent the best of the species, unfortunately.) Here and there a Sierra Lily could be seen. In all the times I've walked this route, I've never seen the number of Blue Monkshood in bloom this year. That's the beauty of this trail--it's never the same twice.

Remember that I told you the trail was downhill in the beginning? Guess what? That means the trail is UPHILL on the way back. That's really the only part of this trek that proves to be any sort of challenge. Although it's a mile from the meadow back to the trailhead at Glacier Point Road, really only half of that is a bit of a slog.

Take plenty of water, snacks, a hat and sunscreen. Parts of the trail are in open sun and even the shady parts will be hot in mid-summer. You may also want insect repellant, and hiking poles make the walk out a bit more bearable. Those who are not packing around a few extra pounds and who hike with some regularity will not find this difficult at all.

After you're done, the drive to Glacier Point only takes 15 to 20 minutes and gives you yet another perspective on the expansive vistas that comprise Yosemite National Park.

Bread feeds the body, indeed, but flowers feed also the soul. ~The Qur'an

Sleep Is Highly Overrated

2009-08-09T22:43:00.000-07:00

Since I semi-retired, I've discovered that my most productive, or at least active, times are early morning (5 am to 7 am) and, gulp, 11 pm to . . . whenever I can persuade my eyes to close. All too often that ends up being 2 or 3 in the morning.

This habit can be quite disconcerting to those with whom I live or travel since it tends to go against the well-established time-table of most households. I'll also be the first to admit that I tend to not be the quietest person in the world.

This isn't healthy, and I'm really looking for a way to change this modus operandi, so far with no luck. Perhaps this phenomenon is related to the triple-digit temps the Central Valley and Sierra Nevada foothills have been experiencing for the past several weeks. It's difficult to slumber when you sweat.

Any suggestions out there, short of drugs or other banned substances?

Or should I just let the status quo stay and take advantage of the late-night quiet to be productive?