Morning Shots - July 28, 2009

These are a few of the moments from this morning's walk.

May your trails be crooked, winding, lonesome, dangerous, leading to the most amazing view. May your mountains rise into and above the clouds. -- Edward Abbey

Make it a fantastic day!

Love,

Judi

Time on My Hands

Juggling the hours in a day is nothing new. I’ve done that for years. What’s most challenging is productively filling hours that have been highly structured. Going from five days of work to five days of weekend requires adjustments.

How does it happen that all those projects you promised yourself you’d tackle when you had a few days to yourself go right out of the mind?

I’ve made a few promises to myself, though, and I’m happy to say I’m keeping them.

Walk or hike every day. For the past two weeks California ’s central valley has faced triple-digit temps, so walking right now involves getting up at dawn. The beauty of being out of the house that early is the opportunity to marvel at magnificent sunrises. I’ve always loved sunrise. When I worked in Fresno , ten years ago, I made sure to leave my Cascadel Woods home while it was still dark. I took the back way to town, down Road 211 and fed my soul with visions of egrets and blue herons, bald eagles and red-tailed hawks.

Maybe that affinity for early morning helps explain the attraction I feel for the Dineh (Navajo) people, who believe that the Holy Ones make their way across the sky at dawn. A tenant of their religion is to rise before dawn and face the east to greet them.

Start to write again. This blog is witness to keeping that pledge. After years of believing I couldn’t make time to write, I relish the moments I share with myself, reminiscing. Maybe I’ll even finish those stories I left in limbo. They’re still in my memory bank if not on the hard drive.

Do some cleaning. That one’s a little tougher, but we’re making progress there, too. That promise could be the one that fills all the remaining hours. There's plenty to do.

Scan to disk all the old family photos I can find while I still have some idea of who those folks are.

Travel and explore. So far friend Pat and I have managed trips to Napa and Lake Tahoe . It’s a great start.

There are still too many hours that seem to disappear into the Black Hole of Nothingness, but I've promised myself I'll make some plans for those, too.

It’s now after midnight and time to do something else in short supply around here: sleep!

Friends: Installment 2 - Betty

Of the three friends who remain from my college years, Betty in some ways is the closest, yet the farthest.

She lives halfway around the world in Kibbutz Massada, three miles from the southern tip of the Sea of Galilee, perched at the edge of the Golan Heights. She's been there approaching 30 years, and I haven't seen her in at least 15. She believes she's found where she belongs. She has no intention of returning to the United States anytime soon and never permanently. That we've been able to maintain contact over these last years speaks to the miracle of friendship. A lot is owed also to the advances of technology and cyberspace. Lord knows, if she'd been left to depend on my letter-writing, we'd have lost touch long ago. I don't do a whole lot better with email, but every so often we connect and have a marvelous chat.

It doesn't help, of course, that we are in opposing time zones. When it's 6:00 am here, it's 5:00 pm in her part of the world. Some of our best conversations take place when one or the other of us is awake in the middle of the night.

Betty and I met at the bus stop at Los Angeles State within the first few days of our freshman year, through a mutual friend with whom we've both lost contact. We became buddies right away and have remained so for almost to 50 years.

Betty has been present at every major event in my life except one—my marriage. Come to think of it, I shouldn't have been at that one either. (For the record: I thank my Higher Power every day for the two children that resulted. Farida and Nasreen are the greatest blessings of my life.)

We spent Thanksgivings, Christmases and birthdays together. Family in every way but blood.

Betty's the one who tracked me down and phoned me to get my butt home because my dad was very ill. In that instant I knew he was gone, even though she didn't say so. He'd suffered a massive heart attack, collapsed and died. My mother didn't know where I was, but Betty figured it out and found me. She wore a red dress to his funeral. It probably shocked my conservative midwest relatives, but the memory delights me to this day.

Her first car was a Prinz, so small that the two of us could actually lift it, which on one occasion we did.

Her mother and my mother were polar opposites, but to their extreme credit they did everything they could to get along. They even endured a trip to Laughlin, NV, together, about which Betty and I heard differing versions for years. Somehow our mothers knew that, even if they weren't destined to be the best of friends, we were, and that we'd need each other in the coming years.

Betty's mom was Auntie Flo to my daughters, but she might as well have been Auntie Mame. Tall, auburn-haired and flamboyant, she stood out in a crowd. My mother, in complete contrast, shrunk into the shadows at any gathering she attended. No wonder the two didn't get along.

Betty was present at the birth of my first child, Farida, and so was Auntie Flo, in a way. After struggling through much of 21 hours of labor with me, Betty called Auntie Flo, who had been a private-duty nurse for years.

Auntie Flo took matters into her own hands, phoned my doctor and demanded in her deep, authoritative voice, “what the hell do you think you're doing? Give that woman a c-section NOW!” Within minutes I was being wheeled into the operating room. If it weren't for her intervention. I'd probably still be pregnant.

Because of her nursing experience, when her doctor told her she was ill with multiple myeloma, Flo knew exactly what that meant. With immense courage she endured years of treatment and intense pain until the treatments did no more good. When Betty called to tell me that Auntie Flo was in Huntington Memorial Hospital and not expected to make it much longer, I raced to Betty's side. We got a rollaway bed delivered to that hospital room, and Betty and I—neither one of us withering flowers—slept side-by-side on that bed.

Waiting.

Finally Betty needed to leave to run a few errands, and I needed to get home to check on my girls. We were fairly sure nothing would happen until we returned. Flo's longtime friend, Beryl, came to hold the watch. It took me an hour to drive home to Huntington Beach, and I hadn't been there long when Betty called to say that Flo was gone. To this day Betty often reminds me how much my sharing that rollaway bed—and sharing the pain of her mother's illness—meant to her.

The child of a Jewish father and a Roman Catholic mother, Betty decided to learn something about her father's heritage. Her original journey to Israel was a two-week sightseeing trip. During that excursion she fell in love with the land and its people, and she set about to find a way to return.

Some time later, she went back as a volunteer at Kibbutz Massada. During that adventure she worked in the communal kitchen and milked cows, something quite unlike her former profession in the States as an insurance adjuster. She stayed six months, returned to her home in Pasadena and began her plans to make “aliyah” to Israel. Despite her father's Jewishness, she found she had to convert to Judaism in order to be granted kibbutz membership. At the time I found that odd.

It took something like six months for all the paperwork to be complete for her permanent return to Israel. During that time I became pregnant. At 43. What was I thinking? Despite all the negatives of having a child at that age in the midst of a moribund marriage, I looked forward to that child with all my heart. As a result of an amniocentesis, we learned it was a boy. Farida and Nasreen picked out his name: Nicholas. We bought a crib and baby clothes.

During my fifth month in August, 1983, Betty and I went to see Simon and Garfunkel at Dodger Stadium—just one of several events we had attended together there, such as Elton John shows and that marvelous game three of the 1981 World Series where Fernando Valenzuela pitched for the Dodgers. We were out in the left-field bleachers, but we loved every minute.

During that S & G concert, I discovered that I had begun to spot. The following day I made an appointment with my OB-gyn. While I was in her office, while she listened with her stethoscope, Nicholas died. She scheduled me to go to Hoag Hospital that afternoon. I called Betty, and she came running. As I lay waiting for the interminable end of that pregnancy, she sat beside me, wiping my brow.

Despite my pleas, Betty left for Israel, established a life there and eventually married her Israeli-Argentine sweetheart, Doobie (AKA “The Bear”).

In June, 1989, she returned to the States. Bill, a mutual friend, had moved to Palm Springs after his partner, Rich, passed away of cancer. He asked us to come for a visit. We soaked up the Palm Springs sun, swam in Bill's pool, relaxed in his starkly elegant condo, dined at Sonny Bono's restaurant, and caught up on old times.

Bill was Betty's neighbor at her first apartment building on El Molino in Pasadena. Betty and I spent years speculating about him. Was he gay or wasn't he? During those days you didn't dare speak the word “homosexual” out loud, and Bill wasn't telling. He was obviously afraid of losing our friendship if he admitted it. He died, alone, of AIDS, several years later, never understanding that we loved him for who he was, not what he was.

Upon Bill's death we learned that Rich had died of AIDS, not cancer, during the early years of the disease.

As we drove back to my Santa Ana home from Palm Springs, I had a sudden premonition of trouble. Upon our arrival, we discovered that my mother had been ill, and my daughters had been left to deal with the situation, which they did in yeoman fashion. It was clear, though, that Mom needed medical attention. We took her to the emergency room at St. Joseph Hospital in Orange, where she was admitted. As I tried to deal with major problems with her health insurance coverage. Betty did her best to calm me down. Not an easy job at any time, but especially then.

Although my mother had a host of health problems (Parkinson's disease, high blood pressure, COPD, lung cancer), none of them were imminently terminal. The current problem proved to be diverticulitus and wasn't life-threatening either. Nonetheless, her stay in the hospital dragged on for days.

At 4:00 am the morning of June 25, I got a call from the hospital.

“Come quick,” the doctor informed me. “Your mother has had a pulmonary arrest, and we're trying to intubate her.”

Betty was staying at our house, just days before her scheduled return to Israel. I roused her and asked her to come with me, while my husband stayed home with Farida. Nasreen was away visiting a friend. I knew, however that day ended, it wasn't going to be good, and I would need her moral support. When we arrived, the doctor informed us that my mother had passed away. The doctor, Betty and I wrapped our arms around each other and cried.

Betty returned to Israel, and I have seen her only once since then, when she and Doobie came to the States. I had moved to Bass Lake by that time, and she let me have the privilege of introducing the two of them to Yosemite.

We've been in touch more often recently, thanks to the Internet. We've spoken on the phone a couple of times over the years, but each of us finds that we mainly chat about the weather, for some strange reason. It's easier to “chat” via computer.

Betty's brother-in-law, Yossi, passed away recently of the same horrible cancer that took her mother. She watched and remembered as he suffered for three years, the last few months in hospital and near death. She comforted Doobie as best she could. In the end she called on me as the connecting thread between the two halves of her life, and I felt blessed that she turned to me as I have so often turned to her.

Lest I may have led readers astray, Betty and I have shared much more laughter than tears and years of precious memories. In fact Betty may just be the person most responsible for my move to the mountains nearly twenty years ago. I credit those road trips we took up to Clark Porche's cabin in Fawnskin, near Big Bear, and later ones to Idyllwild, for cementing in my soul the need to be surrounded by mountain peaks.

Betty's been begging me for years to come see her home in Israel. I admit to being afraid, and I'm not sure it's the safest place in the world for a person bearing the name Hussain. But I miss her so much, it may be time soon to make it happen, if I can find a way.

I love you, dearest friend of all.

Selling Yosemite

Who would really want to sell Yosemite, of all places?

Me, that's who.

I'd known for years that, once I had a bit of free time on my hands, I wanted to volunteer for the Yosemite Sierra Visitors' Bureau. A number of friends had told me how much they enjoyed it, and it would give me something a little different to do.

Little did I know that I would soon add “selling Yosemite” to my list of passions. It took probably the first batch of customers I helped to convince me. The fact that Al, the fellow I first worked with, has been volunteering for 15 years was a clue that hanging out at the Visitors' Bureau could be addictive. Another hint came from the volunteer who walked in the day before his shift to make sure all the bins were stocked to his satisfaction. Or the couple who stopped by the day after their regular shift, to see what was going on. Hmmmmmmmmmmmm. Tells me they like it around there.

Just about everyone who comes into YSVB is on vacation, in a good mood and aiming to have a fabulous visit. That's for starters. The majority of people I've met are visiting the park for the first time, have no idea where to begin and little knowledge of what they're about to see. Many of them come from other countries. In one day we've greeted visitors from Denmark, Belgium, England, France, Germany, Ireland, Japan, Taiwan . . . and a bunch from the United States, as well. The suggestions we give them get them energized and eager to explore.

The folks I really enjoy helping are those who have three to four days at their disposal, already have a place to stay and want to know how to make the most of their time. I tell them it's impossible to see all of Yosemite no matter how long you have to spend. I've lived here almost 20 years, and there's still a lot of the park I ache to explore. But with three or four days you can make a stab at some of the most memorable parts. It's great fun telling people where to go—and why.

Usually the first stop I recommend is the Mariposa Grove of Giant Sequoias. Unless you've stood in their shadow, it's hard to conceive of the grandeur of these ancient giants. Especially if kids are along, I suggest the .8 mile walk up to the Grizzly Giant, the oldest tree in the grove, pegged at between 1,900 to 2,400 years of age. Some of its branches are larger in circumference than the trunks of other species nearby. If they've got some extra time, I suggest a side trip outside the park to a magical place called Nelder Grove.

During late spring and summer, Glacier Point is a must. It looms 3,200 feet over the Yosemite valley floor and affords scenes of Curry Village, the Ahwahnee Hotel, the Merced River and Tenaya Canyon, not to mention Yosemite's magnificent waterfalls. Depending on the time of year, you can see Yosemite Falls, Snow Creek Falls (barely visible deep into Tenaya Canyon), Vernal, Nevada and Illilouette Fall. For all but Yosemite Falls, the very best way to see them is to put on hiking boots and hit the trail.

If they're hikers, I love to send them to Glacier Point Road, to stand atop Sentinel Dome, a granite mass that gives a 360 degree view of the park and a bird's-eye vista of neighboring Half Dome as well as Mt. Hoffman, Yosemite's geographical center. I tell them they can see the peaks of the Clark Range, including Mt. Starr King and Mt. Clark.

If they're flower aficionados and it's the right time of year, McGurk Meadow, again off Glacier Point Road, shows off with massive displays of Indian Paintbrush. Lupine, Corn Lilies, Crimson Columbine, Fireweed, Larkspur, Tiger Lilies and much, much more.

Of course, we go over the areas to visit within Yosemite Valley itself, but I really get excited when they've got enough time to get to the Yosemite high country over Tioga Road toward Tioga Pass and Lee Vining. Because in winter Tioga Road is buried in snow, Highway 120 is only open from approximately May through October. But when it is available, it is easily the most spectacular part of Yosemite (just my opinion--everyone has his own favorite spots). Along Tioga you'll find flower-laden lake trails (Lukens Lake, at White Wolf, Dana Meadows), granite domes, craggy peaks (Cathedral and Unicorn to name two) and lovely meadows (Tuolumne, of course). There is so much to see and do in Tioga that visitors could easily spend a month up there.

But there I go again, selling Yosemite.

In truth, Yosemite sells itself. At the Visitors' Bureau, we just give visitors a little nudge in the right directions . . . and fall in love with Yosemite all over again, ourselves.

Friends: Installment 1 - Jenny

Heather S just posted on Facebook that she attended her elementary school reunion. Say what??!? I have never heard of an elementary school reunion. When I questioned her about it, she admitted this was the first reunion she'd ever gone to and that she'd actually passed up a high school gathering to do so. And it was awesome, she said.

That got me to thinking.

I've got lots and lots of friends, but only three of them qualify as long-time, dating from college days wayyyyyyy back in the 60's. That we've managed to remain in regular contact is something of a miracle.

First off, there's Jenny. I call her Chapulin, which means "grasshopper" in Spanish, and there's a reason for that. Growing up, she, her sisters and brother all had nicknames. Dolores was "Dorie," Theresa was "Tree," Danny was "June Bug" and Jenny was "Choppy." There were reasons for all those names, but memories have a way of fading, and I've forgotten--except that Dan got his, I believe, because he used to eat the critters. Choppy evolved over the years into Chapulin, and I am the only person in the world who calls her that. (Truth is, nobody calls her Choppy any more, either.)

She and I met the very first day of school at L A State. We sat next to each other in the bleachers at orientation and began a conversation that continues to this day. Not only did she adopt me, but so did her entire family. She's of Mexican and Chumash heritage, and she had a big, wonderful, boisterious, loving clan. At the time we met, she was living with her grandmother, and I can remember many, many feasts at Grandma Belle's table.

Together Jenny and I fell in love with San Francisco and now the truth can be told. Many were the Fridays we'd look at each other and say "let's go." We'd cut the last of our classes, run home, grab a few clothes, hop in Jose, her old Chevy, and in a few hours we'd be in the City by the Bay. We'd spend time with her uncle Frank, her friend Rose or just exploring the city. Sometimes we'd explore a bottle of wine or two along the way, and Jenny's aunt Cleophe would call us "borrachitas."

Finally Chapulin decided that her heart was in San Francisco, and she up and moved away. As lives do, ours went separate ways for several years. She moved up to Big Bear, in the southern California mountains, remarried and moved again to Pilot Hill in northern California. We remained in touch off and on--more off than on, unfortunately. When I tracked her down in Los Osos several years later, we caught up on each other's lives and families and have stayed close ever since.

So close, in fact, that she and her husband Jack bought my house from me when I moved up to Cascadel Woods, now over ten years ago. That house burned down in a sudden, virulent fire about 2 years ago, during which Jack and Jenny lost their three beloved pooches, Romi, Gus and Ziggy. Although the precious animals can never be replaced, the house has been rebuilt and now is truly Jack and Jenny's. They redesigned it to make it suit their tastes, and it's incredibly beautiful. Occupying space in their hearts are three new doggies, Zoe, Max and Letty.

I am so blessed to have enjoyed nearly 50 years of friendship with Jenny and half that with Jack, who is an amazingly robust 86 (87??) years of age. He is a master wood carver and has decorated both the inside and outside of their home with totems, statues, masks and other designs. Like the Energizer Bunny, he just keeps going and going and going . . .

It's hard to believe that I don't have a single photo of Jenny to post with this. Shame, shame.

Next "Friends" Installment: Betty - coming soon.

What Am I Gonna Be When I Grow Up?

First off, if I haven't grown up by now, chances are it's not going to happen any time soon. And truly I don't want to. I want to nurture and foster a look at life through childlike eyes.

But I have been gifted with the opportunity to do some serious thinking on the subject of how I want to live the rest of my life. After the initial shock that ECCO had reduced my work to two (2) days a week (down from three), I picked myself up off the floor and realized that--challenging as the finances are--this is the perfect chance to explore all my options. And before we go any further, let me say that everyone at ECCO took a hit. The belt had to be tightened, and it was absolutely the right thing to do.

Admittedly my brain works a bit slower than the average bear's, but after a few days, I realized I CAN WRITE once again, ergo this blog.

Suddenly I can begin that book about hiking for seniors that I've cogitated for years. It's not possible that I'm the only person who took up hiking for the first time at 61 years of age. Maybe, just maybe, I can convince other seniors that there's a whole new world out there that you can't see unless you get off your duff and off the highway.

The best part of a hiking hobby is that it's relatively cheap (after the initial outlay for the Ten Essentials, hiking boots, topos, walking sticks, fanny packs and backpacks, etc., etc., etc.), requiring a tank of gas and your time. I'm lucky enough to live close to Yosemite National Park and oodles of other great hiking trails just outside the park's boundaries and a love for getting up before dawn, so the world's my oyster. In addition, when you travel to other areas, there are always trails to tred away from typical tourist places.

All that being said, there are at least two immediate and serious problems.

1. Even though my Silver Saturn gets excellent gas mileage, putting fuel in the vehicle now requires some consideration.

2. Even more serious, my ability to hike has been undermined by my putting on #@ pounds over the last few years. No excuses for that. But could someone please, please, please tell me how to get back on track and get that poundage back off? I originally started walking and hiking as a way to get newly-discovered diabetes under control. The hiking is still a part of my life but health control is a big challenge.

Photography. Don't even get me started on THAT passion, or I won't stop for hours. I discovered a renewed love for pictures after my first cataract surgery in November. Imagine! Colors and lines and patterns and textures appeared out of nowhere. They've probably been around all along, but I began to see them for the first time in years. I couldn't believe what I'd been missing. I grabbed my point-and-shoot and shot everything within sight. Never met a flower I didn't love.

Then I got my Canon Rebel XS.

Whoooohooooo!

At right is a photo of Ellery Lake, at the east gate of Yosemite. My friend Pat and I were lucky to be there at the perfect time to catch the light playing on the water and snow on the peaks. If this isn't a miracle, what is? Our whole journey from Coarsegold through Yosemite up Highway 395 to Pat's condo in Lake Tahoe was filled with glorious images. Hundreds of them.

I celebrate the friendship of someone who let me indulge my oohhhs and ahhhhhs--and took quite a few beautiful snaps of her own.

That's enough for tonight. But I hope you, my friends, will pop in to check out this blog from time to time. After all, more important than any material possession is the magnificent collection of friends I've acquired over the last 66+ years. I love you all.

Godspeed, Grammy

It's really hard to believe she's gone.

Too soon. Much too soon.

Grammy is Louise Wiberg, my son-in-law's grandmother. Until just a month ago, she was a vibrant 89-year-old with a major birthday party in her future to celebrate her 90th decade. I wasn't lucky enough to know Grammy that well, or her husband, Harold (O'Dad), but I consider myself fortunate to have known them at all.

Several holidays were spent in their company either at their home in Irvine or at the home of Jason's folks in Trabuco Canyon, and those are very special memories that will be treasured forever.

Grammy passed away in the early morning hours of July 20 after a short but turbulent battle with a recurrence of cancer.

My heart and my condolences go out to O'Dad, Spike, Hal and the rest of the Wiberg clan.

Life's Changes

Welcome to my blog.

It's been more than a year since I've written anything and the first time I've opened up the blog to public eyes. I hope you'll check in from time to time to see what's happening in this glorious slice of the world: a small part of John Muir's Range of Light.

What a year it's been. So much has changed. So much is still in flux.

Suddenly my life contains something precious as gold, rare as hen's teeth up till now: time. My work week has turned into a "weekend" and weekends now stretch up to five days long. It's a switch that's requiring some mental adjustments, but I'm working on it. Thriving on it, in fact.

That's the newest change but far from the only one. In February Foxy, Grey Eagle and I left the backwoods of North Fork and moved to Yosemite Lakes Park where we're sharing a house with our dear friend, Carol. Grey Eagle, who just celebrated his nineteenth birthday, relishes the opportunity to dominate Carol, her lap and her house. Although she hates to admit it, she loves every minute. Foxy adores having a big back yard and a few dozen mule deer to "chase" through the fence that separates them.

When I moved to the Sierra Nevada foothills, nearly 20 years ago, I swore two things: I would never live in Yosemite Lakes Park, nor would I ever have a palm tree in my yard. Life has a funny way of turning the tables, and here I am, palm tree and all--and loving it! Well . . . still not so much loving the palm tree.

Go figure.

Yosemite Lakes Park, abbreviated YLP and pronounced "Wild Pea" around these parts is a "suburb" of Oakhurst and 25 or so miles north of Fresno. It's a place I originally considered "too yuppie" for my taste. While there are a lot of us big-city transplants around YLP, I guess, it's a rather horsey slice of the foothills not at all like the Southern California suburbs I escaped from. What was I thinking?

The best part of my life right now is the close proximity of daughter Farida along with favorite son-in-law Jason and one-and-only grandson, Hunter. They live on our 7+ acre property up in the wilds of North Fork, and I get to see them often.

The "other" best part of life is the opportunity to indulge even more than ever my passions for mountains, hiking, photography and writing. The writing has been on a back burner for the last ten years, and I look forward to bringing it front-and-center once again, starting with daily entries to this blog. I hope you'll let me share these passions and the many new ones sure to be discovered in the months and years to come with all of you.

The only downer is that daughter Nasreen still insists on staying in Santa Ana. She's a city girl, through-and-through. Where did I go wrong? I don't get to see--or even talk--to her nearly enough, but with my newfound freedom, perhaps that will change, too.

Thought for the day: We must be the change we wish to see in the world. --Mahatma Ghandi