Resurfacing - Finally

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!

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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!

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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