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:
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.
Thursday, December 31, 2009
Wednesday, December 30, 2009
Travelin' On . . .
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?
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!
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.
Best of luck to you, dear pal. I miss you!
Tuesday, December 29, 2009
Khyber Dreams Chapter 9: A Little Bug
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.
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.
Monday, December 28, 2009
It's A Great Day, Foxy Brown!
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
Sunday, December 27, 2009
Christmas for Cats: The Sequel
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.
Saturday, December 26, 2009
Khyber Dreams Chapter 8: It's Not Fair!
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:
And it got worse after I got bit by the bug.
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
And it got worse after I got bit by the bug.
Friday, December 25, 2009
Christmas for Cats
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!
Thursday, December 24, 2009
Khyber Dreams Chapter 7: Major Surgery
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.
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.
Wednesday, December 23, 2009
Shake that Bush!
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.
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.
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.
Tuesday, December 22, 2009
What's in a Name?
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.
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.
Monday, December 21, 2009
Khyber Dreams Chapter 6: The "Homeboys" & A New Wardrobe
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.
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!
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.
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!
Sunday, December 20, 2009
Midnight, Dark Road
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.
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.
Saturday, December 19, 2009
If I Had It To Do Again
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.
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.
Friday, December 18, 2009
TIVO is a Tool of the Devil
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.
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.
Thursday, December 17, 2009
You Can't Go Home Again . . . or . . .
. . . 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?
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?
Wednesday, December 16, 2009
Blogs I Like
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:
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!)
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
- 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
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!)
Tuesday, December 15, 2009
Good News, Bad News
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.
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.
Monday, December 14, 2009
Snap Decisions
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.
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.
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.
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.
Saturday, December 12, 2009
The Great Snow of Aught 1
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.
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.
Friday, December 11, 2009
Hi, Stranger!
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.$
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.$
Thursday, December 10, 2009
Four Years Ago Today
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.
Wednesday, December 9, 2009
Winter Wonderland 2009 #1
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 . . .
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.
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.
Tuesday, December 8, 2009
Eight Years Ago Today
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.
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.
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.
Monday, December 7, 2009
Fun
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."
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