tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-17654831681260131072024-03-05T16:04:25.862-08:00Chrysalis4"My story flows in more than one direction..." --Adrienne RichUnknownnoreply@blogger.comBlogger46125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1765483168126013107.post-61257183454260713862010-04-12T19:14:00.000-07:002010-04-12T19:51:54.405-07:00Settling In<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjBHPyuiDXCii6kUq8u8VurIxG9MtR81OjaB-s6rllTdN9SkxQAvSIa9K7fqD6WgRYMEeMdnXbBs0fYfqoVMR611eGcMQv_qSAhLhyb_ihDOcUMVc7Hajj0S6FP-TF2WsM9VKxeg2b2XKLR/s1600/ivy.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjBHPyuiDXCii6kUq8u8VurIxG9MtR81OjaB-s6rllTdN9SkxQAvSIa9K7fqD6WgRYMEeMdnXbBs0fYfqoVMR611eGcMQv_qSAhLhyb_ihDOcUMVc7Hajj0S6FP-TF2WsM9VKxeg2b2XKLR/s320/ivy.jpg" width="240" /></a></div><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: "Courier New",Courier,monospace;">After a dinner of Animal Crackers and wine on the porch swing, I've settled in. Back in October we left everything in the Emma House impossibly clean, thinking how fine it would be to come back and gradually clutter it again. So far there haven't been any surprises except one. The ivy that grows around the back porch has worked its way under the house, up through the bathroom floor, inside the door facing, and out into the bathroom. And yes, I'm going to leave it here. </span></span>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1765483168126013107.post-61621500201584935102010-03-29T21:53:00.000-07:002010-03-30T08:38:37.444-07:00Weigh Day, Weigh DayEvery couple of months we have to return to the scales, take a deep breath, look down, and get real. It's time to cut back the two treats we love most in San Francisco: crusty artisan bread and Napa Valley wine. Besides the scales, there are other reminders. Like the full length mirrors in yoga class, or the jeans that, after all this time, must have been dried too hot. <br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhP_B7hLlUtG3G8A_6Zxb1Pu5Tbg2-2_3j157zJf30Mt0BL5tTQRuo4FglDFT5ReFmEzAEa3ttMPCCS9TDWOues5TB8jDFg-UxKkq7k5s3hqmN5_bbzmNqzIRN9w3gT4G5IbF-QlqOqtVLK/s1600/LUNCH_SF2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="150" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhP_B7hLlUtG3G8A_6Zxb1Pu5Tbg2-2_3j157zJf30Mt0BL5tTQRuo4FglDFT5ReFmEzAEa3ttMPCCS9TDWOues5TB8jDFg-UxKkq7k5s3hqmN5_bbzmNqzIRN9w3gT4G5IbF-QlqOqtVLK/s200/LUNCH_SF2.jpg" width="200" /></a>Our neighborhood is full of ethnic and eclectic treats. John Campbell's Irish Bakery has hot cross buns during Lent, and Irish brown bread and blueberry scones all year round. Across the street is the Russian Bakery, with huge anise-flavored cookies and mounded meringues in pastel colors, so large they look like a pink, yellow, and white mountain range in the window. The folded meat pies are hamburger-onion delicious in the same way as White Castles. Enjoy now, be sorry later.<br />
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There's Starbuck's banana bread, and Pete's coffee with biscotto for the dipping. Royal Ground boasts a glass case with full-blown desserts: chocolate cheesecake, red velvet layers, and pumpkin pie with a whipped cream option. The only guilt-free treat is at Java Beach, an internet coffee-shop where Judah St. meets the sea. Their grainy bran muffins are the size of a cantaloupe and the perfect accompaniment is a steaming cup of chai. Calories, yes. But to deserve this snack you must hike down through the park to 49th Avenue, along Speedway Meadow, past the buffalo range, Spreckles Lake, and the Angler's Lodge. Then skirt the ocean for a couple of blocks to the outdoor tables at Java Beach. You'll burn off the calories on the walk back home. Or at least that's what you say.<br />
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photo: panini and tomato bisque soup from a restaurant in the MarinaUnknownnoreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1765483168126013107.post-89125860641050172582010-03-13T15:55:00.000-08:002010-03-14T19:01:52.484-07:00Mixed Metaphors<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgYkguV1ZRz_SbMcuJdYjB-VaRU6Etz12RGuomi6iFEFPSZIILyIe7-6ElCvN-7JwwhhU4bASbf2StNcSJ4AEPfnqVgAyBd3LmM5aX01B_EsGkVKo0JIqO1rfRUzwnjN8FBeKr2SvbDRWyy/s1600-h/Great+redwoods.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgYkguV1ZRz_SbMcuJdYjB-VaRU6Etz12RGuomi6iFEFPSZIILyIe7-6ElCvN-7JwwhhU4bASbf2StNcSJ4AEPfnqVgAyBd3LmM5aX01B_EsGkVKo0JIqO1rfRUzwnjN8FBeKr2SvbDRWyy/s320/Great+redwoods.jpg" width="240" /></a></div>With houseguests we travel the city, coast, and outlying areas as if we're seeing San Francisco for the first time, and that's how it feels. Last week I toured Alcatraz with Mason. As we followed a circular path to the top of the rock, I remembered Mont-Saint-Michel in Normandy--its wind-battered arches and sharply ascending pathways.<br />
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Any joy I felt on this small island was erased at the sight of the cell blocks, two tiers of cages hardly large enough to hold the regulation cot, toilet, and bowl-sized sink.<br />
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The next day's journey was a hike through Muir Woods. If the cell blocks of Alcatraz suggested ultimate confinement, then this grand canyon of sequoias stood for unbridled freedom. At every side, lush ferns and mosses presided over rocky creeks. Above us, arms of the sequoias soared to touch a white-paper sky, barely acknowledging that they, like us, were rooted in the soil.Unknownnoreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1765483168126013107.post-89054110504519823082010-03-04T14:51:00.000-08:002010-03-04T18:23:28.391-08:00Chinese New Year Parade<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEilwTU06bNRmc2gkohsarVLTgx_KAZDdbQR8J1zbTwZYgx6tSK5mv8by0-VFPR1puvBwSYv0deYA4kVQgSJq92cuIQ18zuOhSE10WYciQH62ck5qFeXX8aFdMprJHKXdj1c2xZZBlEB1Bme/s1600-h/Parade_dragon_Shoes.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="480" kt="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEilwTU06bNRmc2gkohsarVLTgx_KAZDdbQR8J1zbTwZYgx6tSK5mv8by0-VFPR1puvBwSYv0deYA4kVQgSJq92cuIQ18zuOhSE10WYciQH62ck5qFeXX8aFdMprJHKXdj1c2xZZBlEB1Bme/s640/Parade_dragon_Shoes.JPG" width="640" /></a><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgqE8dUwTFiTOShO2OxkG47zaymhaYRBV0SdXXRU8v307JOFo5PdO_kS_qCum9jkfprkFezG5wVrbvFi39anKAuj5ILzWGSL1-t2MY-_LL0DhZwiBJKKZdLSyFTTLGHqKOTbhtC2D3lRTor/s1600-h/Parade_Dragon+%282%29.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="202" kt="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgqE8dUwTFiTOShO2OxkG47zaymhaYRBV0SdXXRU8v307JOFo5PdO_kS_qCum9jkfprkFezG5wVrbvFi39anKAuj5ILzWGSL1-t2MY-_LL0DhZwiBJKKZdLSyFTTLGHqKOTbhtC2D3lRTor/s400/Parade_Dragon+%282%29.JPG" width="400" /><br />
</a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; color: black; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgqE8dUwTFiTOShO2OxkG47zaymhaYRBV0SdXXRU8v307JOFo5PdO_kS_qCum9jkfprkFezG5wVrbvFi39anKAuj5ILzWGSL1-t2MY-_LL0DhZwiBJKKZdLSyFTTLGHqKOTbhtC2D3lRTor/s1600-h/Parade_Dragon+%282%29.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;">Another dragon. A few kids' moms were helping steer the dragon from underneath...not a job for the faint of heart</a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br />
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</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">More kids from Asian immersion schools</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjSOIZkd_qlhRPNHUXrRQA3IXfF9M5XyowjfhnMx57x6jSJHpPN8tlzcMkmgwYojaK8BO14RzSz5ImGzHKLiItnI8qzQh0Wd0C00L8TK41hEXgIc9L8tjKEqG-ERBRflaAevykUiRIMe3Te/s1600-h/Ice+cream+in+Hawi.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" ct="true" height="150" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjSOIZkd_qlhRPNHUXrRQA3IXfF9M5XyowjfhnMx57x6jSJHpPN8tlzcMkmgwYojaK8BO14RzSz5ImGzHKLiItnI8qzQh0Wd0C00L8TK41hEXgIc9L8tjKEqG-ERBRflaAevykUiRIMe3Te/s200/Ice+cream+in+Hawi.JPG" width="200" /></a></div>Kohala is the oldest part of the island, and upturned a'a has changed into something resembling soil. The ocean is to our left and washboard roads lead to the water. Finally the highway dead-ends at a small settlement called Hawi. There's an ice cream shop and a dozen or so <i>Galleries</i>, or upscale muu muu shops. We have an expensive single dip of coffee ice cream with chocolate chips, sit in the shade and get one of the locals to snap our photo. <br />
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<div style="text-align: left;">The road east from Hawi goes only one place, and that's to the Pululu overlook. The guide book said for the best photos, take the trail. There was no trail in sight, only many tourists who, like us, had inched their cars off the road for a better view. </div><div class="separator" style="border: medium none; clear: both; text-align: center;"><br />
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We shot way too many frames of this and even so didn't get a shot that does it justice. What's missing is a brooding sky to the east, a strong wind off the ocean, and the glaring face of the farmer whose fence row we were crowding. <br />
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After a salad and more last minute shopping back in Hawi, we headed down the center of the region, traveling the length of a volcanic spine that must have been slightly to the windward side. The hills were so lush we could have been in Ireland.<br />
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<div class="separator" style="border: medium none; clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjYftmQfCpUlCNIhSKPu8si7g-lwszOrSXnjO1luk7DMX7lZY_N_FWfwzK38oqgThNP0CT7TJ79QJmjpbOA1y1nUhKd-k8ez8oJvCD7g-4rJUnUuvY83IPUaWBqHLrI5Lz16Mtw4ipBAcuS/s1600-h/Kohala+Pastures.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" ct="true" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjYftmQfCpUlCNIhSKPu8si7g-lwszOrSXnjO1luk7DMX7lZY_N_FWfwzK38oqgThNP0CT7TJ79QJmjpbOA1y1nUhKd-k8ez8oJvCD7g-4rJUnUuvY83IPUaWBqHLrI5Lz16Mtw4ipBAcuS/s400/Kohala+Pastures.JPG" width="400" /></a></div>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1765483168126013107.post-91220230974822225822010-02-17T19:17:00.000-08:002010-02-19T00:28:42.572-08:00Everywhere<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjujvSowDD6CchNOz-zV9oM467FuaffcWpJoy8m9PVSVSPdgPQ6qJl3SMGsSGw7zDvG_Gq0mNuzp70dEpRTC-hOJRDCP4x1TV0ng60npLZ-Y7yxNijCXtttlJf65XLi8VwbTq8m87wT_muD/s1600-h/tree.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" ct="true" height="168" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjujvSowDD6CchNOz-zV9oM467FuaffcWpJoy8m9PVSVSPdgPQ6qJl3SMGsSGw7zDvG_Gq0mNuzp70dEpRTC-hOJRDCP4x1TV0ng60npLZ-Y7yxNijCXtttlJf65XLi8VwbTq8m87wT_muD/s200/tree.JPG" width="200" /></a></div>There are little altars, memorials, and offering bundles everywhere. In the black a'a fields, white pebbles trace out a cross and a name.<br />
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Stones are aligned on an ancient heiau with such focus on balance and rhythm that they almost speak. I try to listen, but it is a lost language.<br />
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Past the coffee plantations, a tree is festooned with orchid leis, sparkles, and yellow hibiscus. My eyes say, "It's a celebration," but my heart knows otherwise.Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1765483168126013107.post-40710527260985744752010-02-16T18:05:00.000-08:002010-02-16T18:15:44.794-08:00Birthday, Snorkel Day, Whale Day<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgx5ksHZEGfdlrZz2vdW-_cuiSwFn936giC6l5IegLhCR-9eRvWNoBA_yrv5V6BNFLy4WvN99pmt0YGymQG9wDilJuUgoaDLKcXNnXxXSM1h2LZPiUv17Db21Rqg_j9eIRiyHThn_dBiO9_/s1600-h/The+Boat.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; cssfloat: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" ct="true" height="150" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgx5ksHZEGfdlrZz2vdW-_cuiSwFn936giC6l5IegLhCR-9eRvWNoBA_yrv5V6BNFLy4WvN99pmt0YGymQG9wDilJuUgoaDLKcXNnXxXSM1h2LZPiUv17Db21Rqg_j9eIRiyHThn_dBiO9_/s200/The+Boat.JPG" width="200" /></a></div>We set the alarm this morning and rushed through breakfast buffet to make it to the snorkeling excursion on time. The boat was small and the two girls piloting it were college students. Maybe. But we hopped on anyway, all slicked down with 80 proof sunscreen and carrying the waterproof camera we got yesterday at Hilo Walmart.<br />
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Ira seemed tentative about the whole excursion. I was most worried about cold water. <em>The Big Island Revealed</em> says water temp in Hawai'i is consistent year-round, but it IS February.<br />
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<div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgrsqud68gY1wi5lmeK21t83CMP0aUZ06liRG4AszN-SE7ajFkD9btBQy8SZfXGjrU3Cr4xgao67s1gIQjSaUA7JttLL347MX5Isi2vIOarQNJjKTqJx4KjAlnf6hb5vTt5E9xX1QH0HYHd/s1600-h/Sea+Cave.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; cssfloat: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" ct="true" height="150" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgrsqud68gY1wi5lmeK21t83CMP0aUZ06liRG4AszN-SE7ajFkD9btBQy8SZfXGjrU3Cr4xgao67s1gIQjSaUA7JttLL347MX5Isi2vIOarQNJjKTqJx4KjAlnf6hb5vTt5E9xX1QH0HYHd/s200/Sea+Cave.JPG" width="200" /></a></div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;"><br />
</div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;">We took the long route to Captain Cook Beach and saw a sea cave and some lava flows that can't be accessed except by boat. We learned once more about <em>a'a</em> and <em>pahoehoe</em>, the two types of lava. Then we each received a pair of flippers in our own size, along with a snorkeling mask and tube. In time we got our gear on the right way and slid over the side for some serious snorkeling. The water was warm. We could see a large coral reef about 15 feet below us, and schools of Needle-Nose fish and orange Tang fish, no doubt named for the breakfast drink. Periodically we all had to paddle around, cough, and clear the salt water out of our masks.</div><br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgwjYbmJj1VL6npK696oAkQYRksHsij1MU1qlx8mh5q4gYtY35VW4lYDAbpNYk0HhXVsMNFb9uFPbaetCIBnApdc-UfkCq2yTfRbLBLnofTGZrqT9bsBPZNMWAOuodsm-mb6gyS10DS8FUR/s1600-h/Humpback.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; cssfloat: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" ct="true" height="146" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgwjYbmJj1VL6npK696oAkQYRksHsij1MU1qlx8mh5q4gYtY35VW4lYDAbpNYk0HhXVsMNFb9uFPbaetCIBnApdc-UfkCq2yTfRbLBLnofTGZrqT9bsBPZNMWAOuodsm-mb6gyS10DS8FUR/s200/Humpback.JPG" width="200" /></a></div>We each had a snack of Fritos and papaya while the girl-pilots dropped a hydrophone into the water so we could listen to the singing of the Humpback Whales. Their calls echo, and are like a cross between mooing and howling. Whales from each region have one common song and that song becomes more elaborate each time the whales return to their breeding ground. According to the guides, the song of the whale is not just noise but indeed a melody, with a beginning, guitar break, and end. Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1765483168126013107.post-23764904113456699792010-02-15T22:19:00.000-08:002010-02-19T00:43:18.419-08:00A Day of the Unexpected<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div>Today we drove through the saddle-shaped valley from Kona to Hilo on the other side of the island. I was expecting it to be bumpy, long, and barren but most was red-ochre hills against the green-violet shapes of Mauna Kea and Mauna Loa. We dodged potholes and wild turkeys for the first ten miles or so, but otherwise it wasn't bad at all.<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiQ-k43QZ6NdFHfR52G8IeRTHCZrNqxsyN5kLrjFVFAcmNyL75I2vru-z2b_lp57F_bOldB0pmBFY3dqM84wYRRKVOanx9kp2iM329lW_XP6nOZ6NM7JxcBkTldP5l5lhLFYtcHZB8bW49w/s1600-h/February+15,+2010+007.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" ct="true" height="150" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiQ-k43QZ6NdFHfR52G8IeRTHCZrNqxsyN5kLrjFVFAcmNyL75I2vru-z2b_lp57F_bOldB0pmBFY3dqM84wYRRKVOanx9kp2iM329lW_XP6nOZ6NM7JxcBkTldP5l5lhLFYtcHZB8bW49w/s200/February+15,+2010+007.JPG" width="200" /></a></div>Hilo was all bright sunlight, another thing we hadn't counted on, though there were puddles everywhere and evidence of bountiful rain in the lush vegitation. The storefronts along Hilo Bay had a well-worn small town feel, as Ira said, "like tropical Scottsville in its heyday." More quality, for sure, than muu muu and shell stretch in Kona. We felt at home in Hilo (maybe because it was Phil and Chris's home for a few years), liked our lamb pita at the Puka Puka, and really liked our Kosmic Cone dipped in chocolate. (We also liked Banyan St., which is pretty hard to explain, except maybe as driving through a lot of old lady's legs.)<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj-Lmvc5Ssv00x5fr-86rHlMPtqawtI3JLiqt57XNyhhd6oTXrP-IZMBdw3tj6ZhIyqQutriqMLRzHEWykTKWaG1PWz1zyO09knSQpa6IRyJ_h6VRpFltHk70bUQ8d6HMketoNRwNXYRmf1/s1600-h/painted+church.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" ct="true" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj-Lmvc5Ssv00x5fr-86rHlMPtqawtI3JLiqt57XNyhhd6oTXrP-IZMBdw3tj6ZhIyqQutriqMLRzHEWykTKWaG1PWz1zyO09knSQpa6IRyJ_h6VRpFltHk70bUQ8d6HMketoNRwNXYRmf1/s200/painted+church.jpg" width="150" /></a></div>Puna is the volcanic triangle on the coast south of Hilo, described in Doughty's <i>Big Island Tour Book</i> as a real outlaw land, where people don't mind setting up housekeeping in the path of an active lava flow. We did see some evidence of that as we drove south from Hilo: there was a white clapboard island house with "Merry Christmas" spray painted in black across the front. And as we neared the coast we saw a wild child --shirtless, shoeless, and with untamed island locks--running toward us in the road. As we neared, he ducked into the most tall and dense vegetation I have ever seen. There was no sign of an opening, but he knew where he was going.<br />
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We came upon a painted church and wondered if this might indeed be the last sign of civilization we would encounter. (This is a topic for another day, but the painted churches in Hawai'i are pure magic. )We took photos, put a few dollars in the "Thank you" box, and moved on. At this point we could hear the ocean.<br />
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Around the curve the narrow road was barricaded and then barricaded again. There were signs(and more signs) that told us not to drive our (rental) car over the heaping, loopy, jagged, sinister looking mounds of petrified black lava that had engulfed the road. OK, we were really thinking about putting it in gear and climbing over this hellish heap, but maybe we'll reconsider.<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg1K1pcApZbdggd55VKf9U8X-6H6TGv6TiOiZoHWuAXWJUcfAsjLr-Lc81Kj9L_dNXcKQ36lPv2rXuZfkun9vQ3hxvdOMWK0fa_0pyjG55RUaCtCLPiP9EXULeSU8cQh3TDPNkUBYm-9zDB/s1600-h/February+15,+2010+018.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" ct="true" height="150" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg1K1pcApZbdggd55VKf9U8X-6H6TGv6TiOiZoHWuAXWJUcfAsjLr-Lc81Kj9L_dNXcKQ36lPv2rXuZfkun9vQ3hxvdOMWK0fa_0pyjG55RUaCtCLPiP9EXULeSU8cQh3TDPNkUBYm-9zDB/s200/February+15,+2010+018.JPG" width="200" /></a></div>A quick left and we were on what (we thought) would be the totally wild and untamed Puna costal ride. Not quite what we had imagined....both more and less wild than we'd envisioned. Straight ahead--total rain forest with trees bending to touch over the road, just flora on steroids, little shop of horrors, what next around the curve?? <br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjT2BC3eQ0wDuTTIgD2uPs0oytE6h5WyD2yOZj6U-n-vgq5Xis3fT-UOMypUirAt1e9ef3XSxdyXI2halaSq8srDoOCrCGQVSawSgGOpmw17UAkVAJdLXV2CGlBNwGSAW5dQZAQt-vtlPbG/s1600-h/Puna_waves.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" ct="true" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjT2BC3eQ0wDuTTIgD2uPs0oytE6h5WyD2yOZj6U-n-vgq5Xis3fT-UOMypUirAt1e9ef3XSxdyXI2halaSq8srDoOCrCGQVSawSgGOpmw17UAkVAJdLXV2CGlBNwGSAW5dQZAQt-vtlPbG/s200/Puna_waves.jpg" width="150" /></a></div>In answer to that....ocean meets rocky lava like you wouldn't believe. There must be a name for this, mega-spumoni?? No, too many letters for Hawai'in, but the intersection of black stone and sea was quite an opera.<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgyx4BwJeO5RxVPbNr4USNPTgDXzWAdFwsXKutJ6eQAXR3PixFkDH4I-DSW_7eXz1En-N0WpEGGbSRWkacjgZP3ZeP4aweX76cK-Tqv7mGQQBZ6Md0J9U5kSzXotNw-zpnT88AHTYuviUvq/s1600-h/February+15,+2010+024.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" ct="true" height="150" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgyx4BwJeO5RxVPbNr4USNPTgDXzWAdFwsXKutJ6eQAXR3PixFkDH4I-DSW_7eXz1En-N0WpEGGbSRWkacjgZP3ZeP4aweX76cK-Tqv7mGQQBZ6Md0J9U5kSzXotNw-zpnT88AHTYuviUvq/s200/February+15,+2010+024.JPG" width="200" /></a></div>The biggest shock: here were a lot of ritzy houses tucked behind the ferns of Puna, probably owned by people who paid the guidebook man to throw us off the trail. On the left, a hidden design by Frank Gehry? Then a few miles on the right, a shack selling holistic medicines and that green leaf that is not fully legal in the other fourty-nine. And so forth, repeat, repeat, repeat.<br />
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Finally we headed back through Hilo, back through Banyan Street and the bay, and up toward Honoka'a, where it did finally rain. In a few minutes the sky cleared and we had a lavender sunset all the way back to Kona, not too shabby a day.Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1765483168126013107.post-46220265788937178102010-02-14T21:14:00.000-08:002010-02-19T21:52:54.967-08:00A Crackers and Cheese Day<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjOM1ijRsDPa25SyD-RkFDY7PBpnmKMlR1jh2y0its5VHKARNcP78qTiv-_5ZVd1U8ftrehevNEpaTJrdi6UQL1B60mMVNW0DzA0_nlBvCFAND9nV5lb8B7qRhXn1UpCsrFGBU0Tzk-Qu3M/s1600-h/sampan.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" ct="true" height="150" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjOM1ijRsDPa25SyD-RkFDY7PBpnmKMlR1jh2y0its5VHKARNcP78qTiv-_5ZVd1U8ftrehevNEpaTJrdi6UQL1B60mMVNW0DzA0_nlBvCFAND9nV5lb8B7qRhXn1UpCsrFGBU0Tzk-Qu3M/s200/sampan.JPG" width="200" /></a></div>Here we are on the Kona Coast and I have to admit it: the highlight of my day was when The University of Louisville Men's Basketball Team upset Syracuse, Beyond that, though, it was a laid-back day that included some early morning pool time and then a walk through Kona's muu muu, shell necklace, and beef jerky district along the sea wall.<br />
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Between shops we did notice a few things that mentally, if not physically, took us off the strip: a young boy steering his board around the bay; graceful banyan trees and chattering mynah birds, and the first church of the island (1820s) where someone had obviously found sanctuary--he was stretched out and snoring loudly on the back pew.<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiqRi91rwz5cLnYZTWpXmo9Z-FClzfAKPBBFHIrPlYbtSyksIfhQypEL6jLy6K7soi-rowM_uhOorgUfxLu8VwdGmSgYg-Vfczz3wdju_J3A1dreTcvL5GoH2l9rIp1XGgiKQRIJBhyfdfz/s1600-h/February+14,+2010+014.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" ct="true" height="150" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiqRi91rwz5cLnYZTWpXmo9Z-FClzfAKPBBFHIrPlYbtSyksIfhQypEL6jLy6K7soi-rowM_uhOorgUfxLu8VwdGmSgYg-Vfczz3wdju_J3A1dreTcvL5GoH2l9rIp1XGgiKQRIJBhyfdfz/s200/February+14,+2010+014.JPG" width="200" /></a></div>Before leaving Kona and driving the six miles back to our hotel on Keauhou Bay we stopped at Safeway for bottle of wine and multiple varieties of cheese and crackers...otherwise known as dining in.<br />
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From our deck we could still see a few fish swimming in the still water of the tidal pools. And soon, just the sound of the waves.Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1765483168126013107.post-62149289661512267032010-02-13T21:25:00.000-08:002010-02-19T00:45:39.655-08:00Just Venting<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEicHIyfxQ0usmn7HedF2NP5KgBHyTmjoeJYfEZiiGlMcowWl7e_DlJIIOXTTww6y3F55_G7R8wy2mOnCcp_KLWkN1vmVlsGVztqRHHhUXoDfxy0W2g1BR68B-0yVmlvXm2JVKSJh13ZCa0G/s1600-h/Caldera.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" ct="true" height="150" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEicHIyfxQ0usmn7HedF2NP5KgBHyTmjoeJYfEZiiGlMcowWl7e_DlJIIOXTTww6y3F55_G7R8wy2mOnCcp_KLWkN1vmVlsGVztqRHHhUXoDfxy0W2g1BR68B-0yVmlvXm2JVKSJh13ZCa0G/s200/Caldera.JPG" width="200" /></a></div>Kilauea Caldera was a real showboat today, belching out snowy steam and so much sulphurious smoke that the pregnant, aged, or infirm were not allowed to play on the rim. After some thought we decided we didn't fit into any of those categories so we hung out around the Jaggar Museum and took photos with the rest of the kids.<br />
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Every museum has its hairball and the Jaggar Museum is no exception. Enshrined in a glass case are the clothes Dr. Thomas Jaggar, volcanologist, was wearing when he first set foot i<i>nto </i>the red hot lava flow in the early 1900s. The shoes are warped and melted, his bush-style slacks are in charred fringes, and his small pick hammer is completely encased in the black stuff. Apparently Dr. Jaggar was doing a close inspection of his special lava, perhaps deciding if it was (1) <i>a'a,</i> rough and porous lava or (2) <i>pahoehoe</i>, which is smooth and ropey. There are no actual photographs of Dr. Jaggar after the incident.<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjhfjQkkeNAPUhEb9lnj-gKoEab5e1cuLjJj3STwqXlvf-XuTEWYKfEUR9LFtqLX-uHZAU-IIGdnskPlkuLz45nKUksh483rkhVPF7M-6VMVmQFNTg2jtIvWBzG27F1BRNgmrRVlRgRjdLQ/s1600-h/Hawaii+2.13.10+008.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" ct="true" height="150" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjhfjQkkeNAPUhEb9lnj-gKoEab5e1cuLjJj3STwqXlvf-XuTEWYKfEUR9LFtqLX-uHZAU-IIGdnskPlkuLz45nKUksh483rkhVPF7M-6VMVmQFNTg2jtIvWBzG27F1BRNgmrRVlRgRjdLQ/s200/Hawaii+2.13.10+008.JPG" width="200" /></a></div>While on Hwy. 11 we stopped at Punalu'u beach, and experienced the black volcanic sand first-hand. <br />
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After leaving Caldera we drove a few miles toward Hilo, and discovered that we had been misled all these years. At least in Hawaii, the grass really IS greener on the other side.Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1765483168126013107.post-65878742613696984252010-02-12T21:48:00.000-08:002010-02-19T00:48:36.731-08:00Lunch at the Hana Hou and Other StoriesIn our quest to be non-touristos, we headed into Naalehu for some local food. Our tour book recommended Hana Hou, which was one of maybe two restaurants in Naalehu. Besides a turkey burger and Asian slaw, we got Garth Brooks, Chinese lanterns, ceramic red peppers nailed on the wall, a row of white dishrags hanging on a line stretched between back porch posts, and a really good Rocky Road Brownie, my favorite part.<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgR7ncf2m9vAb1nNj-Dv7_cuXuctnFsQA_KBt_vqhXTTctvMQwS-MGzjEl2QQPpEhIYo13wvtwSip6u7_FE1Le0sIWbtKR8FJ312GjVpH0K2Uwmm-aYM8QKZEpQK0K2bizDZtDNlSTaZDJc/s1600-h/Hana+Hou.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" ct="true" height="150" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgR7ncf2m9vAb1nNj-Dv7_cuXuctnFsQA_KBt_vqhXTTctvMQwS-MGzjEl2QQPpEhIYo13wvtwSip6u7_FE1Le0sIWbtKR8FJ312GjVpH0K2Uwmm-aYM8QKZEpQK0K2bizDZtDNlSTaZDJc/s200/Hana+Hou.JPG" width="200" /></a>Backing up just a bit, we spent this whole day driving a long loop from our hotel below Kona through coffee plantation country and down to South Point, the southernmost point of Hawaii and the USA. To get there, we hung a right off the main road and traveled a bumpy 12 miles past scattered farm houses, wind turbines, and grazing cows. When we arrived (the end of the road), here's what there was: a huge panorama of cerulean ocean on all sides; a dozen jeep-like cars parked in the dust; five or six macho-sized fishing rods wedged into lava rock ledge, their lines trailing out into the sea; and wow---right in front of us two black humpback whales, breaching, diving, slip-sliding all over the horizon. It was amazing.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">Soooo-- after discovering the beautiful blue at South Point, we headed a little further out toward Naalehu for burgers and the Rocky Road Brownie. Which was, now that I think of it, my second-favorite part of the day.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
</div>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1765483168126013107.post-35647231326164392192010-01-25T16:44:00.000-08:002010-02-20T17:50:10.896-08:00And what she wore<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgWQP0vOJLzx21K-8ZeGy1e9fpTgu0RmfOyyPQxax7JfutoqArzi1nCy2ccM23txKuFpUNa8ISnGHoU4Cpstw8t0DhM6MiK6kDw1F8Q-KKcN_JXs8KiRfQ1IFIREoaoY3aiwTOKA-yvb65-/s1600-h/Nunny_Cropped.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgWQP0vOJLzx21K-8ZeGy1e9fpTgu0RmfOyyPQxax7JfutoqArzi1nCy2ccM23txKuFpUNa8ISnGHoU4Cpstw8t0DhM6MiK6kDw1F8Q-KKcN_JXs8KiRfQ1IFIREoaoY3aiwTOKA-yvb65-/s320/Nunny_Cropped.jpg" width="178" /></a></div>It’s just a dark brown shawl, not that old, but when I wrap it about me I settle into history and become my great-great grandmother. <br />
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The only full length photograph I have of Martha Elizabeth Johnson Spillman Watson is one composed in her middle-age. She’s standing on the steps of the tidy, white frame, gingerbread-trim house that is now the Hickman County Museum.<br />
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Nunny--as they called her-- endured the Civil War, a first husband who didn’t come home, a second marriage pierced by deaths of two small sons, and years of widowhood beginning in her forties.Yet on a snowy day during the Great Depression, she chose her attire, walked to her front steps, and regally posed for a picture postcard.<br />
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She still had her spirit. She cared what she wore.<br />
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Clothes delight me--for this reason and a hundred more. As a five-year-old I’d snuggle against my own grandmother and interrupt her stories to say, “and what she wore was...” I was the costume designer to her tales of young Tina and wild carpet rides . A few years older I scratched out pencil drawings--sophisticates in flaring shirtwaists, cinched belts, and sling-back heels. I was a grown up woman with freedom to design and choose.<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh0AmKwSuAYNId5GLVpOFyfTJ-3_HMkn53vsBgkRXfesoVtAFrsHvc66HfbpgFtF5QQbr-2zWd2vxdxdbNkrd8EAYupZeqa103rgiLQpWnUjUVxL_sI4oUt-FxP3gU7bgT8zEtQkLKrSs7b/s1600-h/scan0001.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh0AmKwSuAYNId5GLVpOFyfTJ-3_HMkn53vsBgkRXfesoVtAFrsHvc66HfbpgFtF5QQbr-2zWd2vxdxdbNkrd8EAYupZeqa103rgiLQpWnUjUVxL_sI4oUt-FxP3gU7bgT8zEtQkLKrSs7b/s320/scan0001.jpg" width="144" /></a></div>The only woman in my family to openly celebrate her wardrobe was my great Aunt Sadie, who fed my growing addiction. From the Hudson’s a few blocks from her Detroit balcony came a scarlet bathing suit edged with a running trim of tiny white balls, a Spanish skirt and peasant blouse, the cowboy boots I'd broadly hinted for. She loved red and I'm sure that's what she was wearing in this photo as she sailed across Lake Michigan. But I remember her best--the age I am now--in a creamy white wool suit, beige stilettos, dark hair caught in a French roll. Sadie understood understatement.<br />
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My first wearable design was a skirt stitched from one of my brother’s cloth diapers. It fit like an bandage. More attempts would follow, with quiet encouragement and tutoring from Frances who lived up the hill, and unsupressed eye-rolling from Mom. In my teens I sewed sleeveless summer pants-dress that flared from the waist into rippling sail-like legs. The project worked, but my plan for a debut at church was blocked. “No,” my mother said. “No. Period.”<br />
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Taboos of the early sixties became the norm in no time. I wore gypsy pairings like a peacock's plume-- navy with avocado, purple paisley with ruffles, fringe and macrame all floating on a bare and over-tanned midriff. I sailed toward college in a sea of beaded bracelets, frayed jeans, and undulating tie dyes. My hair grew past my shoulders, fragile and stick straight, but still I ironed it. Near high school graduation my friend Cherry pierced my ears against an ice cube and I wore delicate silver hoops in full view of my father, knowing it would be far easier to receive forgiveness than permission.<br />
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As a college student and young wife my standards matured. Instead of memorizing French (a move I would regret) I once again took up sewing. In September I sashayed to class in orange: flared slacks and a floor-length vest of double-knit, worn over a matching Cossack shirt. In January, <i>The French Lieutenant’s Woman </i>billowed forth in an indigo cape, down 3rd Street in Louisville and across campus for classes in design. A happy time, me and my creations.<br />
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After college, a turning point. Newly degreed, we U-hauled to a town perfect for raising two sons, perfect for Garden Club, Country Club. Perfect for wealthy farmers' wives feasting on barbecue. Perfect for library cards and church choir. A tacit dress code reigned for young wives, and I complied with a silent submission reserved for Southern girls. I stirred up corn pudding, dopped off Matt and Kent at school, accepted a part-time writing job, endured.<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgFQ0q-vjTudkgsS7Ig1wizBjQ51GbLzDqRkBTIIeoZlT79pWZ-FE74sg7QqHFO70EipYrO3GyFI1TyddAYtdRTmsrAUMWr5IF2hfM0proyQ6N8Kwt6pY_oV3D7xfLrmj41ZLL-Lvb_G59a/s1600-h/Mary_Parker.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgFQ0q-vjTudkgsS7Ig1wizBjQ51GbLzDqRkBTIIeoZlT79pWZ-FE74sg7QqHFO70EipYrO3GyFI1TyddAYtdRTmsrAUMWr5IF2hfM0proyQ6N8Kwt6pY_oV3D7xfLrmj41ZLL-Lvb_G59a/s320/Mary_Parker.jpg" width="162" /></a></div>Deliverance came in the form of a neighbor. Mary Parker –older than my mother–-served me tea and spoke of Europe. She showed me hidden seams of her Chanel-style coat, read with me the silky Braille of an oriental rug, the draping hand of a length of foulard, the hand-tied fagoting of a linen napkin. Her kitchen curtains were a tailor’s dream--stripes joined invisibly, windowpane plaids in architectural alignment. And all so crisply pressed to looked like origami. <br />
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She talked with me, and her four-room cottage sang with <i>joie de vivre</i>. <br />
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And so my sense of self emerged, its organdy presence unfolding and tentatively taking flight: the day we wore the hats to Keeneland, the floral gardening jacket, tea stained into antiquity at the kitchen sink. A disastrous black-tie dinner, bearable then and in retrospect thanks to a photograph of what I wore: vintage black lace with butterfly sleeves, found in a box in Mom's attic..<br />
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Days brightened more with the next relocation A waving line of laundry welcomed me from across the yard, and soon the laundress followed. Barb appeared in my kitchen for coffee, sympathy, and instant bonding in the form of what she wore, what she sewed, and what she dared to hang on the line outdoors. Outlasting subsequent moves and marriages, Barb keeps the taupe silk we bought in Montmartre, shopkeeper muttering and fuming as he converted sixteen yards to meters. Like us, it's undivided, the bold yardage of life. <br />
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Lately I’ve culled. Out, out, damn spots, damned prints and animal skins. Out candy pinks, unruly reds. Out, trendy things, spied on a rainy day. But boots can stay until they fall apart. The black skirts stay, and all things taupe, the jeans that fit, ascending stack of black t-shirts. The bracelets, one for every day. And one last remnant of my hippie stage–I’m sorry, Dad-- I've kept my silver loops.<br />
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Mary Parker, long dead, still lingers in my wardrobe: a crisp white shirt, purchased for the feel of the fabric alone; a camel-tan coat found at the consignment shop. Not my hue, but so perfectly detailed that I returned twice to look and finally brought it home. My Sadie-shoes, unwearable. Red leather clutch, Key West.<br />
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Some pieces should be discarded but I just don't have the heart. Others give me a nameless sense of security. One or two are gloriously impractical, and, like the silk Barb keeps in storage, trail with me from house to house-- the fabric of our halcyon days, our hearts. And what we wore.Unknownnoreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1765483168126013107.post-84217359728458602282010-01-18T16:16:00.000-08:002010-01-18T16:31:56.665-08:00The hot and the sourThis morning our house was power-washed by the most intense rainstorm of the season. First vertical, then horizontal, the downpour came at our sunspace windows with enough roar and force to send us running to see how much damage was being done. Everything was intact, and soon after the worst of the storm the skies cleared for a few minutes before storm two (of three in the forecast) came barreling in.<br />
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With a window of an hour at best, Ira and I layered up and charged down the front stairs to embark on day two of our hot and sour soup taste test competition.<br />
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</div>Hot and sour soup is, in Asian homes, the catch-all for leftovers. It's chicken soup with vinegar for sour and white pepper for hot. Straw mushrooms and tofu are often added, along with soy sauce, tiger lily buds and thinly sliced pork. Fresh cilantro and pineapple chunks are a bonus. This combination is the perfect cure for the rainy season, a cold, or a generic case of the blues.<br />
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If the hot and sour soup in a Chinese restaurant is wonderful, it's a sure thing that the rest of the meal will be even better. With that in mind we've made 2010 the Year of the Soup, a time to review all the eateries in our hood, and to answer the question once and for all: where can perfection be found?<br />
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Melisa's (that's with one <i>s</i>) restaurant on Balboa has been named by friends as the best soup in the hood and we began our quest there last week. We were underwhelmed. Melisa's was charming, but the hot and sour we brought home was flat in color and low on ingredients. What was there (tofu, sprouts, mushrooms) was fine but the broth was missing the luscious translucent red-brown color of soy sauce and hot chili sauce. The egg-drop component was a bit heavy for soup. Like scrambled eggs Kentucky-style.<br />
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Today's taste test at Tom Kiang on Geary was more successful. We're getting organized and now we have a mental scorecard in place. First, the visuals. Tom Kiang's hot and sour was beautiful, a deep, transparent red-brown. The aroma was perfect. The taste test? TK's soup was full of all the standard ingredients except pork slivers, which we didn't miss. The broth was just the right consistency, not too much cornstarch. But hot overpowered sour by just a bit, adding up to a little white pepper overkill.<br />
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We didn't find perfection today, but Tom Kiang did give us a terrific floor show. A Dim Sum restaurant, Tom Kiang specializes in small plates. (You might say Dim Sum is to Chinese as tapas is to Spanish.) So a big meal at Tom Kiang is made of many small appetizers.<br />
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We stuck to the plan of having hot and sour soup only, except for one digression--we couldn't resist a plate of four small dumplings stuffed with shrimp and greens. Otherwise our eyes got the feast as waiters and waitresses tempted diners with a non-stop parade of puffy brown pork rolls, glistening pot stickers with sauce, stir-fried greens, shumai (steamed dumplings), and crispy tempura shrimp with beady black eyes and fins intact.<br />
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Next week we may try Golden Chopstick on Balboa, or one of the restaurants on Clement. As rough as it is, our search must go on. The perfect hot and sour is hiding out there somewhere, and we'll just have to find it.Unknownnoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1765483168126013107.post-59228073538068856362010-01-15T17:11:00.000-08:002010-02-16T18:53:34.801-08:00And you're beyond<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj50WrcUGkGGTm2CEzdd2VS0sbCUAC0KmAupz5hfEnEPVGjxwTelcjiwNYlHXw5oUru1f_ik4QI_btYAtVnGskUhyG2sTSxCQt-cG6e6xbY9FU9GRIGXBeqdQp5A9hz13bUzAkhrRn-pWXr/s1600-h/Scan+5.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj50WrcUGkGGTm2CEzdd2VS0sbCUAC0KmAupz5hfEnEPVGjxwTelcjiwNYlHXw5oUru1f_ik4QI_btYAtVnGskUhyG2sTSxCQt-cG6e6xbY9FU9GRIGXBeqdQp5A9hz13bUzAkhrRn-pWXr/s320/Scan+5.jpeg" /></a></div>Today someone took my bike. I left it on the sidewalk by the trash cans with a sign taped on that said, <i>free</i>. And someone took it.<br />
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A dark red bike, a coaster, a straw basket wired on back--I bought it on a sunny Saturday when I lived in Lexington, newly single, unattached. A day for a solitary ride.<br />
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That day the bike man hauled his twenty or so reconditioned rides to a grassy median in the neighborhood, set up shop as he did every weekend during the summer, and sold each one for whatever he could get. I saw the bike, walked around it, squeezed the tires, hopped on and took a ride down Walton thinking to make the purchase there and then. The pedals worked; the brakes worked; and the size suited me fine. <br />
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I liked many things about my coaster: its rich and tasteful color, its tires with crack-crazed and ageing tea-patina’d walls. Most of all I liked the speed with which I could ease to the left out my short driveway, peddle down Cramer, around the playground, and up Bassett toward Kent and Minda’s house. I could pump up their hill, park by the porch, and settle into the swing for a glass of wine. In a world full of complexities, the bike could ease me to my destination with simplicity and efficiency. <br />
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When Ira and I moved to San Francisco the bike came with us. We forced it, wheels akimbo, into the already-overloaded van. It was the first item out as well. Here in the avenues and car-less much of the time, I’ve used it to coast down to the post office at Geary and 21st.; I’ve felt very European hopping off at the Richmond Market, filling my wicker basket with red and yellow peppers, beets, fresh dill. <br />
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On bright weekends Ira and I would take his bike and mine to the path that follows Ocean Beach. We'd ride against the wind, with the cracker-box houses of Sunset to our left and the misting and glimmering span of the Pacific to our right. Worries about parking and fueling were lost on those rides. I ignored the failing brakes and disengaging gears. For a mere 50 dollars, I had purchased freedom and brought it West with me.<br />
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On my first bike getaway, I rode with the Casparian sibs, Pete and Donna, on the winding, road from Clinton to Columbus, bumping over concrete bridges and swerving by stripped tires and aromatic roadkill. We stood and pumped up hills, and coasted between the lower fields. Dad picked us up at the park and documented our journey in snapshots. He treated us to frozen custards before heaping bikes and friends into the back of the farm truck and delivering us safely home. <br />
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On a grownup journey years later, my friend Barbara and I crisscrossed the flat streets of Key West on our rented bikes. We dodged roosters in Little Bahama and eased down Duvall and Southard, rolled through the stop sign on Angela and skidded on gravel as we cut around the sweltering cemetery. I can’t recall where we were going on those days, but I remember how we got there, cooled through time and space by the journey itself.<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhDQUGFDGSy-OGmOkRfQGLCx9g8IrMSvj_62QA_84dsxFVtGfnrJHp3rl1DGKIM0rASbzwMkvAsVpcZEmCBZS2Bg5YpPb9PEw-opiZjPFafttufJocpvDqW1xuPFwPY8HYRf2w830iJ5nfj/s1600-h/Scan+4.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhDQUGFDGSy-OGmOkRfQGLCx9g8IrMSvj_62QA_84dsxFVtGfnrJHp3rl1DGKIM0rASbzwMkvAsVpcZEmCBZS2Bg5YpPb9PEw-opiZjPFafttufJocpvDqW1xuPFwPY8HYRf2w830iJ5nfj/s200/Scan+4.jpeg" width="131" /></a></div>On a bolder expedition we left Gare St. Lazare in Paris, stepped off our train in Vernon and rented bikes to ride the 4 kilometers to Giverny. Already heady with bike-bought freedom we celebrated with an outdoor lunch of roasted vegetables. By the second glass of wine I was sobbing enthusiastically, caught in a circle of emotions brought on by wine and my all-too-recent divorce. I couldn’t finish my meal, and before getting back on our bikes we asked the waiter to package our leftovers for a later <i>dejuner</i>.<br />
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He emerged from the kitchen and in his hand was a small white plastic box containing my mushrooms and couscous. This carrier was, he said, a container detached from his own refrigerator. In French the shaken waiter explained to the still-crying me that he since had no carry out boxes, a part of his refrigerator would simply have to do. So–-still tipsy and now laughing--Barb and I hopped back on our wheels and headed to the gardens of Monet. We left sorrow at the table. On a bike it’s just that easy–-get on and you’re beyond.<br />
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The childhood bikes, the rental bikes, the breezy San Francisco bikes-- they’re all a blur now, each one in a sequence of photo frames that signal, <i>take me</i>, <i>rent me</i> or <i>to give away</i>. An ending? No. Those frames click toward the next ride, the simple spinning wheels, cool air passing, and carefree moving forward once again. <br />
<span style="font-size: x-small;"><b><i>photographs: Barbara Talan </i></b></span>Unknownnoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1765483168126013107.post-71756357286138284042009-11-28T09:57:00.000-08:002010-01-18T15:43:31.481-08:00The Masquerade BallSomething there is that doesn't love a...ball. Especially a masquerade ball, where concealing your identity, or at least pretending to, is the objective. But there are ironies involved.<br />
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</div>At the fundraiser we attended a week ago, couples and singles filed into the room in festive masks, spiffy cocktail dresses and black suits, dinner jackets, and elegant costumes. A court jester, Marie Antoinette, Spanish ladies, Phantoms of the Opera. We came as polished versions of ourselves, the perfectly coiffed, manicured, the camera-ready people we aspire to be. Why then--of all times--did we want to deny who we were?<br />
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A mask would be more appropriate, perhaps, when I dash to Safeway in the early morning, de-coiffed, wearing yesterday's yoga pants and sneakers. Or when the UPS man wakes me from a sound afternoon nap. Or the time I inquired about a husband only to learn that he had left her for another man.<br />
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At the post office, a long line waiting behind me, I fumble to pay for a stack of wrapped packages, a sheet of stamps, and two tracking slips. As time stands still I realize that my debit card is in my billfold. It's at home, apparently orphaned by a purse exchange. Or when my dog chooses to relieve herself in the crosswalk of four lanes of 19th Avenue traffic. The light counts down--eighteen, seventeen, sixteen, as cars pause and I scoop. This is when a disguise would come in handy. <br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgxQaH0qUmMgU5QTNd1hKkSElgVZUfhksQf1PI7Vs_2pwCYS0d8vPt-95qmxF9gOhy72mnkb_Q2B9qFMoz4Xl-PohN5koxXfCg-0p3MJtuQLBmSnQ3gNSsoJRevctRtYETwNkVnKjWDJLht/s1600/Marie_Antoinette_Liz_Noreen.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="102" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgxQaH0qUmMgU5QTNd1hKkSElgVZUfhksQf1PI7Vs_2pwCYS0d8vPt-95qmxF9gOhy72mnkb_Q2B9qFMoz4Xl-PohN5koxXfCg-0p3MJtuQLBmSnQ3gNSsoJRevctRtYETwNkVnKjWDJLht/s200/Marie_Antoinette_Liz_Noreen.jpg" width="136" /></a>There have been stretches of my life when I lived with a bag over my head. Times that I felt depressed, isolated, misplaced, alone. Perhaps on those long days a feathered and sparkling mask would have transported me and created within me a fresh sense of self, a point at which to launch a new, improved, more confident version of who I am...one with streamers, glitter, and just a hint of black lace.Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1765483168126013107.post-89435050014501084402009-10-11T17:00:00.001-07:002010-01-16T20:43:22.656-08:00San Francisco: Voices<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEho4dcUZV4sAK_JB6vfW_tqDlC9bjK6zavr2Ni7WgrmxTDt3dA2dxWJYIfHWUwFGOXhb1IGGcLl_z_3brPpnSwB2_cnQ4ngWwAHRtiCRCSzlgu_mR2IA6aVFLsZZq3QVYkQPbpsvKEQkKIl/s1600-h/Voices_Cantonese.jpg" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><img alt="" border="0" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5391744920760879938" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEho4dcUZV4sAK_JB6vfW_tqDlC9bjK6zavr2Ni7WgrmxTDt3dA2dxWJYIfHWUwFGOXhb1IGGcLl_z_3brPpnSwB2_cnQ4ngWwAHRtiCRCSzlgu_mR2IA6aVFLsZZq3QVYkQPbpsvKEQkKIl/s320/Voices_Cantonese.jpg" style="cursor: pointer; float: right; height: 320px; margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; width: 152px;" /></a><br />
Sitting behind two Mandarin-speakers on the bus, I'm transfixed. They are chatting softly, and their language has a sound I don't hear often, a swish-swish sound--as graceful as French. It seems appropriate that Mandarin is the Chinese language of diplomacy--it has a certain dignity and subtlety.<br />
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Most of our Chinese neighbors speak Cantonese, the primary language of Hong Kong, the jumping-off place en route to San Francisco. In its native form it's highly tonal, easy to identify and wildly interesting to my Western ear.<br />
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Our friend Claudia speaks German-accented English. I can imagine her as a child, conjugating verbs at the knee of her linguist father. Claudia's husband John speaks Russian-accented English, and lapses into Russian when he can't find the right English expression.<br />
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Our contractor's booming voice is Irish. "Ay! She's a fine hound," he says to Cleo as he enters the front door. It's the exuberant sound of John Campbell's Pub on St. Pat's Day, rollicking and rough.<br />
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John's workmen all speak Spanish. They communicate in smiles and broken English, and I've tried to bridge the gap with what little Spanish I've picked up along the way. They know how to acknowledge my questions and thanks, and I know how to express some approximation of, "please don't hurt yourself doing that."<br />
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With everyone speaking his own brand of English, it's a maze of accents. If the conversation stalls, someone in the crowd jumps in to fill in the blanks. Everyone uses certain untranslatable American words. Background noise--a conversation in Cantonese-- suddenly takes shape when the term "traffic school" leaps out of the verbal maze.<br />
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Even with its wealth of conversational color, we don't hear much African-American speech in San Francisco, and I miss that. Walking in sunshine on lower Fillmore--the jazz district--I hear the lively, syncopated cadences that were a part of my childhood. These voices wrap around me like a well-worn shawl.<br />
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<span style="font-size: 85%;"><span style="font-style: italic;">painting: "Voices"<br />
ink and watercolor on silk</span></span>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1765483168126013107.post-76777407174662928232009-09-16T11:13:00.000-07:002010-01-16T20:45:51.431-08:00SF: On Big Cat Feet<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjqdIIYSpmXxC2TYOYxZcfFetAFt0TQ1vD2Mqp6y7jVk4MUOLs2ppgsN9wt6UKPF9Kh5u9Vhj7eemCJ7N23hO6SKWWcc1NHL2o4ohG-O-upiM2qRqd4W9DM4wofeJT-3GJZYQnzFW-2X81S/s1600-h/Foghorns001.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5382130319126877378" style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; width: 233px; height: 400px; text-align: left;" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjqdIIYSpmXxC2TYOYxZcfFetAFt0TQ1vD2Mqp6y7jVk4MUOLs2ppgsN9wt6UKPF9Kh5u9Vhj7eemCJ7N23hO6SKWWcc1NHL2o4ohG-O-upiM2qRqd4W9DM4wofeJT-3GJZYQnzFW-2X81S/s400/Foghorns001.jpg" border="0" /></a><br />
I don't have a hundred words for San Francisco fog--but maybe a dozen. There's the Morning Fog--a high tent of gray that can break to blue. We awaken to white on white, but there's a hint of light in the east and a prevailing optimism that the ceiling will lift by noon.<br />
<br />
The Fog of Haves and Have-Nots. This fog is thickest near the ocean (49th avenue) and extends over our house at 21st. Look toward downtown, however, and weep. The dome of City Hall is gleaming in reflected sunlight. We can easily see where the fog line ends. Our friends on 12th avenue (The Haves) celebrate sun from morning till night, but the gray stuff hovers over us all day like a migraine headache.<br />
<br />
The most dense, most depressing fog arrives in July and August. This is the Seasonal Affective Disorder (SAD) Fog and it can last weeks. The SAD Fog reminds me of November in Kentucky--days and days of relentless gray. In San Francisco it's triggered by the inland heat. As long as it's 100 in Stockton, this coastal fog will have us by the throat.<br />
<br />
When the fog moves in to stay I tell myself--stop whining. Be rational. We wanted to live in The Avenues because this neighborhood hugs the park and extends to the glorious ocean. We can walk (a long walk) to the beach on a Saturday morning, run Cleo in the sand, have a cup of chai at Java Beach, and trudge back through the park...all without getting the car out of the garage. Still...the SAD fog can get really old.<br />
<br />
Some fogs are wonderful, such as the Daytime Drama Fog. This random and unexpected fog whisks into the neighborhood on really big cat feet, and floats down alleys and around houses like dense cigar smoke. One minute we can see Balboa Avenue and the next minute it's gone, visibility is near zero, car headlights are on, and even houses across the street have vanished under the white snuggy. This fog cranks up the adrenaline and gives me the same feeling I have when a heavy snowfall moves in to Kentucky. It's a wonder to behold.<br />
<br />
When we stand at our front door, 33 steps above the street, we can usually see Golden Gate Bridge and the Marin Headlands in the distance. But sometimes the bridge and bay alone are buried in fog. Look toward Golden Gate and it's not there--all you see is a wide white brush-stroke along the horizon.<br />
<br />
This might called the Bridge-Swallowing Fog. These days are fun, too, because they bring the foghorns out. Their leisurely two-note call (a perfect fifth) provides a haunting and beautiful musical score through the day.<br />
<br />
Often the Bridge-Swallowing Fog and accompanying foghorns stretch into the evening and turn into the Lullaby Fog. On these nights--which can occur all year round in San Francisco--just open the windows, cover up, close your eyes and listen. The fog keeps the street noise at bay, and the fog horns sing all thoughts into oblivion.<br />
_________________________<br />
<em><span style="font-size:85%;">drawing: "Summer is Foghorn Season"<br />
watercolor and 005 micron pen on paper</span></em>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1765483168126013107.post-74127328556905325672009-09-15T10:00:00.000-07:002010-01-16T20:48:05.961-08:00Kentucky: DovesThe mourning doves<br />
trail me<br />
from San Francisco<br />
light<br />
and haunt<br />
with woodwind notes.<br />
<br />
I've lived long<br />
been moved, met<br />
stone,<br />
known sorrow, lost,<br />
been taught, atoned. So<br />
<br />
lose me, find me<br />
follow me across<br />
wide pools<br />
plains and ranges,<br />
<br />
calling: loss is gain,<br />
truth fluid<br />
that which sears,<br />
which burns to keen<br />
will lift to float<br />
and cool you at the end.Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1765483168126013107.post-63419657924337881362009-09-13T18:50:00.000-07:002010-01-16T20:51:51.242-08:00SF: L' Opera a la Claudia<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhvBkBlHI_A2oM_PUNetyvwi57M4ypgjj4ClHPTwDZquMJ3M1Pza1N6T2ovuEY7gmmQTeysoTDMvQGvCF9yQEcP80ykVKOtLskJ8npRzIWZ6ucxtaik2k73d2b-9nU1Dnzkeh7cO5aPxIJ6/s1600-h/Liz_Claudia_opera_crop.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5381481867607444690" style="margin: 0px 10px 10px 0px; float: left; width: 240px; height: 320px;" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhvBkBlHI_A2oM_PUNetyvwi57M4ypgjj4ClHPTwDZquMJ3M1Pza1N6T2ovuEY7gmmQTeysoTDMvQGvCF9yQEcP80ykVKOtLskJ8npRzIWZ6ucxtaik2k73d2b-9nU1Dnzkeh7cO5aPxIJ6/s320/Liz_Claudia_opera_crop.jpg" border="0" /></a>Forget the Bolshoi. For us the ultimate Russian experience is opera-– thanks to Claudia.<br />
<br />
She’s eighty-ish, the picture of refinement. We met Claudia and her husband John during our first month in San Francisco. Ira was walking on 21st with Cleo and a Russian-accented voice shouted from across the street, “A whippet!"<br />
<br />
Within minutes Ira and Cleo had been snagged and pulled up the stairs of the Markevich’s two-story stucco for a discussion of dog breeds, a viewing of John’s wood sculpture, and a taste of Claudia’s torte. So began our friendship and our introduction to <em>L'Opera a la Claudia.</em><br />
<br />
At $80 a ticket, the SF Opera is too pricey for us attend with any regularity. But free performances do come around and we’ve rapidly learned the truth: <em>Claudia must go</em>. In the four years we’ve known them we’ve shuttled her to opera in the park, chauffeured her to Daily City for opera at the cinema, and have spent whole afternoons at John and Claudia’s house with dog, a bottle of white wine, and--opera on the stereo.<br />
<br />
The Markevich’s respective pasts could shape a fine libretto. Claudia‘s father was a scholar–-a German linguist--sent to a POW camp in Siberia after World War I. After his release (traveling through China) he met and married Claudia’s mother, a Russian living in China. So Claudia grew up in Asia and as a young adult met John Markevich, another Russian wending his way through China. Their cultural diversity is apparent in any gathering: Claudia understands Chinese, speaks fluent Russian with John, her immediate family and their Russian Orthodox friends, German with her cousins, and English with us. But her favorite language is music.<br />
<br />
So today–-free opera in Golden Gate Park–-Claudia is on needles and pins. She has requested we pick her up a full hour before the performance so we can sit with other Russian friends. As she’d predicted, the park is packed. We find the group, claim seats in the white-chair section reserved for senior citizens, and wait for music director Nicola Luisotti to raise his baton. Picnickers crowd around us, and blankets stretch all the way to the hills.<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhCc1dfafFlmmfH8ShoFiaaEpqtyLLKKpEFVbs_0BuhOjvbJCCyUoigZ_Dhlmts61cEdyWGzpN6YgQV0AgdBCI0sAFw8ZxiFXtmle6UjIWdYF8w-7D4hezCHW6pJDESpOEXiUnZbdhQ3Z3k/s1600-h/Opera_Park.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; float: right; cursor: pointer; width: 200px; height: 184px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhCc1dfafFlmmfH8ShoFiaaEpqtyLLKKpEFVbs_0BuhOjvbJCCyUoigZ_Dhlmts61cEdyWGzpN6YgQV0AgdBCI0sAFw8ZxiFXtmle6UjIWdYF8w-7D4hezCHW6pJDESpOEXiUnZbdhQ3Z3k/s200/Opera_Park.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5381485394469485426" border="0" /></a><br />
<br />
The food is delicious and bountiful, very Russian and very red: cold cuts on crusty rolls, pickled herring with beets, and red potato salad. I contribute stuffed figs and deviled eggs. I miss having green stuff, but they don't.<br />
<br />
We eat and share our wine under a white paper sky and silver disk sun. We hum Donizetti's arias, and smile as we recognize <em>O mio bambino caro</em> from Puccini. The notes are like the birds that float and dart overhead, soaring and then vanishing. Claudia is beaming and tapping time. Ira and I turn to each other and just mouthe, “Click” –- or, “wish we could photograph this.”Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1765483168126013107.post-64088431566563280452009-07-26T07:03:00.000-07:002010-01-16T20:57:00.438-08:00Kentucky: The Oakton Mafia< <a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjRCegcPbYzg9q36juFjpUmFCloA5vczvLuG4hc1fvltrtH3vLYGJPfCl75gNmOG-Xk0mGEgT7W_QdKMMx2e0f5Y09VNBx5O9OK_f-Fzm49X_dir1Tnx0oW9T3gCtjf1tFSKXf-NvjiPEI_/s1600-h/Sunset_Hailwell.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5362920626574742498" style="margin: 0px 10px 10px 0px; float: left; width: 320px; height: 145px;" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjRCegcPbYzg9q36juFjpUmFCloA5vczvLuG4hc1fvltrtH3vLYGJPfCl75gNmOG-Xk0mGEgT7W_QdKMMx2e0f5Y09VNBx5O9OK_f-Fzm49X_dir1Tnx0oW9T3gCtjf1tFSKXf-NvjiPEI_/s320/Sunset_Hailwell.jpg" border="0" /></a><br />
<div></div><div></div><div></div><div></div><div></div><div></div><div></div><div></div><br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
I keep to myself much of the time while I'm in Clinton, rambling around the Emma House, enjoying an airy space that's not available in San Francisco. But Saturday night's sunset brings me to the window, to the back porch, and out to the car.<br />
<br />
A left at Clinton's one stoplight and in a matter of minutes I'm on highway 123, windows down, jetting toward Hailwell Corner. The sun is drifting lower and as it falls the light of the sky becomes even more intense; it separates into layers of silver and gold, crimson, purple and blue. An artist's palette.<br />
<br />
Another ten minutes and my car is parked at the edge of our soybean field and I am looking across 140 years of family history--rows that vanish into hills. I want to still the sinking sun but in a matter of seconds the field turns from green to indigo, the puddles of water from Wednesday's rain turn dark, and it is time to move on.<br />
<br />
The only wide spot in the road between and Clinton and Hailwell is the community of Oakton. It's emblematic of what has become of the rural South-- the railroad crossing is a rise of asphalt. Goldenrod and Queen Anne's Lace wave lazily along the tracks. The abandoned post office is a one room structure on a foundation of concrete blocks, its cashier's desk and pigeon holes for mail are masked by boarded windows. But there are still a couple of churches in Oakton, plus a cluster of homes with carefully tended yards. On this Saturday night there are lights in windows, and a short line of trucks is parked outside what once was once Oakton's general store.<br />
<br />
Against the store is a sign that reads "Oakton Mafia." The nearly-empty building is brightly lit and there's a small congregation outside on benches that have been there longer than my lifetime. I slow down. I see a lifted hand....the all-inclusive country greeting that indicates, "Hello, whoever you are." I'm not ready to go home so I slow to a crawl and think about pulling in.<br />
<br />
The first to recognize me is Bobby Kelly. Known as the mayor of Oakton, he's a man about my age with a contagious smile and off-beat sense of humor. He may well be the creative force behind the Oakton Mafia sign. It's beyond twilight now but I edge over.<br />
<br />
"Looks like the boy's club to me," I say.<br />
"Come on, get out," he replies, and I comply, swinging my rental car into the gravel.<br />
<br />
I get out, hug Bobby and then realize I know everybody. It's Bobby and his brother Ricky, Mary Ann and Lucas Deweese, mother and brother of Caleb, our farm manager, and Tracy Workman, whose parents are family friends.<br />
<br />
The Kellys are known for their good humor and nonstop conversation and I'm promptly drawn into the mix. In the thirty minutes that follow, the sun completely vanishes and mosquitoes start making a meal of us, but I don't leave. We're all looking at a book of photographs--old school houses in Hickman County-- as we pass around the Oakton Mafia's one pair of shared reading glasses. We talk about family and farm matters with an irreverence that keeps the laughter flowing.<br />
<br />
Ricky Kelly asks me how I like San Francisco and I tell him it's too cold this time of year for me. He asks what I do in California and for a moment I grapple for an answer. I tell him I walk the dog, go to the park, handle Kentucky farm business on my computer. I don't think to tell him that I try to write every day, and that I have a love-hate relationship with my tubes of watercolor. In context of this Saturday night these things don't come to mind.<br />
<br />
There's a bit of a pause and I look around at Mary Ann and Lucas, Tracy, and the Kelly brothers, getting a handle on what matters most. "I really get homesick for Kentucky in the summer."<br />
<br />
Bobby Kelly offers me a popsicle from the cooler inside, but I say I should get going. By that time swatting bugs has become a full-time job. It's been fun, and we say goodbyes all around.<br />
<br />
I pull out into the two-lane road and look into my rear-view mirror. There's only blackness where the sunset has been. The Oakton Mafia sign recedes from view. I slowly drive through Oakton keeping an eye out for the scruffy brown-furred dog that often lopes along the center line. Passing through farmland I scan the shoulder for the flash of deer's eyes.<br />
<br />
It's a rarity for me to drive this way in darkness, but I'm no stranger to the route. On the road from Oakton I know where I am, what's in front of me and what's been left behind.<br />
_____________<br />
<span style="font-size:85%;"><span style="font-style: italic;">"Sunday in the Shop"</span><br />
<span style="font-style: italic;">photo by Earl Warren, Jr</span></span>.<br />
<br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh59cy8anzMbdtjlJLlbw1STSv1cThbvo1D1u4kNn4BoXPmXfe2ac5MD7H3fhMJgeuoYDpThUrPrYCZIIhrVBgG0mbz6d2pZWRQ5u3CxBMYI24vmU35uP2CKhJc8ssm9EkfvcMtTrm6zHGu/s1600-h/Sunday_Shop_Oakton.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 213px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh59cy8anzMbdtjlJLlbw1STSv1cThbvo1D1u4kNn4BoXPmXfe2ac5MD7H3fhMJgeuoYDpThUrPrYCZIIhrVBgG0mbz6d2pZWRQ5u3CxBMYI24vmU35uP2CKhJc8ssm9EkfvcMtTrm6zHGu/s320/Sunday_Shop_Oakton.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5381713953240173570" border="0" /></a>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1765483168126013107.post-46098828270850236102009-07-15T13:30:00.000-07:002010-01-16T20:57:53.260-08:00For Em: DogdanceBefore I met you<br />
(even before I met your dad)<br />
I was a dancer.<br />
<br />
I was too cool, leaping from chair to couch,<br />
silhouetted by the basement light, arm handles, leg shapes,<br />
battements and plies.<br />
<br />
My room upstairs, a studio, for great percussive leaps<br />
(causing the kitchen light to do its own jette’ )<br />
Mom would inquire and I’d just smile and shrug;<br />
practice, you see, is quite the private thing.<br />
<br />
I still dance. Mostly while housecleaning. I slipslide and boogie to<br />
Motown, doing a little cha-cha when I footmop the tile.<br />
Cleo and I tango when she’s begging for treats,<br />
And when Daisy comes to visit? A big and joyous<br />
do-si-do.Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1765483168126013107.post-80068721835800527122009-07-06T17:27:00.000-07:002009-09-22T08:21:20.290-07:00Crater Lake<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjNeRPPJJOIDcQY-xo1lluEQJWn4UwBqsqQ1nHgRaoCyhJSF5JOVI3bJta5PbEutoAPft0GWGSo0i4hFNQW4u-t3bEe1ic2rSm_mHPLWva7nsqudjt1nhjWTAFNfMm5wBnQJhzBqicf_1PN/s1600-h/Crater_Lake_5"><img style="MARGIN: 0px 0px 10px 10px; WIDTH: 179px; FLOAT: right; HEIGHT: 247px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5355510598100131058" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjNeRPPJJOIDcQY-xo1lluEQJWn4UwBqsqQ1nHgRaoCyhJSF5JOVI3bJta5PbEutoAPft0GWGSo0i4hFNQW4u-t3bEe1ic2rSm_mHPLWva7nsqudjt1nhjWTAFNfMm5wBnQJhzBqicf_1PN/s200/Crater_Lake_5" /></a>The sudden, unprecedented blue can be explained,<br />the spectrum pared away, leaving only blue<br />to dance with electrons in the pure depths,<br />but it cannot be known, the blue richer than Chartres<br />that draws the binocular gaze, irresistible and disturbing,<br />the blue that stares back, like the eye of some god,<br />through the long lens of the pilgrim who climbs<br />the splintered rim to find, below the pointing pines, <br />new angles on perfection, while the still blue enters,<br />searching among places deeper than the lake,<br />to sear with what lies beyond camera capture.<br /><br />(Ira's poem)Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1765483168126013107.post-83920345015019957632009-06-20T21:07:00.000-07:002009-10-13T07:15:08.250-07:00Night Window, San Francisco<div align="left"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgDwrOhRWOHd1aVC3COpCDrYoDONzHW7sWwcI6oXWDyo3tO-Fvi56HCLNZPJ9G0i9FbpIE8ocdr9EzFzGdCFIGbCN068PEk0NQZUOUICgJ9E5hFu_L-v3gjNEOvulwaTwxevWLoXSnQmoi3/s1600-h/Holy_Virgin_June_09.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: right; width: 222px; display: block; height: 400px;" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5349635491059600498" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgDwrOhRWOHd1aVC3COpCDrYoDONzHW7sWwcI6oXWDyo3tO-Fvi56HCLNZPJ9G0i9FbpIE8ocdr9EzFzGdCFIGbCN068PEk0NQZUOUICgJ9E5hFu_L-v3gjNEOvulwaTwxevWLoXSnQmoi3/s400/Holy_Virgin_June_09.jpg" border="0" /></a></div><br /><br />Western light is magical. From the north side of the house I can see Golden Gate at the distant right, the shops and homes of central Richmond in the foreground, and Holy Virgin to the left. It's the church that draws me to the window in the evening and I've tried dozens of times to capture it. This shot comes close.Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1765483168126013107.post-36024170725910373212009-05-09T15:51:00.000-07:002009-11-15T21:40:54.361-08:00Kentucky: Local residents launch war on shade<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh8elUK20_VpVJIVKDzS5UWWjb6LmTy0tFvEyEyfSTfqd1WUfet3wNOfbUSiFo8OWArCcpUm-yb2RoxuhGrQH3HOvvJkLwTLl3-1DAjiQew2usRJHjgMMXfGCLv13Fm4BD74O7FK0Ql9MvL/s1600-h/Clinton_Tree_Trimmers.jpg"><img style="MARGIN: 10px; WIDTH: 200px; FLOAT: left; HEIGHT: 150px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5334353487697897410" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh8elUK20_VpVJIVKDzS5UWWjb6LmTy0tFvEyEyfSTfqd1WUfet3wNOfbUSiFo8OWArCcpUm-yb2RoxuhGrQH3HOvvJkLwTLl3-1DAjiQew2usRJHjgMMXfGCLv13Fm4BD74O7FK0Ql9MvL/s200/Clinton_Tree_Trimmers.jpg" /></a>In an move that may spark nationwide interest, residents of this west Kentucky town believe they can-- once and for all --completely rid the town of shade. Beginning in early March, citizens of Clinton, Kentucky launched a grassroots effort to confiscate and systematically destroy all visible tree branches.<br />
<br />
J.K. “Rexie” Ross, Clinton cannonizer, is among those voicing support for the effort. “They were everywhere” he said. “You couldn’t see the sky for those things.”<br />
<br />
When asked about the origin of the project, most community leaders were stumped.“The idea came from Clinton’s radical core,” one citizen admitted. “But now splinter groups have formed in Fulgham and Water Valley." Oakton has one of the largest limb nullification projects in the area.<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhlZ1iyJWKwOBtQzDkC5mBNlIlsjyoVg7alZMP9aUK7dqPOItzJvRQqKNvbkXkQoDLyIsYfzc-dWSjvFcluYbigfDmyGtJDIWUPQGE2wE_oDlj0g12LmJJWOCXHvUUEpJ-UCJ8PDgdMxJ8F/s1600-h/EHouse_with_stickpiles.jpg"><img style="MARGIN: 10px; WIDTH: 200px; FLOAT: right; HEIGHT: 185px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5334354013466004082" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhlZ1iyJWKwOBtQzDkC5mBNlIlsjyoVg7alZMP9aUK7dqPOItzJvRQqKNvbkXkQoDLyIsYfzc-dWSjvFcluYbigfDmyGtJDIWUPQGE2wE_oDlj0g12LmJJWOCXHvUUEpJ-UCJ8PDgdMxJ8F/s200/EHouse_with_stickpiles.jpg" /></a> For weeks at the onset of the project residents worked day and night, abandoning their jobs and rejecting computer and television as “distracting.” Most even resisted cell phone use.<br />
<br />
“It’s impossible to log all the hours we’ve given to this effort,” one worker commented. An elderly lady added, "I feel like I've been pulled through a knot hole backwards."<br />
<br />
There has been opposition, though largely hollow. One homeowner was seen lumbering aimlessly in his orchard seeking shade. Neighbors believe he has a deeply rooted problem. "He's an indolent sort, certainly not executive timber," one noted.<br />
<br />
In this case and others like it, the state department of deforestation takes up the slack, attacking offending limbs with their own bucket trucks and chain saws. The workers are in high spirits. “No hangers in this town,” one barked. “We’ve stripped the place clean.”<br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiqCCVCzqmpY3dU8Ydw3xMMDwewHqStwbqfqmz4dIGcgKJzrjCEYX1Ugry7iPaJK98yJdwr4pIfCUXygyTWJ2ZUPzV2R6-ugajTV7v8KpuHc9PyWKlfGRxIQCu7g-SirfiFXRTPgdp-5BKH/s1600-h/Giant_Stickpile.jpg"><img style="TEXT-ALIGN: center; MARGIN: 10px auto; WIDTH: 493px; DISPLAY: block; HEIGHT: 130px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5333965994637245298" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiqCCVCzqmpY3dU8Ydw3xMMDwewHqStwbqfqmz4dIGcgKJzrjCEYX1Ugry7iPaJK98yJdwr4pIfCUXygyTWJ2ZUPzV2R6-ugajTV7v8KpuHc9PyWKlfGRxIQCu7g-SirfiFXRTPgdp-5BKH/s400/Giant_Stickpile.jpg" /></a><br />
With trucks running 24 hours a day much of the tree refuse has been relocated south of town. Once only the size of QE II, the growing wood pile is now roughly the length of Delaware. Ex-zetta Bencini, local journalist, said Clinton residents will bend but never break. “We won’t stop until every branch is gone, ” she said. “This town knows how to stick to it.”Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1765483168126013107.post-25750442808418009952009-04-06T16:05:00.000-07:002009-11-15T21:41:31.597-08:00Entrances and Exits<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgpRcppOgnLqsVg6vcxw5edn7wyCxGofHX5gRd4u_qIcZ2zOO82GsciCzHiNfMuRA8qqvdeMWr4qZDBN36H-4OjmrCeEsfY-Id1uaV836uyXblVvD1FUTrTxj-GGyt6sN1PBqT2jE2HpN6P/s1600-h/besthousenight.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px 10px 10px 0px; width: 180px; float: left; height: 140px;" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5341387858804436178" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgpRcppOgnLqsVg6vcxw5edn7wyCxGofHX5gRd4u_qIcZ2zOO82GsciCzHiNfMuRA8qqvdeMWr4qZDBN36H-4OjmrCeEsfY-Id1uaV836uyXblVvD1FUTrTxj-GGyt6sN1PBqT2jE2HpN6P/s320/besthousenight.jpg" border="0" /></a>In Clinton, we’ve got location, location, location. The Emma House is at the intersection of two main highways, across from the post office. The library is just a long diagonal away so I know who returns their books.<br />
<br />
We’re catty-cornered from Margaret’s Salon and the Gazette Office. Gaze through the beveled glass on our front door and you’re dead-on with the vestibule of the First Methodist Church. Awkward on the Sundays you want to sleep in.<br />
<br />
The afternoon of my arrival—first of the spring-- it’s like a Feydeau play, with multiple entrances and exits, pratfalls, and stock characters. I’ve been on my phone from Fulgham on, lining up the cast.<br />
<br />
<strong>Enter John Turner</strong>, <em>Clinton Water Company</em>. <em>Front yard</em>.<br />
We say hi, how are you, and he gets right to it. He locates the water main cover, leans into the hole and rakes away dead maple leaves. I walk out toward the street and watch while he pries the lid off the water main cover and wrenches it open.<br />
<br />
<strong>Exit Liz.</strong> I trek to the basement to turn on the house main and within minutes I hear the blessed sound. Seems like everything is under control. <strong>Exit John.</strong><br />
<br />
I go from spigot to spout throughout the house making sure nothing is leaking. I flip on the circuit breaker and know it's a short wait for hot water time. After traveling from San Francisco, the first hot shower is a primal pleasure. In a few minutes I check the water temperature. It’s still like ice.<br />
<br />
Back to the purgatory we call a basement. Bad, Bad, Bad. Water is gushing under the porch instead of into the water heater. I go upstairs and into the yard. It’s already a marsh. I revisit to the basement and turn the water off, on, off, hoping for a cure.<br />
<br />
I stand and think about it. This is not a John Turner problem unless I want the water off. Sooo. I call Lloyd Callison, plumber of choice and leave a message that I have a problem and there’s no hot water. I sound desperate because that’s what I am. But it’s a Friday night, almost dark, and I doubt if he’s looking for work. <strong>Exit Liz.</strong> <em>To the side yard</em>.<br />
<br />
<strong>Enter Steve Hardy.</strong> <em>Next door neighbor</em>. I can barely see him behind a huge wood stack running the length of the yard. He waves, and we meet in the driveway. We discuss the ice storm, source of all the fallen limbs. .<br />
<br />
With a wry smile, Steve asks me if I’ve noticed the condition of my front yard. Sure enough, I have noticed that it is once again full of branches, a surprise to me since I recently contracted with his son Daniel to clean debris left from the ice storm. He explains that the highway department just came along a few hours ago and did another cutting. The workmen left huge branches where they fell—all over the front yard. He asks if I need his help with the current crop. I tell him thanks, don’t worry about it. <strong>Exit Steve. Exit Liz .</strong> <em>To front yard</em>.<br />
<br />
<strong>Enter Daniel, Amanda, and Elana</strong>. <em>Steve's children.</em> They have come to help me anyway. I’m grateful. We start pulling limbs toward the street. Some are huge and can’t be rolled so we inch them end by end toward the sidewalk.<br />
<br />
<strong>Enter Steve with the chain saw.</strong> Now everybody is working away. It looks like we can finish the job before dark.<br />
<br />
<strong>Enter David Prince.</strong> David was in my high school class. He hasn’t changed a bit. David offers to help. We talk for a few minutes about last summer’s class reunion. He offers to help again. We talk some more and exchange email addresses for photographs. The sun is starting to go down. <strong>Exit David.</strong><br />
<br />
Steve and his chain saw make short work of the limbs. We finish stacking all the debris at the street, hoping the highway department making a pickup. We have no way of knowing if this will happen. The sun is setting. <strong>Exit Steve. Exit Amanda, Daniel, and Elana. </strong><br />
<br />
It’s fully dark. I’m hungry but that’s the least of my problems. I go inside and start to make plans for getting the shower I really need by now. My options are limited. I can take a cold shower. I can take a cold bath. I can nuke a washcloth in the microwave and take a bird bath. I can go to a friend’s house for a hot shower. The final option is sounding really good.<br />
<br />
There’s a knock at the door.<br />
<br />
<strong>Enter Lloyd Callison</strong>. He’s grown a beard since I saw him last and at first I didn’t know him. He explains that he got my call, is going to be working at this regular job at Goodyear all day tomorrow (Saturday) and will take a look at my plumbing problem tonight. I tell him it’s under the house. He says no problem. I look up and say “Praise God.”<br />
<br />
<strong>Exit Lloyd. Exit Liz.</strong> <em>To the crawl space under the back porch</em>. It is pitch dark now. We shimmy under the house with our two flashlights. He goes first.<br />
<br />
In a manner of minutes Lloyd identifies a sag in the pvc pipe that leads to the hot water heater, and it’s obvious that a long strip is split from water puddling in the sag. It looks like a good ten feet will have to be replaced. I start to worry about how much this might cost, but he is also saying that this will be an easy fix. “I do need to go to the hardware store for some supplies,” he says. I look at him blankly. The one hardware store in Clinton has been closed since 5 this afternoon. “Isn’t it closed?” I ask lamely. “Not if you have the key,” he says. <strong>Exit Lloyd.</strong><br />
<br />
The hardware store is not across the street, but it’s only a block away, in the heart of downtown Clinton. About fifteen minutes pass. I close the door to the back porch and stand there. I am too dirty to go into the kitchen.<br />
<br />
<strong>Enter Lloyd.</strong> he returns carrying two lengths of pipe, some cement, and a new fill valve for the toilet, which I also discovered was leaking. We inch back under the house and I have my flashlight again. I try to light the crawl space without shining him in the eyes. He tries to angle the new length of pipe in place. In a matter of minutes, he’s crawling out backwards, so I have to crawl out backwards too. On the way we are gathering up cement cans, extra pipe, and tools. He comes in and I write him a check for what he says I owe him and then some. He tells me to go to the hardware store tomorrow and pay for the materials. And to call him next week if I need anything. I tell him I doubt if it will be that long. <strong>Exit Lloyd.</strong><br />
<br />
I take off my hiking boots and leave them at the back door. In the kitchen I peel off another couple of layers, thinking that I will have to sweep the floor already from all the under-house dirt I’ve brought in. I go to the living room and look at the black television screen (it’s not hooked up) and eat some cereal and yogurt while I wait for the hot water heater to work its magic. I could read or play Mom’s piano to pass the time but finally I opt to just do nothing. After a while I test the water in the shower. It’s steaming, so hot I can barely stand it. <strong>Close curtain.</strong>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0