Category: Musings

Margaritas With Jake

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I am so ready for another trip up to my girlfriend’s cabin in Fawnskin, along the north Shore of Big Bear Lake in the San Bernardino Mountains. I’m suffering from that gotta get out of here feeling again, plus the cabin is a great place to write. Even though we’re in the middle of winter, the view from the flatlands down here is that there’s hardly any snow up there; it’s been unseasonably warm. The journey takes two hours from Laguna Beach.  Well, actually two hours and ten minutes, since I’ve always had to stop for Jake, my Staffordshire bull terrier to throw up. Twenty minutes up that winding mountain road makes him car sick. And this time there’s Fergie to consider. Will she also barf?

I can relate to the barfing. That’s what I used to do on every car trip the family took—in our Ford Prefect—especially driving Zambia’s escarpments. My dad did his stopping-only-to-pee thing (in the bush, of course, no toilets) on our way down to South Africa to visit the relatives, before heading for Durban, jewel of the Indian Ocean. Well, it used to be. I had to stick my head out of the window to upchuck, which was always refreshing. When we stopped at Beit Bridge on the border between Zimbabwe and South Africa for petrol, the native attendant would clean it off nicely; I’d get a treasured Pepsi (unavailable in Zambia at the time) and my parents would have a “sundowner” before getting back on the road.

Even though Jake tosses his food every time, I’m always unprepared.  Ever the optimist? Shot memory? So the last time, there he is sitting next to me, gazing out the passenger-side window like he does, checking out the scenery. Transported by the sounds of the group Bon Iver on the radio, I don’t notice that he starts swallowing like mad, tongue darting in and out: a sure sign of blast-off. I feel his white-rimmed intense Staffie gaze and turn to look at him.

“Wait, wait!” I cry.

With barely a glance in my rear view mirror, I swerve onto a rocky ledge in a cloud of dust and slam on brakes. Still yelling at him, I dive for the closest thing, which happens to be my sweatshirt, to prevent his spew from getting all over the place. Too late. Poor baby just couldn’t hold it. I won’t bore you with the details, I’ll just tell you that he missed my sweatshirt by a hair. The worst part of it, well, almost the worst, is how mortified he gets when something like this happens. Even though I jolly up the whole incident.

“Wow, look at that,” I’ll say in my manically happy voice while stroking him soothingly. All the while I’m eyeing the floor to see if his meal ended up in the hard to reach nooks and crannies. It didn’t I later discovered.

But Jake is not to be mollified. Keeping his eyes downcast he humps into the backseat and curls up in a tight unhappy ball. Up at the cabin, I open the car’s back door for him but all he does is ease up into a sitting position and stare forlornly through the window. Until he sees a squirrel. All is forgotten. He jets from the car and streaks after it.

For the next six days we get into a routine of hiking the hills where Jake can chase squirrels to his heart’s desire—no rangers up here—and an occasional trip into town for forgotten groceries. And I write with abandon. Is it the refreshing mountain air, or is because I don’t get distracted by the cobwebs in my studio and the sudden desire to weed?

On our last day, I decide to have dinner in Big Bear City (population 5779). I’d been craving Mexican food and I wanted to take my time over chips and salsa and a margarita. A jumbo with lots of salt. But I’m torn. I’m not that fond of eating alone and I won’t leave Jake. My craving overtakes me. So at sunset, I bundle up and Jake I head into town to find a Mexican restaurant. My plan is to leave him in the car while I charge inside to order something to go and while I wait I’ll have a margarita. I stop at the first Mexican restaurant I come to: Azteca Grill Baja-Style.

“Sit anywhere,” the cheerful waitress yells over her shoulder as she bustles by.

I wait  at the bar then give her my order and disclose my plan, adding conversationally that Jake’s waiting for me in the car.

“You can bring him out there, if you like,” she said, inclining her head toward an enclosed deserted patio.

I charge back to the car and with Jake attached to his leash I head for the patio, my breath coming out in small steamy clouds from the cold. Grinning up at me the entire way to the table I selected, Jake starts to jump up onto the chair opposite me. Eyes darting around in case someone saw this move, I give him a surreptitious shake of the head. With an embarrassed look, he slides from the chair and settles down next to my feet. The waitress brings me my margarita, chips and machaca burrito. I drink, scoop salsa and share my burrito with Jake, trying not to mess too much from my uncontrollable shivering from the cold. He doesn’t seem to notice.

Lion’s Roar

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Okay, another writing prompt, this one from a fellow African, “The Gypsy Mama.”  Write for five minutes on the word “Roar.”

I’m lying on a narrow bunk–in that tight “V” in the front of the boat my just-married son’s South African in-laws commissioned for the entire family for the honeymoon–alongside is my husband on another bunk.  Separated by the walkway, our feet almost touch at the tip of the “V”.  I can’t sleep.  It’s only the third day of our week-long trip on Lake Kariba, Zambia, where I’d spent many a holiday back when the country was still called Northern Rhodesia, when I lived in Nkana as a kid and then when I was married to my sons’ father.

Now, I’m an American citizen, living in the States with another husband, an American, who’s freaking out.  Mr. Amiable is not admitting this.  Instead, he seems to have shut down, barely functioning, shunning me.  This is the first time I’ve seen this side of him. At least to this extent.

He spent the entire day on the top deck, sitting uncovered in a chair under a punishing African sun nursing a single beer, despite my pleadings, my two sons’ at first jokey jabs– that’s how he’s always communicated with them; they know him as Mr. Sardonic Wit, with a disarming self-effacing side–and then hey, Mom, what’s up with him?

I will realize years later when he starts disappearing for weeks at a time without explanation after twenty-five years of marriage, before bailing altogether, that this along with a lot of other things weren’t my fault, that his attacks (oh so witty, yet oh so punishing) were defense mechanisms, a way to distance people, until he couldn’t keep up the facade anymore.  But I hadn’t caught on yet.  I was still throwing pieces of myself out of the basket beneath the hot air balloon that was our marriage to keep it afloat.

I toss and turn on the hard bunk, wanting to reach out to him, to comfort him.  Off in the distance, a lion roars, a sound unlike that you’ll find up close on a safari or in a zoo; this sound is deeper, like it’s coming from the soul of the animal, mournful and true in the night air.

I lie there succumbing to the sound and remembering those days when me, my mom and dad and little brother lived on Kantanta Street, when it didn’t go all the way down to the pump station and the Kafue river, when I could hear lions roaring  in the bush at night as I lay on my bed wishing I was someone else.  And then all those trips with my parents up to East Africa along dust ruts that passed for roads hearing the lions’s soft grunts as they padded around our rondavels at night.

I relax, comforted by the sound of the lion’s roar, feeling a deep kinship that brings tears to my eyes, that makes my heart soar and I am comforted.

Taylor Swift Meets Lisbeth Salander

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I posted this on Writercize, a very cool blog that offers writing prompts.

Taylor Swift is sitting in the green room, waiting for her guest appearance on Jay Leno. She’s looking chaste and blond in an ivory-colored confection with long, lacy sleeves, high neck, and a full-length skirt. It’s the sort of getup that treads a fine line between sincerity and irony. You could almost say typical Taylor, a girl who seems capable of pulling off anything.

 

Opposite her sits Rooney Mara, you know that chick who played the character Lisbeth Salander from Stieg Larsson’s award winning Millenium series. She’s in black, from head to toe, her leather clad bandy legs parentheses above her Miu Miu nosebleed boots.  Twin rings, one through her nose and one through her bottom lip and a bicycle chain bracelet provide silver relief from the black.

Taylor smiles, a sincere toothy welcome that makes her blue eyes crinkle. “I’m so nervous,” she says. “I know, I shouldn’t be, I mean this is like my hundredth show, but I can’t help it.” She leans toward Rooney hands clasped between her open knees, tomboy-like.

Rooney crosses her leather legs, lowers her head and levels a gaze at Taylor; a silver stud in her eyebrow glints through a lock from her asymetrical shag shadowing one heavily kohl-outlined eye, making her look dangerous. A deadpan stare, like why are you talking to me. Either she’s in her Lisbeth mode, the much maligned butt-kicking man-hating heroine, or she’s hating this blond goddess.

“Um, I really loved your movie,” Taylor continues. “I so admire the courage of the character you played, the way you just nailed it.”

Rooney just stares at her. You get the feeling she’d love a cigarette. Or is it her Lisbeth character who would love a cigarette?

“You uh, I’d love to do something like . . .” Taylor trails off and sits back.

A woman with a clipboard bustles into the room and smiles at Rooney. “Ready?”

Rooney rises to her feet, totters for a moment on her impossibly high heels then leans over and with both hands reaches for Taylor’s. Her bullet eyes melt and she looks like she might cry. “I just love your moxie.”

Letting Go, One Hole At a Time

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Yesterday, while I was at yoga, Fergie ripped yet another hole in one of the two cottonwool-filled pads in the “donut” doggy bed she and Jake share in my writing studio. I stopped by the market on my way home which gave the little precious more than enough time to do her job.  Both pads are dotted with patches, mostly iron-ons from the supermarket, except for the embroidered ones my surfer ex-husband used to collect.  Just below Fergie’s butt in the photo below you can see two identical overlapping specimens—an embroidered Santa-like surfer with a long flowing beard and exaggerated feet ala Robert Crumb planted on the surfboard with the words,  “Keep on Surfin’ Hawaii.” I finally found a use for those bits of the past I’ve been hanging on to.

Seeing the dismayed expression my face as I walked into a cloud of cottonwool, Jake offered me his ball and a look that said, I would NEVER do anything like that.  He wouldn’t: Jake is all about balls, Frisbees and me. At fifteen months old, The Ferg is still making her mark on the world.

I gathered and stuffed all the matted cottonwool back into the pad, but instead of whisking it into the house for immediate repair, as I usually do, I left it there with the torn side tucked under.  A first for me.  Could it be that my Type-A ways are a-changing?

Day two, and Fergie hasn’t noticed all that lovely unfettered cottonwool beneath her, despite the fact that’s she’s bored. It’s raining outside and she’s already worked Jake over a couple of times and pawed my computer off my lap. How long will it take?  Who will be first to work on the blue pad?  Fergie or me?

Flame Lily

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I had a little flashback to my Zambian past from this photo this one guy took in his back yard and posted on the Kitwe Past/Present Group Facebook page.  It’s a flame lily, indigenous to South Africa.  The Wanderers Hockey Club, for whom I played right wing, gave me a brooch shaped like this flower, all brilliant orange and yellow, looking freshly picked from the field across from the house where I grew up.

It was a farewell gift when I left Nkana, off to America, way back in the 70s.  I still have it.  On those odd occasions I come across the brooch in my small cache of memorabilia from those days, I quickly stuff it back into its original box from Maison Lentin (the only jewelry shop in two-block long Kitwe and also where my first ex-husband–God, that’s the first time I’ve written that: FIRST ex-husband–bought my engagement and wedding ring).  Of course, I do this with most of those keepsakes I brought with me to America in the 44-pound weight-limited suitcase both me and the ex were allowed on the plane.

It’s always hard for me to revisit these pieces of my past: too many conflicted feelings that leave me edgy and sad.  There’s the regret of not having done things differently and guilt for leaving my dad and mentally impaired brother with such a cavalier attitude, though they were so happy for me.  And my mom, how did she feel?  I don’t know.  The thing is, I couldn’t wait to get out of Africa, I couldn’t wait to get to America. I’ve since made peace with the past and have absolutely no regrets about the move.  This country gives me the stimulation and leeway for the crazy way my mind works.

But I do miss so many things about Zambia.  Sometimes when it rains I can almost smell the green-brown stench of soil rich with pike and bream eggs and rotting animal remains left by crocodiles from those days I bicycled down to the Kafue River at the bottom of the pump station.  And then when the sun comes out while it’s raining, sun showers they call it here, monkey’s wedding, we Africans call it (it’s also the name of my first book).  But it’s more than these easily recallable events, Africa is in my blood.

Whenever I return, to South Africa that is, to visit family, I’m reminded of this.  The familiar sounds that nail me to the spot, odors that have me sniffing the air like a crazed antelope catching the scent of a lion.  And of course, all the old foods: gherkins, gem squash and biltong, which I make here, a poor replacement, but hey.  And then there’s that resiliency or wildness, is what my friends call it, that I have.  Or is that just me?

The thing is, I’ve never been back to Zambia.  I’m afraid.  Will all my regrets return, will I be overwhelmed by all the changes?  But then when I read all those entries on The Northern Rhodesia and Zambia Group Facebook page, which are mostly nostalgic, but also about how life has proceeded, along with pictures like the flame lily and the chongololo, a black centipede, as you can see from the photo below, I take heart and it gets me to thinking that I might just return one of these days.

 

 

 

Training a Nose

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This is my Christmas card photo, me and the nut-jobs. Okay, I’m late. Christmas is way over, but given that the photo turned out quite well, I wanted to share an unrelated story with you.  By the way, this is only the second Christmas card photo I’ve ever had taken.  Last year’s was a lucky one-shot deal taken by a girlfriend the day I got Fergie. Hey, another tradition might be going on here.This particular photo was taken by a guy I met hiking the hill not too long ago.  On this day, he happened to be returning from a hike when I impetuously asked him to take a picture of us at the end of Canyon Acres.  Luckily, I had on red gloves to make it Christmasy.

Jake’s on the right; he just turned eight.  That’s one serious, stalwart, loving and passionate boy.  Oh, and smarter than most people I know. No. Seriously. And then there’s Fergie, just over a year old, now, with moves that would shame the heroine in the movie Crouching Tiger, Hidden Dragon–the way the character runs up the side of the temple then flips over to face her enemy in a dazzling display of magic and acrobatic agility.That’s the Ferg when she plays with Jake on my couch, somersaulting off the sides and running across his back to get away before landing in front of him.  Poor Jake.  I’ve tried to catch these moves on camera, to no avail; all that dazzling speed, plus it usually happens when I’m in the middle of yoga.  The minute I leave to get the camera they’re behind me, velcroed to my ankles.

As you can see from the photo, Fergie can also be a model of poise and noble bearing, proud of her beauty, her very caramely brindle stripes, her pure-bred British lineage, as is Jake.  They should be proud of their looks.  I, on the other hand, not so much; I have issues with my nose. Take a closer look.  See that shiny flat part in front?  A tiny headlight in the flash of the camera. That’s a droop.

Back in Nkana, when I was thirteen, my best friend, Colleen Dean (where is she now?), leader of our pack at St. John’s Convent School, started “training” her nose into a point ala Sandra Dee’s pert proboscis.  She did this by pushing up the tip with an elegant tanned forefinger, chin resting on thumb and middle finger.  I immediately adopted this habit. I had enough insecurities at the time, too short, too skinny, too muscular, hair too wild (and not blonde enough, like Colleen’s).I can’t remember if I went into this campaign worrying that the droop on the end of mine was as disfiguring as Colleen believed her slightly fat nose to be. But I became as obsessed as she did, seizing every private moment to press and train: while sitting in the back row of the Astra or the Rhokana Cinemas–even with a boyfriend!–at night while reading in bed, while doing homework, while bike riding down Kantanta, Princess and Geddes Streets, and while sitting on the toilet.  Even after I went on to Kitwe High and Colleen left for boarding school in the Cape, I continued with an occasional press, but it just wasn’t the same without her. My nose has retained its little droop, but I do believe it could’ve been worse. I do believe Colleen was on to something. I also believe that there’s magic in pursuing an idea, no matter how unreasonable or how small; it’s practice for bigger and better ideas.

Book Review–I Never Intended to be Brave: A Woman’s Bicycle Journey Through Southern Africa

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Just to let you know, I know Heather Andersen, the author of this book.  We’ve attended a number of writers’ workshops together, one of which was at Lake Tahoe at her father’s house.  I blogged about it: Beginnings, Endings and Crackling Grass.  One more thing I must tell you, I’ve been dreading this review, you know, a fellow writer, someone I like.  But the thing is, I couldn’t not review it.  I would feel awful if I didn’t. But what if I didn’t like it?  I can’t lie.  Well, I won’t lie.  So here goes.  Nice knowing you Heather.

Here’s the official blurb.  After her service as a U.S. Peace Corps volunteer, Heather Andersen sets her dream of exploring southern Africa by bicycle in motion. Her group dwindles to just two before the trip even starts and she finds herself traveling with a man she’s never met before. Tension between them builds until the inevitable split, and Heather continues on alone through unfamiliar lands. With great appreciation and understanding, she vividly describes her surroundings, the colorful people she encounters, and the adventure of traveling in foreign cultures as a solo woman on a bicycle. With the question of whether it’s safe never far from her mind, she forges her own path through southern Africa—and life. Along the way, she trusts her intuition and the kindness of strangers, appreciates the rhythm of an unscheduled life on the road, and rediscovers her commitment to leading the life she wants. If you’ve ever wanted to go somewhere completely unknown to you, or just want to experience it through someone else’s eyes, I Never Intended to Be Brave will take you there.

So, here I am, having been born and raised in Africa, I knew Americans as an idealistic lot (hey, that’s why I emigrated here), but also impractical and sometimes too probing for their own good.  Well, Heather qualified on two out of the three: she was idealistic, I mean you have to be to enlist in the Peace Corp in the first place, and she was probing, but cautiously and with respect.  And then evaluating everything with great deliberation,  always mindful of her effect on the land and on the people.   Like this scene with a beggar who keeps pushing when she turns him down:

“After two years in Africa, I’ve come to believe handouts don’t really help people. They turn them into beggars, which doesn’t help them . . . Rather than getting an education and an opportunity to break the poverty cycle, they spend their childhoods learning only how to beg.”

And she’s respectful to the locals instead of being rude and dismissing them, like this scene when a black African, who along with his second wife, hosted her for dinner and then on the ride back to the resthouse where she’s staying, says, “You could be my third wife.”

“I’m not into husband sharing,” she replies and everyone laughs.

But she was never impractical.  Well, she did bicycle through Zambia, Botswana and South Africa.  ALONE.  But as she said, she never intended to be brave.  She wanted to live life on her own terms and that is what she chose to do.  I admire that.  Most of all, I admire how she managed to capture her inner and outer journey in such a skilful way.  One more thing.  While I was reading this book, I realized just how much I didn’t know about my own country.

Beulah

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I just have to share this. This is my neighborhood, full of characters and quirks.  I love it. Check out the photo. Too damn funny.

That’s Beulah.  That little head sticking out through the hole in the gate to the right of the Christmas wreath.  Can you see the broken ornament on the step?  That was Fergie slamming into the wreath at the sound of Beulah’s bark before she emerged.

Beulah is some kind of terrier mutt, a little smaller than Fergie from what I can tell.  She barks like mad every time we pass by on our way to hike The Hill.  Short aside here, I haven’t done my main hill since my experience with the law, instead I’m hiking the “other” hill and not liking it.  Has our little pocket of individuality, funkiness and creativity (former headquarters of Timothy Leary and The Brotherhood) been compromised?  Back to Beulah.  I’m pretty sure she reserves her mad dog frenzy just for us.  Jake does a kind of stiff-legged I can kick your ass if I wanted to kind of bounce, but he doesn’t need a face-off like Fergie does.  Well, she’s still young and curious.  And submissive if it comes to the real thing.  Funny thing, for all this Cujo-type fury, Fergie and Beulah never actually “engage.”  That’s the key, isn’t it?  State your case and let it go.

Letting It Fly

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My mom always took down our Christmas decorations, you know those crepe paper accordion thingys we made, on the twelfth day of Christmas, which would be on January 5th or 6th.  A Tradition.  See, we had traditions.

The Twelve Days of Christmas, also called Christmastide and Twelvetide are the festive days beginning Christmas Day and ending on The Twelfth Night.  Shakespeare’s play of the same name, along with all kinds of religious and pagan customs associated, but I won’t get into that.  Point is, here it is, January 6th, time to take down my Birdie on The Gate and divest The Head of her lovely Christmas lights.  Kinda sad.

This Christmas felt like a whole different kind of celebration to me, not sure why.  It was like I turned a corner or something.  I find I’m trusting myself more, letting go of more things, expectations, my imperfections, my inability to fix the world and to save every last abused animal and child.  Maybe what this means is that I’m embarking upon my Last Stroll Down Life’s Highway, Heading For the Last Round-up, Aiming Foot at the Bucket.  Or maybe in a roundabout way it has to do with my adventure into blogging.  Digging deep into my life and then letting my words fly unedited into cyberspace has been very freeing.  And exciting.

My Happily Ever After

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I was just reading this blog by Heidi Munson called Dateless this New Year? Online Dating?  (okay, so New Year is past: I’m a little behind on my reading).  This is what she suggested for New Year’s Eve–or as we call it back in Zambia, Old Year’s Eve, makes sense, right?–a do-it-yourself beauty makeover, eating in with a fabulously set table, Frank Sinatra playing in the background, and that special dessert you’ve been meaning to make.  Next, a movie marathon with titles that inspire you to believe that there’s still a chance for Happily Ever After.  She goes on to suggest that you reinvent yourself online by spying on the competition and then reworking your own profile so that you don’t attract “toads,” the term she uses for unwanted prospects.  Her blog is about online dating tips and other toad evasion techniques.

The latter didn’t appeal to me at all.  No online dating for this 100-year-old single woman.  And no Frank Sinatra.  How about Bon Iver and Beirut?  That’s who I had playing on my iPod on New Year’s Eve.  I had on my yoga clothes from my yoga session followed by a hike I’d taken with my dear maniacs up the “other” hill (after my incident with The Law up the regular hill), but no beauty makeover.  It may be too late.

In the oven, I had a leg of lamb with potatoes that turn oh so crispy at the end; sauteed chopped kale and cannellini beans, mint sauce, chutney, and fresh green peas completed the dinner.  But here’s the best part. I made myself a Bloody Mary with salt around the rim of the glass along with a stalk of celery and a lime wedge: the first I’ve ever made.

A little preamble here, I’m not big on hard liquor but I had just read an article on how to make the perfect Bloody Mary and as I was craving that spicy tomato taste, that’s what it had to be.  Yow!  It was the bomb.  I had two and then amidst a cluster of lit scented candles, I ate my repast on my Thai traveling trunk that serves as a coffee table as I watched MI-5, a British import and very guilty pleasure, with Fergie and Jake’s eyes glued to my fork.  But they’re polite little Staffies, averting their eyes when I looked back at them.  Life is good.