Category: Musings

Me and The Law

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No more over the hill and faraway for me, well, not my usual path up the hill that begins at the bottom of Canyon Acres to the Top of the World, at least.  I’m a wanted woman (not in that way!).  Here’s what happened.

Three days ago, on a late afternoon hike with Jake and Fergie, I’m halfway up the hill when a white monster truck swoops around the corner, mighty tight fit it was, and a Park Ranger gets out–$50 fine for not having the dogs on leashes.  He tells me that it’s not good for the dogs to run in the brush, they’ll get ticks, that all they want is to be with me, they don’t care if they’re on a leash or not.  He also tells me he used to be a cop and that he’d seen some awful things in his time that the public doesn’t get to see.

I don’t say anything–where is my inner bushbaby now?  WTF?  Why didn’t I at least ask him if he’d ever heard of Frontline (tick prevention)?  And seriously, the dogs don’t care if they’re on a leash or not.  And his grisly cop experience?  He really didn’t have to throw that one in.  I’ve been doing this hill for twenty-five years now and have never seen or heard of an incident with dogs (neither have I seen the likes of a Park Ranger either during this time!).  Come to think of it, wouldn’t he have cited some gory incident in his litany of reasons if there had been an incident with a dog?  Coyotes, yes, but dogs?  Why the crackdown?

Yeah, yeah, all this is elementary, right?  The law is the law, leashes wherever you go, even in one’s own house.  That is The Way.  (Sorry, this is when I yearn for Africa).  He ended up giving me a written warning with a pointed remark at the end that I was now “In the System.”

Too much.

So, today, me, Jake and Fergie went the back way up the hill, a single rutted path where you have to use a rope to negotiate the steep climb, where mountain bikers fly down.  If the dirt was snow it would be deep powder.  I won’t tell you I didn’t use leashes, because that would be incriminating in these days of the internet. So there we were heading for the second to last climb before the path converges with the regular one at the top when I spot a bright orange blob on the hill where I got the warning.  It’s not moving. Is that the glint of binoculars?

I duck down, slip the leashes on Jake and Ferg–somehow they’d come off, ahem–and glance back, the blob is gone.  Waiting for me at the top, no doubt.  I charge back down the hill, mostly dragged by the dogs all the way down to the bottom.  Feeling like a fugitive, I run home, all the while expecting to see the white truck barreling down the other hill after me.  Would the Feds be waiting for me there?  They had my address.  God!  Listen to me.

Anyway, unless they took a snapshot of me, I should be okay if I follow the rules, sigh.  Otherwise, there’s the “other” hill, the one in my previously mentioned blog that’s on private property.  Maybe I’ll use use that one, maybe not.

Christmas Traditions

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America.  Land of seasons and traditions.  Part of why I wanted to come here.

We only had two seasons back in Zambia–hot (and rainy) or coolish–and hardly any traditions.  For one thing, I don’t remember any of my friends having a Christmas tree.  We got one when I was twelve, hacked from the bush down at the bottom of Central Street and decorated with tinsel (and no lights like the one below).  Just to shut me up.  It was actually a Charlie Brown-type twiggy midget, all the other trees were too big and unruly.

And then when I was fourteen, a handful of scrawny pine trees for sale appeared alongside 11th Avenue next to the railroad tracks.  We got one of those.  I think our purchase was the only sale the guy made (an Englishman who had also started a snake and crocodile farm on the way to Ndola).

However, we did decorate the “lounge,” aka living room, with these folded paper thingys I don’t think we had a name for.

These were strung from one corner to the other, as well as a point in between with a  Standard Trading Company-bought, honeycomb tissue ball in the middle where all the paper chains converged. My mom and I would sit at the dining room table folding these two-inch wide strips she cut from bolts of different colored crepe paper, one over the other, this way and that. She would drink tea and smoke one cigarette after another, while I sat as far away as possible and batted at the smoke if it even remotely came my way, my knees propped against the side of our mine issue dining room table, big enough to host the local rugby team.

My little brother, eight years younger than me and always in some medical crisis or another would either be playing on the floor with his Dinky cars, or in hospital.  Making the decorations seemed to take forever; those mine house lounges were huge.  The best part was seeing those tidy little stacks turn into long Christmas accordions.  My mom grumbled about the whole process, her fingers hurt from all the cutting and why did dad have to be so haphazard about where he thumb-tacked the ends into the corners?  Why did she have to do everything herself?  But then she came to life when it was all done, standing in the middle of the lounge looking up at the gaily colored trails of crepe paper, transported above her anguish over my brother’s condition.  For a short while, anyway.

I realize after all these years, that I, too, was transported, my criticism of my mother’s foibles along with my unacknowledged yearning for her approval and desire for her affection also held at bay for a short time.

 

 

Experimenting With a Writing Prompt

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Please find enclosed a photo of me, outside our honeymoon “cottage,” (a friend of Reggie’s flat), five hours after our wedding.  It looks like I have a long droopy moustache, like Father’s, the way Reggie’s shadow falls across my face, or perhaps he’s got a squash blossom on top of his head and a hole for a mouth.

Oh, I am being silly, aren’t I?  To tell you the truth, I’m a little bit worried.  Now don’t get me wrong, I don’t believe for one minute Reggie had anything to do with that awful business in Brighton.  He was cleared of all charges.  But you and I both know that Father would say or do anything to stop us from getting married.  But you see, I know Reggie and he’s a good man.  And he loves me.  Please, please, please, don’t let this letter and photo fall into Father’s hands.  In fact, burn them both, just in case.  I’ll write again, just as soon as we get to where we’re going.  Sorry, I can’t tell you that.  I don’t know–it’s a surprise.

Monkey’s Wedding–The Real Thing

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I snapped a shot of a monkey’s wedding yesterday.  A classic picture, don’t you think?  The couple are spending their honeymoon at the Pacific Edge Hotel, downtown Laguna Beach where my friend Laural’s son got married last month.

Okay, I’m messing with you.  The shot I captured was in my front yard: a “real” monkey’s wedding–Southern California-style.  That’s when the sun comes out while it’s raining.  In other words, a  sunshower.  Umshado wezinkawu, the Zulus call it, “a wedding for monkeys.”  It is also the name of my first, as yet unpublished young-adult paranormal novel.  In it, Elizabeth and Tururu, her constant companion, are on their way to buy sweets at Mr. van Zyl’s shop in the middle of the veld when it starts raining.  Here’s an excerpt in Tururu’s point-of-view.

“It’s when the sun comes out while it’s raining,” Elizabeth said, turning to face him.  “Somewhere out there, a monkey’s getting married.  You see, they wait for the sun to shine through the rain and that’s when they get married.”

Wiping rain from his eyes, Tururu squinted at her.  Monkeys?  There weren’t any monkeys around here.

“You know?” she said, a mischievous expression spreading across her face.  “Married.  Like when white people get all dressed up with big flowy dresses and suits and funny hats, and there’s confetti and lovely big cakes with marzipan and white icing and everything.”

Tururu shook his head and wiped the rain from his eyes.  What was she going on about?

“Oh, honestly, Turu, don’t be stupid, of course they don’t really get married.  How on earth can monkeys get married?  They’re animals, silly.  It’s supposed to be a time of magic, when something’s about to happen.  You’re supposed to make a wish.”  She closed her eyes.

He glanced around wondering how long before Karari caught up with him.  He shivered.

She opened one eye.  “Well?  Come on, close your eyes and make a wish.  Something you want to happen, you know. Well, like for me, I could wish that I never have to go to boarding school, or in your case, you could wish that your dad wouldn’t be so horrible to you . . .”  She waited.  “So, are you going to make a wish, or not?” 

So, back to my shot yesterday.  Look closely, you can see the raindrops.

 

Mother Christmas

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Back home in Zambia and South Africa, we call Santa Claus, Father Christmas. In Laguna Beach, there’s his wife, Mother Christmas, also known as Halloween Ghoulady. And part-time Party Officiator. Oh, and come to think of it, she could turn out to be the perfect Date Deterrent, or should I say Date Sorter-Outer, if it comes to that?

I’m talking about this heavy-duty foam woman’s head peering down from the back of the basketball hoop above my garage that just this year I’ve taken to decorating. The only action she had before this was watching the occasional basketball game and officiating at my neighborhood’s block party three years earlier when I propped her up against a neighbor’s fence halfway down the block, sans any decoration, just that open-mouthed, wide-eyed stare that watched me dance my ass off in the middle of the street until 1 o’clock in the morning.

I’m not sure where she came from in the first place before she showed up in the vacant lot next to my house seventeen years earlier, abandoned in the dirt. The Pageant of the Masters,  is just down the street, so perhaps she was a showgirl and got too old for the job. My ex, who has a soft heart, and an unerring instinct for the weird, rescued her and propped her above what at the time was his basketball hoop (it’s mine now), and there she lolled, scaring the crap out of the neighborhood kids and sparking half-amused WTF looks from passersby over the years.

I got the idea to jazz her up because of Sebastian, a two-year-old boy who had moved in down the street earlier in the year. His parents told me that whenever they passed my house, which is the first one on the block, he insisted on stopping to coo and point at The Head, a huge smile on his face.

So in honor of Sebastian, I bought this fakey bloodied roll of bandages and wrapped it around the old girl’s face, best idea I could come up with.  One of the guys down the street suggested I embed a little chainsaw in her cheek and bloody up her cheek. I couldn’t do that to her. She’d never recover. She’s getting on in years, lost some of her lustre and vibrancy as well as a couple of chunks out of her dark brown helmet hair.

So, seeing as how I’m not getting a Christmas tree–the dogs don’t care, besides I’m joining my son and his extended family down in San Diego where they’re renting a house for Christmas week–I decided to throw all my Christmas enthusiasm into decorating my lady friend.  Along with a little birdy on the gate.  And a partridge in a pear tree.

 

 

 

Looking For The Moon

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I hurried up Canyon Acres, Fergie and Jake straining on their leashes, camera bouncing against my hip.  I had to catch the full moon just as it crested the rocks at the end of the road.  Earlier that morning there’d been a total lunar eclipse in Gemini: sign of thinking and communicating (two of my favorite things to do).   It would be a spectacular shot.I got to the end of the road.  Where was the moon?   Just the night before it had perched there not quite full, bathing the entire hill in its soft milky light.  And then further up, in the middle of that road that detours around this one hill, I’d caught the sun in a blaze of glory above Catalina Island.  Two shots for the price of one.  Except I didn’t have my camera at the time.  Now I did and there was no moon.  Well, I could at least try to catch the sunset.I ran up that first leg, not something I’m fond of doing, think steep slalom ski slope, only to arrive at the aforementioned viewpoint to see the sun’s fairly unspectacular retreat, as evidenced by the above shot.  Okay.  So, the moon had to be somewhere, right?  Or had I imagined its location the day before?  Clenching my jaw, my Taurean–read persistence–jaw, I kept going around the hill headed for the next.  Maybe the moon would appear at the Top of The World (if you’ve read my musings before, you’ll know that’s what that area is actually called), another two miles up.

As we rounded the hill, Jake and Fergie, grinding against each other in play ahead of me, I stared at the top.  Where the hell was the moon?  And then I noticed the two figures pinned to the second hill above in the dying light; a woman’s laugh rang out in the clear air and I saw them bump together.   We kept going up the next hill, and then the next, up to the caves.  Still no moon.  I had to turn back.  Coyotes at this time of the evening, with two maniac terriers afraid of nothing.  I started back down the hill, running.  And then just as I reached the last leg, I heard that same woman’s voice shout out: “I love you!”  I stopped and feeling a soppy grin spread across my face, took it personally.  I’d missed the moon, but I’d been bathed in the light of love instead.

 

Book Review–Every Last One

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My first book review!  Yaaaay.  Anna Quindlen’s “Every Last One.”

By the time I got to this book, one in a massive stack of must-reads threatening to crash to the floor beside my bed, I’d forgotten what attracted me to it in the first place (well, other than I loved Ms. Quindlen’s Black and Blue, and One True Thing).  I didn’t read the blurb on the back, I just launched right into it.

I’ll dispense with the storyline.  Here’s what Publisher’s Weekly had to say about it:

“In her latest novel, Quindlen once again plumbs the searing emotions of ordinary people caught in tragic circumstances. Mary Beth Latham is a happily married woman entirely devoted to her three teenaged children. When her talented daughter Ruby casually announces she’s breaking up with her boyfriend Kiernan, a former neighbor who’s become like family, Mary Beth is slightly alarmed, but soon distracted by her son Max, who’s feeling overshadowed by his extroverted, athletic twin brother Alex. Quindlen’s novel moves briskly, propelled by the small dramas of summer camp, proms, soccer games and neighbors, until the rejected Kirenan blindsides the Lathams, and the reader, with an incredible act of violence. Left with almost nothing, Mary Beth struggles to cope with loss and guilt, protect what she has left, and regain a sense of meaning. Quindlen is in classic form, with strong characters and precisely cadenced prose that builds in intensity.”

What I loved about the story is how Anna Quindlen hits those side notes of family life in a way that is both realistic and intimate.  Her ability to express the essence of a personality in just a single line of dialog or a physical mannerism is impressive–I felt as if I truly knew these people.  Not only that but she gives us insights into the way women bond and think.

I highly recommend this book.

The Hills Are Alive

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So, today, as the dogs and I are doing our early evening hike up that first leg of the hill that begins at the end of Canyon Acres, there’s this bird trilling its little heart out atop that high bank of dirt to the right of me.  I can’t see him, but his song penetrates my self-absorption enough to bring me to a halt.  I step back and see a big Grey Bird in a scruffy Charlie Brown type tree, singing as if he’s in the Enchanted Forest.  Behind him that wall of rocks that turns into molten gold at sunset, frames him perfectly.  I’m struck by this, by the melody in his song, the way his chest puffs out, his beak raised to the sky.  He’s facing me.  His song is joyful, abandoned; he’s making it up as he goes.  He’s singing to me.  I’m entranced and grateful.

Twilight

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It’s twilight, I’m driving up Laguna Canyon Road to dinner with friends, and thinking about how much I love this time of day.  I sneak glimpses in my rear view mirror to catch the last glow from the setting sun behind me.  Ahead, the snow-dusted San Bernardino mountains are turning into a barely delineated dark hump in the gloaming.

And then like one of those scenes where the camera pans in, I notice the glimmer of lights in this one house to my right.  It’s not a particularly homey place or anything, yet, I’m filled with this sense of well being, of belonging; all that’s missing is the smell of freshly baked bread.

This isn’t the first time this has happened.  But this is the first time I’ve thought about it.  The last time I remember getting snagged on the glow of lights in a random dwelling, was a single apartment in an otherwise dark building by the side of the freeway in Reno.  I was on my way back from that writers workshop in Lake Tahoe.  Again, nothing spectacular; in fact, the sight of that apartment would be downright depressing during the daytime. The time before that, that I can remember anyway, was six years ago on a trip home to Africa, Zimbabwe this time.  Off to the side of a narrow dirt road at the base of a massive rock, sat a solitary hut, its scruffy thatch aglow from a flickering light inside.

This phenomenon is not about missing having someone waiting for me at home, or family all under one roof, that much I’ve figured out.  Who knows who lives in these places I glop onto, could be a single guy.  All I know is that when this sensation comes over me, I feel connected to whomever is inside that dwelling; it’s like we’re linked by the light.  And by twilight, that time of day when sunlight scattering in the upper atmosphere illuminates the lower in a most magical way.

How Charismatic Are You?

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Okay, before I unveil this bit of triviality, which I got from Oprah Magazine (adapted from the forthcoming book: The Longevity Project: Surprising Discoveries for Health and Long Life from the Landmark Eight-Decade Study), I feel compelled to tell you the magazine was a gift subscription, not that there’s anything wrong with subscribing to Oprah, I think she’s an amazing woman, her good works–especially in South Africa–and her insights rock.

It’s just that for the most part, it seems with most of the articles, I’ve been down that path, plus, I’m put off by the expensive clothes and beauty products advertised; they’re just not me.  But when it comes to these little psychological evaluations, sometimes, I just have to indulge.   This one surprised me.  Check it out.  I’ll tell you at the end what I learned about myself.

Okay, so rate ever number from 1–9: 1 being NOT AT ALL TRUE OF ME: 9 VERY TRUE OF ME.

1. When I hear great music, my body automatically starts moving to the beat.

2. I always try to wear fashionable clothes.

3. Everyone hears me when I laugh; it’s a jovial and buoyant sound.

4. I pay careful attention to details.

5. When I’m on the phone, my feelings and mood come across loud and clear.

6. I am always prepared.

7. Friends often tell me their problems and ask for advice.

8. I use a to-do list.

9. I try to work on something until it’s perfect.

10. People say I should be an actor.

11. I make plans and stick to them.

12. I sometimes forget to put food back in the refrigerator. (This is a weird one, Alzheimer thing?)

13. I am good at games like charades.

14. Strangers tend to think I’m much younger than I am.

15. At parties, I am often the center of attention.

16. When talking to close friends, I typically hug or touch them.

ANSWER KEY:

Add the numbers you selected for questions 1,3,5,7,10,13,15 and 16. Disregard the others; they are “filler” questions, designed to minimize subconscious bias in your responses. Your score indicates your level of charisma, or in psychological terms, how well you express yourself nonverbally. In my 25 years of research on the subject, I’ve found that the most alluring individuals can effortlessly communicate without words–through expressions, gestures, tone of voice, and other subtle signals.

0-37 Twenty-five percent of people score in this range. You are probably on the shy side. Maybe you were born socially cautious, or have learned to be circumspect because of abuse or ridicule you suffered in the past. Or you may simply not be interested in drawing attention, preferring to spend time alone.

38-49 Most people fall into this category. You are likely to be quite accomplished in your interactions, but your success is often due to intelligence and the social skills you’ve learned –not charm.  You may be good with nonverbal techniques (varying expressions, using gestures), but you don’t excel at all of them.

50-60 People at this level are magnetic. You are extroverted and a natural leader, though you tend to attract enemies, too, precisely because you stand out from the crowd. You may sometimes feel burdened by the attention and the responsibility of having followers.

61-72 You have a hard time going unnoticed. You are one of the lucky few (only 5 percent of people score above 60) with that uncanny ability light up a room. You probably have some experience as a performer, and are especially expressive and sensitive to others.

So, I tallied my score and then when my ex came to babysit the dogs, I asked him to take the test and then do mine–just so we have an objective viewpoint, I mean this guy lived with me for 25 years.

I scored 60 and he got 23.  Now, this is a man who is about as charismatic as they come, I mean in the way I think of charisma (magnetic charm), I mean he scored an 8 on #15.  That should tell you.  And as far as me being an being an extrovert or possessing magnetic charm, absolutely not.  I mean I love to dance and I’m enthusiastic as hell, but that’s it.  So, either these tests are full of shit, or maybe I’ve changed, maybe I’ve become more outgoing than I perceived myself to be.