Saturday, October 30, 2004

Lunaristic

Funny how some things come together with no planning or scheduling. They fall into place, drawing you in with the ease of being bowled over by a balmy tropical wave.

That is how the lunar eclipse was a few days ago. I heard some snippets on the news about a full eclipse, and how it would not happen again until 2007. In the back of my mind there was a little voice saying "Oh that would be lovely to see...", but in the cauldron of work that had kept me embroiled for many weeks, I quickly forgot about it and rolled full steam ahead into my day.

That night I drove home in the same sort of daze that makes you blink about five miles down the road with no recollection of how you got there. Headlights blurring slightly, the familiar curves and straightaways guided me across the valley floor, over the bridge, and up the hill to home.

Once there, with shoes kicked off and no plan for dinner yet, both hubby and the dog reminded me that we had agreed to go for a walk after work. With the brisk winds coming down off the snowcapped Cascades, and dark falling early - we'd have a chilly, starlit stroll to snap us out of the work week doldrums.

It wasn't until I was putting on my walking shoes that I remembered the eclipse. A peek out the window showed a heavy moon already in a partial stage of shadow, suspended low over the north-eastern horizon. I realized we would be walking beneath the lunar eclipse, on a perfectly clear night... with no other demands on us other than to simply enjoy the moment as it unfolded.

So, heading out with huffs of breath visible in the cold air around all three of us, we set a comfortable pace heading east, the moon leading the way. The blur of the day suddenly focused, with frosty woodsmoke air filling my lungs, and the scattering of stars all so distinct in the sky. Full awareness came to me, and I could easily recall every step we took as we strolled down the road.

The conversation ebbed and flowed, and I kept glancing up as the shadow slowly slid across the face of the moon. It was a strange thought, knowing that it was *our* shadow I was seeing. That somewhere in the darkness, we were walking... footsteps on Earth, as well as the moon. I counted the time forward to various parts of the world, imagining who was waking to the sunrise, and who was already fast asleep. All the while, the stars grew brighter as the lamp of the moon dimmed.

It wasn't until we were returning home that we stopped and watched as the last thin sliver of light disappeared from the moon, leaving only a ruddy hue made by the simultaneous sunrise and sunset on each side of the Earth.

I felt very small there, with my dog and husband... staring wide eyed up into the heavens. I wondered who was watching it at the same time we were.

A shiver slipped along my spine to imagine all the things happening in the world, both good and bad... all compressed into that one turn of the shadow, which looked so lovely from afar. A vast sea of activity, backlit by the sun, and imprinted upon the moon in a slow celestial dance.

The chilled wind worked in past our sweatshirts and jeans, and at last we turned our backs to the dusky moon and retreated into the house. A tiny spot on a planet swinging ever onward to the next eclipse, with no idea what might fill the quiet shadow when next it arrives, like clockwork.

Saturday, August 21, 2004

Daily Bread

There are some days when the air is just right, or a scent drifts in from somewhere unexpected that makes me wonder, when was the last time I ever ate my grandmother's homemade bread?

All throughout childhood, that was a call to action. 'Let's go see Grandma for some bread and butter!' I would sit up straighter in the car, staring out the window in anticipation of that fresh bread with butter perfectly spread across the top.

Grandma and Grandpa lived just down the road. A fifteen minute walk at best, if we strolled and didn't just hoof it. But days when she made fresh bread, who had the patience to walk? Stomachs would be growling the whole way!

Oh the aroma when we'd walk in that door. In fact, before we ever hit the first step, it would envelope us. The scent of a dozen fresh baked loaves lined up on the counter beneath soft cotton towels. Could anything else smell so welcoming? So completely rooted in all that was good?

I'd run up the steps and past Grandpa's horse tack and cowboy hats hanging on the wall. Grandma Lela would be standing there, a tall willowy women crowned with white hair. Light blue striped blouse open at the color. Comfortable slacks, no doubt made of polyester. Red house slippers... and a green apron faded not because of age, but because of the flour it had trapped in its strands.

"Wellll Aimeebaby! Look what your Grandma has made today. Would you like a piece of bread and butter? Or will it be peanut butter and honey today?"

I would hoist myself up onto a barstool at the long bar in the kitchen (I rarely remember ever sitting at the actual dining table. The counter top bar was where we all congregated) and depending on the day, the decision was easy. If the bread had been made that very day, then it would be butter only. Nothing to overpower the flavor of that mouthwatering bread. If it were a few days after the fact, or even a couple of weeks and the bread had been thawed out of the freezer...then peanut butter and honey was a thrill. Not mixed together mind you! They had to be two distinct layers, so I could look through the honey like a stained glass window, to see the slight ridges that the knife had left in the creamy peanut butter below.

"Just butter please!" I'd say, and in a moment I would be handed a thick slice of Grandma's bread (at the very least, the same thickness as TWO slices of store bought bread) , topped with real butter. The kind that she kept in a butter dish on the counter, so it was always soft and spreadable.

Grandma and Mom would then get their own slices of bread and fall into easy conversation. I would just sit there, completely immersed in the joy of Grandma's creation. I had watched her make it before. It was a process I marveled at. Beginning before dawn, she would get out the big silver bowl and would soon be pounding her small fists into a giant, puffy conglomeration of dough. Every now and then I would ask for a tiny piece to play with, and she would rip me off a chunk. I would taste it every time, just to roll that yeasty flavor over my tongue.

For years, Grandma never bought bread from the store. I guess that is why I was always amused that she kept her bread in the plastic sleeves that came off store bought bread! Western Family, Wonderbread, you name it...she had the plastic sleeves. Saved from whatever family member had the audacity to bring a loaf of that tasteless, thin stuff into her house. So with the flare of humor that Grandma always had, she'd keep her heavenly bread in these bags. Even bakeries couldn't touch the flavor that they kept safe.

As I got older, these days became few and far between. Every now and then, I would spy an actual loaf of store bought sitting on the counter. When Grandma baked, it was an event never to be missed. "Someday she might not have the energy to do it anymore," my Mom would say, and I would be hard pressed to imagine it.

I wish I could say that I remembered the last day I ate Grandma's bread. That I could close my eyes and recall the afternoon, and what we talked about. Alas, like so many subtle things in life, the memory of the actual 'last time' has slipped away because I was blissfully unaware that it was a moment never to be repeated. I know I must have savored it as I always did, I know Grandma must have looked as lovely and proud as ever. I know it was the epitome of being at Grandma's house, engulfed in the very essence of good, simple food and the love of the person who made it for me.

But perhaps in my own way, I do remember it. Maybe that's why during the passage of a year... out of the blue the air will be just right, and a scent will drift in from somewhere unexpected, and I will find myself dreaming of Grandma's kitchen... the countertop bar, and a thick slice of bread with soft butter.

Wednesday, August 18, 2004

Today is the tenth day of the wildfire that has been sweeping through the valley where I live.

Over the past week, there have been fire plumes and thunderheads boiling up over the mountains. The smell of woodsmoke is thick, and permeates everything... and at night the winds sweep it down across the orchards and through the windows thrown open to let the cool air in.

We could see the glow of fire advancing in on us from the North. Every night we would go outside and look to see if the glow had grown any... or if we could discern what canyon it was in. Eventually we could distinguish individual flames spiralling up to the sky. Trees burning like massive, instant torches.

Yesterday evening, I walked out the back door, and looked north beyond the orchard and to the small hill at the edge. Smoke was boiling up over it. This wasn't the smoke that drifted in a thick haze up into the sky. This was close. Close enough to raise the hair on the back of my neck.

We got in our Jeep and drove down the hill and around the corner. From there, we could look north again, where the valley cuts down to the river and main highway. The entire mountain range from the opposite side of the highway onward...was ablaze.
At least a mile of fire raging down the dry grass hillsides, and igniting every clump of trees in it's path.

We stood with friends who lived less than a mile away on the valley floor. We watched as the flames would literally lay flat on the ground and race up the hills with the smallest shift of wind. We saw, in a matter of minutes, the fire play leapfrog across the banks, and over to yet another canyon. As the sky darkened, the glow consumed all vision, and we were stunned at the power of it all.

We returned home, grabbed our cameras, and set out on the short walk along the orchard and to the small hill that overlooked this view. A total bird's eye view of the fire. With a river and main highway between us, there was no immediate danger suspected... although the thread of a falling ember or glowing ash made us realize how quick things could jump from that mountain range to ours.

My mother and Aunt, my husband and myself...along with our dog and a neighbor who knew of this secret spot as well... sat at the edge of mowed orchard grass and looked across at the raging fire. We watched it crawl up one mountain, and down the next, shooting flames so high into the sky that they easily tripled the height of the trees they were consuming.

We talked excitedly, about people we knew with houses down there. The people who were on evacuation alert (the neighbor's father... my mom's aunt and cousins...) in the next canyon over. And then, we eventually all fell into silence. Hubby and I snapped pictures, me with my digital, he with his SLR. We watched until our eyelids were growing heavy...and we eventually turned and headed home.

By the time we got to the house, the fire had climbed high enough for us to easily see the path it was taking just by looking out our windows. I fell asleep to the scent of fire smoke.
~*~

Below are just a few of the pictures we've taken over the course of the past ten days. The night shots are what I took last night. Blurry, but you get the idea. To put things in scale, the small white dots of light at the bottoms of the mountain shots are actually headlights of cars.

Click on the thumbnails to see the full images!







Monday, August 02, 2004

The slanting afternoon sun cut through the haze of smoke from distant forest fires as we drove home yesterday. I looked down, and my skin was burnished with an amber glow. Simply beautiful... the kind of color only nature could create.

We skimmed along the bases of the cliffs, where volcanic walls rise up from the flat sage valley. The stark beauty traced by these red rock walls made me think of all the pictures which could be taken. Sky, rock, sand. Layers of color... of texture. But would a photograph whisper of the layers of silence that engulf a person who stands quiet on the dunes?

The river sparkled gently between it all. A necklace resting on the bosom of a dusky woman. I looked into the same amber light that glowed on my flesh, as it shimmered over the river. This too had a silence... leaving it's music to be played within the eyes.

It was as if I could walk over to the horizon, and the distance between myself and the Sahara would fold. Two distant points suddenly touching, because of the will of the one dreaming it into existance. Envy felt for the bird who could catch the streams high above, and float away. For them, the dream is reality. The fold occurs at whim.

I was home by the time the moon rose. It lifted up above the same cliffs I had drifted by earlier in the day, and it was enormous. It had the veil of smoke over it, with a dusting of clouds beneath. Amber, full, luminous. As if all the sunlight that had collected upon my shoulders was gathered into one heavenly spot, to gleam with the warmth that I could recall with a mere thought of the desert, and the quiet secrets therein.

Thursday, July 29, 2004

Go outside!  Enjoy some of that summer sunshine.

Run through a sprinkler!

Dip your toes in  the river/ocean/lake that you are closest to.  Then take a running start and do a cannonball into the water.

Buy two popsicles, and share one with someone you love. 

Don't let another day slip by without smiling into the sunlight.

Then, sit outside at night, and stare at the stars awhile.  Find the star you used to wish upon as a child... and dust it off.

 

Saturday, July 24, 2004

At about 3:30 this afternoon, the heat had climbed to a new high.  Even with the air conditioning on downstairs, and a veritable wind tunnel of fans strategically placed to guide a feeble stream of coolness to the upstairs bedroom.... there was no escaping the sweltering effect of the 104 degree day.

Yanking swimsuits and towels out as quick as we could, we were soon sailing down the road en route to The Swimming Hole.  With the top off the Jeep, the hot wind rushed around us in constant reminder of just how wonderful it was going to feel to dip into the icy mountain riverwater.

When we arrived, we picked our way through the trees to the pebbly shore.  In no time, I was knee deep in the water, sucking in my breath like I was front row at a horror flick.  Boy that first dip into the river is a shocker!!!!  Teeth clenched through a grin, every inch further into the river is a goosebump tsunami.   It's like taking off a bandaid.  Best do it all in one go, or you're just going to sit there whimpering.

So, at last - after a good amount of whimpering, I 'whooshed' into the water with a banshee screech that lasted just as long as it took me to convince myself I wasn't going to die from the icicle plunge....  and then, ahhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh - sweet acclimation. 

Fish were literally jumping right out of the water by us.  Flopping and splashing, big enough to make me think twice about swimming over in their direction.  Not exactly sure I wanted to feel some freshwater salmon slap up against me!

Further up stream there was  a huge nest upstream with osprey in it.  The young ones creeled for quite awhile, until the sun started to dip behind the tall mountain peeks.  Then they were oh so quiet, huddled together in the softened light.

The sun and clouds were providing fantastic rays of light and shadow across the blue sky.  The literal 'silver lining' was trimming every puff of white.
I pushed out from the sand and rocks on the shore, and braved the depths to see how far across the river I could go.  The current hit me about halfway, not exactly pushing me down stream... but certainly keeping me in one place as I swam into it.  I didn't go any further, but floated back to shore and was content to drift in that cool eddy of water that curled around the boulders.

We swam until our teeth were chattering.... and then returned home for a bar-b-que of immense proportions.  With sister and family visiting, along with other good friends in town, it was the perfect evening to celebrate with good food and better company.  We could smell the savory smoke as we came down the driveway.   There was steak, chicken, pork chops... au-gratin potatoes, homemade cole slaw, mom's unbeatable potato salad, homemade pear AND zuchini bread, Aunt Rosalie's amazing baked beans (the kind with bacon....) and to top it all off, a tall icy glass of lemonade.  I ate because I was hungry, and then I ate for the sheer glory of eating.  After all, if you don't go back for seconds at a family bbq, something is simply off kilter!

My freckles got darker,  and the rest of me got pinker.  Tops of my feet are tingly from walking in flipflops all day.  The hot, dry air of the valley felt fantastic driving back down the canyon from the chilly swimming hole.    And tonight, I'll sleep with only the lightest of sheets on the bed, and that lovely 'still cooled' feeling from having the river chill me to the core. 

I will think of the sleeping osprey, and the fish who seek the deep still pools of the river to rest beneath the shimmering light of the waxing gibbous moon.

Wednesday, July 14, 2004

The world looks different when you ride in the back of a truck.

I was helping mom move a desk today, and they brought up the old white Ford to the house. As we scooted the furniture into place in the back, I volunteered to sit with it for the short ride to my Aunt's house.

The sun was still on the curve to it's zenith, and was splashing lemon yellow light over the entire valley. I sat on the metal wheel well, arms extended to keep the desk in place. Really, it was heavy enough that it wouldn't have slid... but I just wanted to freewheel down the road like a kid again.

Wind in my hair, sun on my face... I remembered the days of loading up in the back of the truck with kids, dogs, beach towels and coolers. We'd ride for 45 minutes getting beaten by the wind and loving every minute of it as we made our way to the lake.

Today I felt a stirring of those days. Neighbors out on their porch waved at me. I looked around at the mountains and breathed in deep. The heavy rain the day before was still scenting the air with a trace of pine and earth.

Everybody should climb into the back of a truck and ride down an old country road sometime. No rush... just 'toodle along', like my grandma used to say. Makes life slow down, even if for just a few moments. It's like the sound of creeky screen doors in the evening, and the taste of lemonade under hot July sun. It just makes life better, somehow.

Sunday, July 04, 2004

Up the valley from where we live, is a place where the bend in the river is followed by the railroad tracks. Pine trees and orchards share the hillsides, and a vineyard or two can be seen flanking the roadside.

Here, perched on an overlook above the river, is a little weathered bench just perfect for sitting and watching the sun set over the Cascade mountains... as well as waiting for the trains to go rumbling by.

Tonight we arrived just a few minutes too late for sundown, but the horsetail clouds were still lit with the glow. There was even a sundog blazing up above one of the peaks. Had we not seen the sun dip down behind the mountains on the drive up, we would have been fooled by this trick of nature.

I mused outloud that it would be fun if a train were to come by while we were there as it had in times past. As chance would have it, I heard the approach of one within a couple of minutes of giving voice to my wish.

I walked down the slope a bit while my husband positioned himself to take a few pictures. When I saw the train glide into view, I grinned as I realized it was a passenger train with about ten cars including the engine. The sound it made while rounding the bend was a metallic hiss compared to the clank and whine of the cargo trains that normally rumbled along the tracks.

I started waving as the engine went by. In a flash, I could see people in the dining cars. Someone reading a newspaper. A man peering out the window, waving back at me. The last few cars had darkened windows, but there too I saw a few faces hovering in the windows. And then it was gone.

I walked back to the bench and sat for awhile as my husband turned his attention to taking a few pictures of the river. Tilting my head back, I watched a flock of swallows performing their evening acrobats against the fading blue sky. I thought about the stranger in the train as well. Who was he? Where was he heading? Did he have a travelling companion or was he going somewhere alone? Such a mystery, these times when two lives cross for a split second, then veer off into the unknown. I wondered if he will think of the smiling soul he saw standing on the green hill of the Cashmere valley.

We stayed awhile longer, and then headed for home. Hubby smiled at me, knowing how my mind loves to ponder over moments like this. I smiled back, then looked east toward the pink hues reflecting on the mountains. The train was heading in that direction, carrying one small moment in time with it down the whispering silver tracks.







Sunday, June 20, 2004

Things that make you go...ehhh???

As we were cruising down one of the main roads through town this morning, sipping our coffee and heckling the world in general, we came up behind a car that immediately captured our complete, undivided attention for at least five city blocks.

This giant green landboat was drifting down the street, going just slow enough to annoy us to the point of expounding about it.

"Check it out," my husband says. "The car matches the people inside!" And sure enough. The old grey haired couple inside were perfect companions for this ungainly '76 Mercury Marquis. It's the middle of June, and yet the back window still had the scrape tracks left in the dust from the last time they cleared the windshield of ice... say.... FIVE MONTHS AGO!

But the REAL coupe de grace was what we saw wedged behind their back bumper.

Smashed there, looking really no worse for the wear, between the moss green paint and dull chrome bumper... was some party cake. No, not just a smear. A whole piece of festive chocolate cake, frosting and sprinkles included! On a plate!

What series of events possibly lead up to this?!? Were these white-bread Americans at a good ole'fashion church Pic-a-nic yesterday? Did Henrietta walk around for the better part of the afternoon saying "Where's my cake??!!!"

And how did they not SEE the massive wedge of frosted goodness sitting on the trunk lid when they waddled up to the Mercury to drive home?? And how long did it sit there, baking in the sun, hardening to the point that would make any brick layer proud? Obviously it had some uncanny density to it, or it wouldn't look so peculiarly perfect staring out at us from kittycorner the license plate.

The Green Mercury duo finally slowed down (to a painful, agonizing crawl) in order to turn left into their church parking lot. Totally oblivious to their own Far Side'ishness, their bumpercake, and the world in general.

Hallelujah and pass the punch.



(The above is merely my own personal rendition of a sight that I wish I could've taken a photo of...but will forever chortle about in memory.)

Thursday, June 17, 2004

We were walking the path on Blackbird Island yesteday evening, watching the Cottonwood fluff float down off the tree limbs. We stopped on the footbridge, surrounded in a balmy snowstorm of sorts.

So dreamlike. I felt as if the elves of Rivendale should be standing in the high grass by the riverbank. Instead, there was a deer... it's white tail a flash against the green.

It won't be long now before it's warm enough to swim. I hung over the bridge rail and watched the river flow past. Vivid images of swimming in gold-glitter water as the sun filled the high mountain canyon slipped through my mind. A couple more weeks, and I'll be there again.

Saturday, June 12, 2004

(*Word to the wise: I use the word "Like" in this blog post far more than any human should. It is because I'm writing about the 80's here. Retro-language, anyone? :) )

Lake Curlew, Washington ... 1984. Another two weeks of summer spent on a family vacation.

I was thirteen years old, camping with mom and dad. I had my rubber raft that I would row out across the lake to the little island that housed turtles and bluejays. I didn't like the way the fallen trees looked under water, all covered with moss,their branches long broken off. I paddled quickly over those, to water that showed nothing but the pebbly bottom of the lake and the occasional fish that would swim by. I spent long hours in the raft, watching the clouds shift.

One night we were sitting by the camp fire, when a man and woman walked by. They came over to say hello... not an unusual thing. The camp ground itself had a communal feel, and my parents were quick to invite the other folks to sit for awhile. It didn't take long for introductions, and soon they were trading stories through the firelight like old friends.

The man leaned over near me after awhile, and gave me a wink. "How old are you?" he asked, giving me a nudge. "Sixteen? Seventeen?"

I was glad the shadows were hiding the instant blush on my cheeks. I looked over at my parents, almost as if it would be wrong for me to tell my age. They stared back at me over the rims of their plastic cups filled with red wine. "Well go on... he's not going to bite."

"Actually.. I'm thirteen," I said, and shrugged. The man gave a laugh, his eyes going wide. "Well!! You sure don't look thirteen. I was just going to say, my sons are over there at our campsite. Greg's sixteen, and Gary's nine. They'd probably like to see another face their age. You should go over and introduce yourself, sweetheart."

WHAT??? Was the man crazy?? Like I was going to walk over into a strange campsite, and just act like I was cool or something, surprising two boys... a sixteen year old no less!

And then my parents said the unthinkable.

"Yeah hon! Go over and say hi. Would be nice for you to have someone else here to do something with..."

Oh god. I thought I was going to throw up. One minute I was having a perfectly fine night of lighting marshmallows on fire and watching them drip onto the burning logs, and the next minute I'm being told to go talk to boys. Boys from the other side of Washington State. Strange male specimens who would probably think I was a complete spaz from the moment I opened my mouth.

I tried to sink into my plastic folding chair. I tried to feign sleepiness. I attempted the most fervent ESP with my mother to somehow rescue me from my plight. Surely she wouldn't want her baby girl joining some hoodlums over on the other side of the camp ground where she couldn't chaperone!! Really, didn't she just want to keep me there, safely enveloped in the smoke of wood and burnt sugar??

Apparently wine drank out of clear plastic cups severely impairs judgement. She just waved her hand in my direction and told me to go be nice and meet the boys. The Becker Boys. Greg and Gary. My supposed new best buddies.

I felt myself stand up. I watched as the glow of the campfire faded, and the darkness drew me down the path. I heard the crunch of gravel as I crossed over the lane to camp spot #11. I saw two figures silhouetted by their own fire.

I really, really wanted to puke. Right there on my white sneakers, and crushed gravel.

I walked into the light of the fire, and was met by two owlish sets of eyes looking up at me. The little guy, Gary - had brown eyes. And when I looked over at Greg, I saw golden blonde hair hanging down over marble blues.

"Hi...um. Your parents... well they're over with my parents... and, well - they told me, um. They said for me to come say hi. I mean, well they said I should come... meet you."

GAHHHHHHHHH! Just faint and be done with it. Just... lose your dinner, turn, and run. Run!!

"Oh, cool. My name's Greg, and this is my little brother Gary," he said, and he actually smiled at me.

"Shut up, buttface!"

I peeked over at Gary, who recoiled in his chair. For a split second, I wondered if he was calling ME buttface, and I must have looked stricken, because Greg smacked his brother on the arm and just grinned in my direction. "He's just a tard. What's your name?"

"Oh... Aimee. Your dad thought I was your age, but I'm only thirteen." There. I blurted it. Just came right out and spilled my guts. I was a lowly thirteen year old who didn't deserve to kiss the shoes of someone who was already in highschool. I would have grovelled if I had known what that word meant.

Greg shook back the blond hair from his eyes and laughed. "Well, have a seat. If my parents are talking to yours, they'll be there awhile. They're like this. They like meeting people. So... I guess it's probably best you are over here... unless you actually like hearing about bass fishing, and boat races."

Hey, was he actually talking to me? I couldn't help but smile. "Naw, I geuss that gets kinda old after awhile..." I said. Yeah - we were talking! They didn't run away screaming! Well, at least Greg didn't. Gary was still curled up in his folding chair as if a giant bloodsucking mosquito had landed by the fire. But that was okay. He was just a nine year old punk. But Greg... well, he was nice. And... take a deep breath Aimee... he was cute.

So I spent a couple of hours that night talking to Greg, with occasional 'buttfaces' thrown in by Gary. We talked about Curlew, and all the other places we'd been camping. I asked if they had gone swimming at the other end of the campground yet. He said they'd only been there since that morning, so no, they hadn't. Somehow, from deep within, I mustered up a tiny ounce of courage to suggest that maybe we could all go swimming the next day.

When I crawled into my tent that night, I couldn't help grinning from ear to ear... because Greg Becker from the other side of Washington State said yes, he'd like to go swimming with me.

....

I look back on the following days with a vague sense of astonishment. It sounds so cliche, and makes me feel old to say they were really innocent times. I remember feeling so self concious in my one piece brown and tan bathing suit. But once we ran into the water and swam to the bouys, everything just melted away into the golden July sunlight.

We swam, and laughed. We sat on the ropes between the bouys, partially submerged in the water, and talked about school. Greg said I didn't seem like I was thirteen... but this time, I didn't feel creeped out. It made me feel good, as if what I had to say wasn't like a stupid kid (buttface!) but like I was fun to talk to. Like maybe I was as fun as a highschool girl. Like, ohmygawd. A sixteen-year-old guy thought I was cool.

We walked on the trails. We sat out on the boat dock. We avoided Gary. We sat by the fire as the parents filled the evenings with laughter and Gallo wine in the big green bottles. I took a picture of him in his blue and red nylon windbreaker. He took a picture of me in my faded pink sweatshirt. I had never spent so much time alone with a boy in all my life... and it was more fun than I had ever contemplated.

So...THIS is what all the fuss is about!!, I thought to myself.

And then the day came that it was time to pull out the tent stakes, and head home.

It was early... because mom and dad always liked to hit the road early. I walked over to the Becker's campsite, and was met by their mom. She was all smiles, and gave me a big hug. "Go on over to their tent sweety, they're still asleep... but they'll want you to say goodbye to you."

Well, I wasn't so sure about Gary, but... Buttface might.

I awkwardly tried to knock on the side of their green canvas tent. It just 'whooshed' a little, and shook like there was a slight breeze. I cleared my throat and tried to sound cool. "Hey, Greg... it's Aimee."

I heard a rustle, and a couple of groans, and then the zipper being pulled on the tent. Greg emerged, blonde hair sticking out in ways that aren't achieved unless you go to bed with wet hair.

I looked at my feet when I said goodbye. He said it was fun, and that maybe we'd meet up next summer. His mom chimed in and said she'd exchanged addresses with my parents. I wanted to ask him to write me, but didn't. I just stuffed my hands in my pockets and smiled up at him - and realized that he was smiling back just as big.

When he reached out and hugged me, I thought (not for the first time during that week and a half!) that I was going to faint.

"So...okay then. Well, see you around."

"Yeah, take care...."

And off I went, back into my small town life. I watched out the window of the camper as we drove up out of the campground, and to the main road. I could see the green canvas tent, and Greg standing beside it... watching us go. I could see his mom and dad building their morning campfire. And then we turned right at the stop sign at the top of the hill.

After that, I couldn't see anything at all.

There was no kiss. We didn't hold hands. But I can still remember that hug, and feel the warmth of that smile. And every once in awhile when I see Greg's picture in my old photo album, standing there in his blue and red windbreaker... I have to wonder if I'm smiling out from the pages of his album, dressed in faded pink.





Sunday, June 06, 2004

You are listening to Kathy's Song - originally written and performed by Simon and Garfunkle, but beautifully performed by Eva Cassidy on this version.

The lyrics~*~

I hear the drizzle of the rain
Like a memory it falls
Soft and warm continuing
Tapping on my roof and walls.
And from the shelter of my mind
Through the window of my eyes
I gaze beyond the rain-drenched streets
To England where my heart lies.

My mind's distracted and diffused
My thoughts are many miles away
They lie with you when you're asleep
And kiss you when you start your day.

And as a song I was writing is left undone
I don't know why I spend my time
Writing songs I can't believe
With words that tear and strain to rhyme.

And so you see I have come to doubt
All that I once held as true
I stand alone without beliefs
The only truth I know is you.

And as I watch the drops of rain
Weave their weary paths and die
I know that I am like the rain
There but for the grace of you go I.

Thursday, June 03, 2004

I finally felt the wind escort Summer in tonight.

I just realized it a moment ago. The windows are all drawn open, and the curtains are blowing lightly about. I felt the lightness of the air shift just slightly from the heat of the day, and carry with it the scent of grass cooling beneath the stars.

Summer has begun.

It makes me want to sleep outside. Not in a tent, mind you. Just a tarp, an air mattress, my sleeping bag and me. I've spent so many countless nights doing that very thing in the dry heat of the valley summer... I can't imagine letting the season slip by without it.

From an early age, I was enchanted by sleeping outside. I would watch my brother sprawl out on the old brown sleeping bag, staring up into the sky. Eventually, I was allowed to join him out there in the front yard... and I didn't dare spoil the priveledge. Even though I was 9 years younger, I knew when something was just too cool to ruin.

Some nights he would load up his tape player with those huge batteries, and bring it outside with us. Pink Floyd was a recurring soundtrack... though there were others. It didn't matter to me, though. As long as I was included in the ritual, I would listen to anything he wanted. And that's how we would lay there side by side on our sleeping bags, staring up at the stars.

So, summer has begun... and it's time for me to carry on this ritual. I'll watch for falling stars and sattelites, just like I did back then. I might even slip 'Dark Side of the Moon' into my MP3 player, just for the heck of it. And I'll just gaze up at the Big Dipper... and appreciate this little piece of timeless tradition, here on the hill above the valley.



Remember the rainbow I told you about a week or so ago? Well, here it is at last. My husband took two photos, and I spliced them together so you could see the full sweep of the rainbow.

The golden veil beneath the arch is the downpour of rain that had just passed by us. Just click on the photo to enlarge it.

Tuesday, May 25, 2004

Sometimes I almost don't want to write about little happenings around this quiet valley I live in, for the simple fact that I'm sure someone out there is saying "Get outta here... either you live in Wonderland, or you are making this stuff up."

It is true that I live in a sort of Wonderland (at least to me..), but I certainly would never have a reason to make anything up. The things that happen around here are simply quite magical, because I choose to see it that way.

For instance - on Sunday, it was another stormy day. The past week's weather has been record breaking. When you live in a place that gets 300+ sunny days a year, having a solid six days of rain AND thunder storms is quite an event.

My friend Beth came up to see me, and to watch the storm since our house is located in a perfect spot to see a panoramic view of the valley. We had been talking for a couple of hours, when I glanced out the window and nearly jumped right off the couch.

There was a rainbow. But not just any rainbow. This thing was gigantic, blazing full of color, and literally stretching as postcard-perfect as I've ever seen... from one mountain, up over the town, and to a mountain on the other side.

I called up to hubby to grab his camera, and we all ran outside to gawk at the spectacle.

The sun was filtering through the clouds as it was descending for sunset. It was causing that golden 'magic light', and beaming it straight past the gloomy grey, to the hills and mountains east of us. Just behind those mountains were more angry clouds, creating a backdrop of gunmetal black. Between the two, was a downpour of rain... which caused a sheer golden curtain to fall against the lit up mountains, and that is where the rainbow was born.

Our neighbor came out with her camera. She had lived here for decades and said she never saw anything quite so amazing. We watched, and watched... minutes went by. You could see a second rainbow, faint above the first. Ten minutes went by, and it was still there. We walked up onto the porch steps and sat there. I braided Beth's hair. We were all just laughing and talking, and soaking in the beauty of this everlasting rainbow.

Finally, twenty minutes after we had noticed it, it began to fade - but only because the sun was setting! The clouds were turning pink, brightening as the rainbow slowly disappeared.

Hubby took two full rolls of film, capturing the moment. I kicked myself for not having my digital camera's batteries charged... so you will have to wait for the film to get developed to see the awesome sight.

Yesterday, as he and I went to get a drink at the store... I smiled and pointed at the local newspaper's front page. A picture of kids reaching up for the rainbow.

If that's not Wonderland... I don't know what is.

Friday, May 21, 2004

For the fourth straight day in a row, the valley has been waltzed by thunderstorms. Not the kind that simply rumble and threaten rain... but the ones that boom so loud the windows rattle, and the cloudbursts pour furiously with each flash of lightning.

Yesterday's storm was no exception.

I crawled up onto the bed with my dog for a nap, and woke to the sound of rumbling. I stared out the windows for countless minutes, watching the lightning dazzle on wet leaves outside my bedroom. The thunder would come, and I would feel my dog's body jolt in his sleep. I loved every lazy, stormy moment.

Another whip-crack of thunder snapped overhead, and the rain came down in a torrent. I jumped off the bed, dog instantly shadowing me, and we ran down to the back porch facing East. One of the benefits of living on a hill is that you can see the entire valley in one glance. I watched lightning touching down on the hills all around, and breathed the scent of rain and ozone.

I also noticed the flashing lights of an ambulance coming up the main road near my house.

My mother came through the living room and walked out onto the porch with me, having arrived back after running some errands. She saw the lights as well, and stopped to see where they were going.

Once the thunder had rolled into silence for a moment, we heard the sirens of the aid car. We watched as it made it's way straight up the main road, getting louder and louder until it turned just below my street and cut across the fairgrounds road.

Right in the direction of my grandmother's house.

Trees obscurred the last few yards of the ambulance's trek, but it seemed like it slowed down right near grandma's driveway. My dad's mom. The last grandparent I have living.

I stood up on the wide railing of the porch, trying to get a better view. I could barely see lights flashing through trees, and then they disappeared. If they went down grandma's driveway, that would make sense. It was a steep dirt road that lead to her house.

"I think we better go see where they went," mom said. I agreed. Seconds later we were running through the rain to my Jeep.

I fumbled with the keys, but finally got them in the ignition. It only took a minute to drive down and cut across the fairgrounds road, just as the ambulance had. I'm not sure about mom, but I held my breath as we pulled up far enough to see her driveway.

The ambulance was parked outside her door.

I gasped. Mom muttered quietly. We turned down the dirt road and parked in the grass, so as not to block the driveway.

The thunder clapped overhead. Lightning lit the sky. We were soaking wet when we went through the creaking screen door to find the living room door wide open, and paramedics kneeling in front of grandma.

I glanced up at the walls. There was the faded portrait of my aunt as homecoming queen, circa 1955.

I blinked, and a paramedic came into my vision. He asked me who I was and I told him. He said it appeared that she had suffered a stroke. He asked me how old she was. I said I thought she was 84. He nodded and turned to his partner, who made notes on a clipboard.

Fred, the elderly neighbor from down the street who has taken a shining to my grandmother ever since the passing of her husband many years ago, was the one who found her. He said she was supposed to call him by noon, and hadn't. It was about 2:30 in the afternoon. He walked in and found her on the floor.

She looked at me from where she sat, and smiled. I smiled back. But the paramedics kept asking her questions, and she blinked at them like a wounded dove.

They wheeled her out of her old house, to load her on the stretcher outside. I watched as they hoisted her up and covered her with white blankets. She looked up into the sky, through the rain. Thunder clapped. Lightning lit her eyes.

I could see her wondering if she would ever come home again.

Wednesday, May 19, 2004

I shouldn't confess what I just indulged in for lunch today... but I'm going to anyway. The taste of it is imprinted within my senses, and I'm still humming from the sheer guilty pleasure from the experience.

My friend Amy (who was my traveling companion in England. Yes, Amy and Aimee - running wild in the UK) was in town today. We decided to venture to the touristy village nearby and try out their new French bistro called Pav's. I had been there once before, and had eaten a perfectly toasted panini, but today we were in the mood for crepes.

We detoured through an antique store, teasing ourselves with the thought of the culinary treats waiting for us. We could barely make it to 11:00 before we caved and headed up the street toward the eatery.

It is a very small place, with seating for no more than about twenty people. The walls are a rich marigold color, with a gold guilded mirror taking up the entire back wall. Sconces and French advertising posters make up the rest of the vaulted ceiling nook. Amy, who recently visited Italy, was in a swoon over how quaint and authentic everything looked.

We scooted into a table for two near the window, and dove into our menus. It wasn't long before we decided to split a meal and a desert. A Black Forest Ham crepe with swiss cheese and a spicy dijon sauce for the entree. A feta cheese salad with red, green and yellow bell peppers on the side, drizzled with dark vinagrette. For desert - a Chocolate Gelato Crepe with whipped cream, almonds and a liquor berry sauce. A straight shot of espresso in demitasse cups to go with our sweets.

The crepes were enormous! Everything was so fresh and delicious, all we could do was stare at eachother shaking our heads. Every bite melted over my tongue. The dijon was spiced just right, and the ham was exquisite with the lightness of the crepe.

Amy reminisced about staying in Positano Italy while our spoons swam through the melting gelato and berry sauce. The little slivers of almonds were crunched in glee and washed down with velvet espresso. She mused about the cooking school where she stayed as a guest, and we both agreed that if we were TRULY decadent we would finish our meal off with a glass of wine.

All of this, and the clock hadn't even struck high noon yet!

We passed on the wine though, and simply let the joys of the food take us into a sleepy simmer. She had a 2 hour drive ahead of her, and I teased her with the fact that I was going to top off my ultra indulgent morning with a supremely self serving nap. But whether we are careening down the road or snuggling into a pillow, there are going to be matching Cheshire smiles on both of our faces!!

Tuesday, May 18, 2004

On May 18th, 1980 - my mother and I were in our front yard. It was Sunday morning, and she was getting an early start on the yard work that day. Being 9 years old at the time, I was getting an early start on playing with my dog Chinook.

I was standing on the little slope near the Snowball tree that mom had carefully sculpted throughout the years. Chinook was rooting through the orchard grass nearby, and mom was turning on the sprinklers for the day. We were laughing about something silly, out there under the sea blue sky.

It was then that I heard *and* felt an odd sound. My first thought was that the local highschool had fired off it's cannon (usually saved for the winning touchdown at the homecoming game) for some reason. It thumped the ground beneath my feet.

"What was that?" I asked mom.

She was standing nearby with a garden hose in her hand. She was looking at me, shaking her head a little. "I'm not sure...."

We went on with our morning rituals for awhile, until I happened to glance up into the sky. Instead of the pristine blue, there was a veil of greyish lavender spreading across the horizon. It was unlike any cloud I had ever seen.

"Mom... I think something has happened...." I said, just as she looked up in the sky as well. We both dropped what we were doing and rushed into the house to turn on the TV. There had been speculation of a cataclysmic natural disaster about to strike - so in the back of my mind, I was already anticipating what we were going to see.

It was on every channel. The emergency broadcasting system was in effect. Mount St. Helens had erupted.

We had felt and heard the explosion, though we were hundreds of miles away....

Friday, May 14, 2004

Another treasure discovered on my trek to the Pacific Ocean. A book called Einstein's Dreams by Alan Lightman.

Each chapter is a hypnotic dream in which Time is explained in every imaginable and impossible facet. Interspersed throughout this are occasional breaks where we see Einstein himself, in simple moments of every day life.
There is nothing ordinary about this book, however. It charms. It enthralls. It makes you close the cover, and imagine a world where Time stops. Or stutters. Or spins in circles....
Consider this the Foxfire Book Recommendation of the Month. And if you do read it - please, visit me again and leave your comments here. In fact, I may just set up a new section to this site, in order for discussions about the books I choose to feature. Hands up, who likes the idea? :)
Last night we had a fantastically loud thunder storm sweep through the valley.

I could see it coming when I left work. The sky had grown dark and surly, with black clouds sending veils of silver rain onto the hilltops all around.

By the time I pulled in the driveway at home, the wind was whipping through the dogwood tree, scattering it's white petals across the freshly mowed yard. The cats were peeking out from beneath the porch as I walked up the steps. Their afternoon ritual of spying on the quail in the brush pile out back was thwarted.

I curled up on the overstuffed chair by the windows, and watched as the sky took on an eery glow from within. The kind that makes the hair stand up on the back of your neck, anticipating the first flash of white lightning from the core.

It wasn't long before my anticipationis were rewarded. The sky lit up, and I counted the heartbeats between the lightning and the thunder. Four beats. One enormous thunder clap, bouncing off one mountain after another.

I could smell the rain before it hit. That earthy, pungent fragrance of too-dry dirt finally being quenched. Of orchards and old leaves being washed clean. Of flowers being shaken on their stems. And I saw the curtain of rain coming from the West, hiding everything behind it in a gauzy haze.

It was an immediate downpour. The metal roof hammered with the onslaught, funneling the water to the corners of the house where it cascaded in gushing waterfalls.

I opened the kitchen window to hear it better. The wind blew rain in through the screen. It felt crisp and cool, as clean as any early summer rain could be. I wanted to bottle that smell, capture the feeling, and keep it going all night long.

I closed my eyes and listened to the rain. Sensed the lightning. Waited for the thunder. It had a life of it's own, with a pulse that pattered on the metal roof long into the evening.

Tuesday, May 11, 2004

I now know why Hendry David Thoreau said "The bluebird carries the sky on his back..."

As I was sitting on an overlook high above the valley, my husband was off in the distance photographing wild lupine against the outline of some trees scorched in a forest fire. It was another postcard blue sky day.

I was looking across at the jagged mountain peaks, wondering if the bears were out and roaming yet, when I thought I saw a portion of the sky move.

As quick as a glance, I spotted a fluttering of blue drop from the canopy above and land on a bare branch nearby. A mountain bluebird!! The kind that is solid sky blue, from breast to wings, with only the faintest little clouds of white showing up near it's legs.

I had never seen one here in Washington before. There are bluejays, of course... but this delicate specimen was certainly nothing like it's sqwaking, raucous cousins. It sat quietly on the branch for several minutes - taking flight for another perch only when my dog decided to romp too close to the tree.

And so I smiled and looked back out across the valley. Such a gift seeing poetry come to life right in front of my eyes. A piece of the sky, delivered on silent wings.




Sunday, May 09, 2004

Making a mental list of errands that needed running, I ducked under the blooming dogwood tree and was about to get into my Jeep when I realized I hadn't checked the mailbox yet.

I glanced over my shoulder to the plain green box jutting up off the rock wall by the road. Ehh... why bother. If there is something in there, it will most likely be bills, junk mail, or at the very most... an issue of Rolling Stone.

So I backed out of the driveway and headed down the road without giving it another thought.

When I finally came back home, I hoisted up the grocery sacks to avoid the inevitable dog-sniffing, and jangled my keys into the lock. But low and behold, when I went to deposit my burden on the kitchen table... there was a good sized parcel perched there, sent to me from someone named Yogi Tea.

After pondering who in this world I knew with such a peculiar name, I realized (admittedly a bit slowly...) that it wasn't a person, but a business who had sent me a mystery package.

I deftly sliced open the wrapping tape, and when I folded back the cardboard, the scent of chai and raspberry engulfed me. I pulled out a sheet of fine paper with asian embellishments across the top in crimson. "Congratulations!" it read. "Please enjoy sampling this selection of Yogi Tea."

Well now, how about that?? I dug into the package and pulled out six full size boxes of tea! Rasberry Leaf, Egyptian Licorice Mint, India Spice Chai, African Redbush Peach, and Raspberry Ginger. There was a vague teasing memory of signing up for some free samples of tea... online? In a shop? I couldn't recall. But apparently I won, in a big way! I'd be set in the tea department for some weeks with this little cache!

So, lining the boxes up on the table, I felt quite chuffed at the unexpected perk to my day. Nothing like some fragrant tea arriving out of the blue to make me hum through a smile.

Never underestimate an unopened mailbox.



"Something opens our wings. Something makes boredom and hurt disappear. Someone fills the cup in front of us: we taste only sacredness." -Rumi-

Friday, May 07, 2004

Whenever I am heading down the road en route to the Oregon Coast, I have a deep sense of 'going home'. Strange, really - as I've never lived there... and in fact am quite satisfied with the place I've dug my roots in. But going to the ocean feels like returning to a different sort of place. Something deeper in the recognition I feel when I finally step out of the Jeep and onto the hard packed sand of the Pacific Ocean. That's why I have dubbed this place my 'Touchstone'.

The trek down to the coast was a blur. We were due in Oceanside, near Netarts, around 3:00 p.m. so that I could take pictures of my brother and his bride-to-be before the nuptuals. My poor husband witnessed a wide eyed leadfoot of a wife as I sailed down I-5 South, trying to shave precious minutes off our 7 hour journey. Of course, once I was on the narrow, winding Highway 101 - that proved to be even more frightening!

The usual pleasure I take in seeing familiar sights on the initial drive down was forsaken for pure tunnel vision. I saw nothing but the road ahead of me, and imagined my brother suited up in a tuxedo looking at his watch and wondering when his baby sister was going to arrive, Nikon FM10 in hand. That precise scene came true at about 4:00. With the wedding starting at 5:00 - all we could do was shrug helplessly and decide to take pictures after the ceremony.

With that, we raced the few miles back to the condo that was rented for family so that we could shower and change into our dress clothes. I hardly had time to gape at the gorgeous garden tub centered in the middle of huge windows overlooking an ocean cliff. I had to settle for a quick rinse in the plain shower tucked around the corner - a far cry from relaxing in luxurious sandalwood bubbles and gazing out at the Pacific blue.

At last, we took off for the tiny chapel on the hillside. My brother looked dapper and a bit tense as he was trying to find a CD of acoustic guitar he specifically wrote and played for his bride to walk down the aisle to. Unable to find it, he thrust a camcorder into my hand, showed me where to hit 'play' on the sound system and raced out the door to find the missing music. I was now the official media girl of this little ceremony!

As the clock ticked off the minutes to 5:00 - he finally showed up looking dismayed. He couldn't find the CD. Quick arrangements were made with the pianist to play something else when the bride took center stage... and my brother grabbed his guitar case from a side room. He would still be able to play the other song he wrote for her, accompanied by a singer.

When he snapped open the case, his eyes lit up. There, nestled against the felt beneath the neck of his Gibson Hummingbird - was a shiny silver CD. Cheers all around! Things would go as planned. And then, in a matter of seconds... he slipped the CD into the sound system, queued me up with a nod, and away we went into the ceremony....


To be continued.

Monday, May 03, 2004

In short....

There was little wind, and deep blue skies that had not yet been bleached by summer.

The green throated hummingbirds had claimed the five mile hike through lush forest to Cape Lookout for their own, and one had to watch carefully to avoid stepping on the banana slugs. The whales made cameo appearances at the Cape Meares lighthouse, when the sun was high enough to turn the seawater translucent.

We stuffed our pockets with a king's ransom of agates and sand dollars, feeling like rich thieves as we climbed up over the dunes towards our temporary home.

I sat on hardpacked sand, entranced by the dazzle of gold light on the waves. It wasn't until evening when I realized the sun had left it's mark in blushing pink across the bridge of my nose. Apparently it was set on resurrecting the freckles of my childhood.

And at night, the moon gave just enough light to turn everything into unimaginable variances of midnight blue, broken only by the sparks of starlight trapped in an invisible fisher's net.

"A man tells so many stories, that he becomes the stories. They live on after him, and in that way he becomes immortal." Big Fish



Friday, April 23, 2004




And so it is time for the muse to heed the call of the ocean. I will be taking a little sojourn to the Oregon Coast for eight wonderful days. If you click the picture above, it will take you to the Cannon Beach Webcam - where you can get a glimpse of the place that inspires me to no end.

I promise a veritable tsunami of writing upon my return.

Until then, I am reposting a couple of journal entries. One, having to do with Cannon Beach itself. The other, just a whimsical moment that still makes me smile when I think of it.

"You've asked me what the lobster is weaving there
with his golden feet?
I reply, the ocean knows this......"
- Pablo Neruda -


~*~Foxfires~*~

------------------------------

The storm winds were already bending the limbs of the trees as I drove the winding road up to the cliff's edge. Just moments before, I had been standing in our oceanside suite watching the darkness take over the horizon. I grabbed my camera, forgot my jacket, and knew that I could capture some fantastic shots of the brooding ocean if I were fast enough.

The parking lot was empty when I reached the top. The wind swept up off the water in cold blasts, and I immediately regretted not having a coat. I held my camera close as I took to the trail, walking the familiar track against the hillside. I glanced over the rough hewn wooden fence, to the rocks and water far below. There was no sand visible as the waves lashed the bank. White foam streaked the water with deceivingly tranquil strands.

I rounded the hill and walked to the dead end of the trail. The wooden fence gave way to steel gridwork. There was fresh dirt where another part of the bank had slid away to the sea. I wondered how much more this storm would demand of the mountain I stood upon.

Lifting my gaze beyond the cliff's edge, the Pacific was before me. The wide blue sea had grown dark with the gathering of clouds. I looked through the camera's lens and focused in on the whisps of stark white fog spinning in contrast to the black horizon. It was mesmerizing... this dance of the elements. It seemed the battered evergreens were releasing their minions to ward the shoreline from the coming storm.

The wind held no comforting scent of woodsmoke from the chimneys down in the village. The only thing it carried was the bitter cold from distant parts of the deep water, where only the salt survives. It picked up in speed, and pushed me back a little. I should have obeyed the gentle warning then and there, but I didn't.

I turned my attention to the sculpt of the shore curving back toward the coastal town, and was about to frame in my last shot when I heard another sound beneath the rush of wind. I lowered my camera and looked back out at the ocean. The wall of black was closer... much closer. I could measure the waves with just a glance, and watched them disappear into the clouds.... but I had never seen clouds so thick right on top of the water. And then it began.... an augmented hiss like the wind raking over millions of dry leaves. The back of my neck tingled as I watched in amazement, this wall coming.... visibly.....rolling toward me. The hiss grew deeper, gained strength, and suddenly I thought of the trains that rolled through the valley at night. No need to slow for cars when the towns are sleeping.

I started running. The trail, about four feet wide at best, suddenly seemed like a gymnast's balancing beam....totally unforgiving. I was sprinting, aware of my heart with every single pounding stride. The train was right behind me... roaring with the promise that it would plow right over me if I were to falter in the slightest way. Gritting my teeth I came to the end of the trail and jumped down a small bank to the grass. I bolted into the nearest picnic shelter and pivoted to look out toward the park. I barely had time to swallow back the lump in my throat when the roar hammered down on me, and my view of the park was blinded by a blur of white. I steadied myself against the picnic table as I watched golf ball sized hail come thundering down, rolling into the edge of the shelter, and pummeling it's roof. Adrenalin raced through my senses, pushing my heart into a flutter. The green grass was gone. In it's place was a growing layer of ice, and I wanted to cover my ears. This was pure power! Nature slamming into the coast, and there I was...just a speck trembling beneath a tiny wooden roof.

And then, just as quick as the blink of a power outage, it was over. It seemed the last of the hail fell all at once, and the wild drumming ceased. The abrupt silence gave me a chill even worse than the roar. I hesitated to leave my shelter... and so I stood there, laughing a little too high pitched, not wanting to think of the consequences had I been caught against the bare hillside.

At last, I walked out under the bare sky. The hail crunched beneath my shoes, and as I looked up, I saw a swirl of mist and blue. I picked my way back up the slope to the trail, reaching out to steady myself against the fencing. There was nothing but clear sky out toward the horizon. The storm had rushed in, crashed against the coast, and raced over the tops of the trees to the mainland. I laughed through a few deep breaths, feeling my pulse finally start to slow down.

A faint rainbow arched from the south shore across to the northern cove.

Sometimes pictures can't replace a thousand words.



-------------------------------------------

I heard the sound of wind chimes today.

It was a peculiar thing to hear as the snow fell all around me. Normally, the chimes are taken down in autumn - and their silvery bells aren't heard again until the first winds of spring.

I must have forgotten one....

...because as I was out beneath the bare limbed oak tree gathering kindling from the wood pile, the liquid tones filled the air as a swirl of icy wind rounded down through the canyon.

It stole my breath away.

It was such a delicate sound... watery. As if perhaps someone ran their fingers along the slim metal strands to bring the chimes to life. But when I glanced up at the porch where they were hanging, there was no one there....

I went on gathering the wood, until my arms were full and I struggled to open the door back into the house. My cat slinked around my ankles, and looked up at me with that silent 'meow' she gives me. It reminded me of a vague dream I had before waking this morning.

When at last the fire took to the logs and spiralled up toward the chimney, I closed the glass doors and stood in the glow a moment. I could hear the chimes again, and glanced over to see the snow slanting across the window. The wind was coming from the North.

Out in the orchard, there were the black dots of crows sitting on top of the tree props. They were hunkered against the storm, their wings held like a mysterious man's cape to the rain. Why did they stay?

I fancied that they too were listening to the wind chimes... hypnotized by the sound. Called out from their warm nests in the evergreens, to sit in the iced winds and listen to the accidental melody. Maybe they were dazzled by the snow, too stunned to fly.

I lit my amber incense and the candles on the low darkwood book case. The flames cast soft shadows over the carved elephants from India who guard the Mark Twain collection. The scented smoke slipped past the watercolor painted in the 1800's, making it seem like the small boat being guided out into the waters of Venice was gliding through mist.

I gazed at the old travel poster of the Sahara hanging on the wall... the bedouin man standing on a hill, watching the train pass through the sands at night. I imagined there was no snow outside, no crows braced against the storm. I inhaled the amber and imagined the wind chimes melding with the sound of drums. Cymbals on a dancer's fingers. Silks fluttering in spiced winds.

I was suddenly transported onto that train, my fingers pressed against the glass as I peered out at the dune to see the light of the bedouin's fire. The flames were high, the desert palms caught in the glow. Dancers swayed in the shadows, the golden threads woven through their skirts catching the light.

The sparks were rising high into the night sky, to be lost among the stars.

Before I knew it, I was standing out on the sand still warm from the long day of sunlight. I was running up the dunes, toward the sound of singing, the lure of drums.... the firelight flashing between the dancer's bodies....

....the sound of wind chimes.

~*~

I blinked as the poster came back into focus. There was my bedouin man, draped in his robes, staring down at the train. I looked out the window... and the snow had stopped. The crows were gone....

...and I couldn't stop smiling.

It was a joyous reunion.



Friday, April 09, 2004

While you wait for the next installment of my story....

The Bee-keeper came out last night.

I was roused from deep 3:00 a.m. sleep by the clunk and hum of an old tractor.

I smiled as I rolled over and peered out of the floor-to-ceiling window that is directly next to my side of the bed. I could see the shine of yellow headlights working their way slowly up one of the rows of apple trees. It would have been disconcerting if I had not known from years previous what this early morning ruckus was about.

The bee-keeper transports his precious workers only at night. They sleep while he trundles them across the grassy inclines of the hill we live on, depositing them in strategic positions so that by morning they will wake to find acres of newly budding blooms to visit.

My husband mumbled something and tugged the blankets up over his head, but the dog and I kept watch on the bee-keeper. Something about this yearly ritual delights me. It signals the true beginning of Spring. The awakening of the apple and cherry trees. And the need to tread carefully across the lawn when dandelions are afoot.

I don't know who the bee-keeper is. Always shrouded in darkness, I recognize him only by the sound of the tractor and the shine of lights on the trees. And little does he know that off in the distance, someone watches him with sleepy interest... a smile given for a little tradition that is kept between two strangers, the moon, and the honeybees.


Tuesday, April 06, 2004

(*scroll down to Wednesday, March 31st for the beginning of the story if you have not already read it.*)

THE ARRIVAL - Chapter Two


The city had a pace to it as quick as the bloodstream after a brisk run. Streets bustled with cars and pedestrians, very much like a tangle of veins that lead to one giant pumping heart -- the Underground. Seraph couldn't imagine that even one more person could cram themselves into the white tiled tunnels. Claustrophobia loomed just one breath away from them all as the steady stream flowed to and from the central Tube lines below. She didn't dare slow her walk in order to take stock of her surroundings just yet. She had to laugh a little, as it was not unlike running with the bulls in Pamplona. But at least she would have plenty of time on the train to get her bearings, without the threat of being flattened in the process.

It was a good thing that the throng of people were all heading in the same basic direction she was. It made it easy to go with the flow, maneuvering through the ticket booths, the escalators, and onto the platform to wait for the train. She gave a sympathetic smile to a pair of tourists struggling with their luggage. The tiny wheels on the bottom of the overstuffed bags were only adding insult to injury, as it made the bags wobble like penguins when the tourists would drag it all forward.

At least she didn't have to worry about such a cumbersome process. She could directly thank the Elders for that. No matter what Passage it was, they always had everything arranged for her when she arrived. How this worked, she was uncertain... but she refrained from examining the matter too closely. The Elders took pleasure in spoiling her wherever she went, and she gladly accepted the benefits of being their Mediary.


She felt the train approaching before she heard it. A shift in the air, pushing outward, preceding the roaring whine of the tracks as the subway shot out of it's dark tunnel. It rolled to a stop, and she waited in the crowd for the doors to open. There had been the temptation to take a cab to Monmouth Street, but her main objective was to be in contact with as many people as possible. There was little chance of that in a cab, aside from the cab driver -- and so the decision was easy. However the eye contact, or lack thereof, made her agenda difficult. So many people kept their heads down, attention diverted, nose in their own business so to speak. But, it was nothing that a little initiative did not work out.

"Do you need help with that?" she asked, smiling to the tourists still wrestling with their luggage. The two young women looked up with haggard smiles in return. A few last stragglers bolted down the stairs and through the train's doors, and Seraph motioned for the women to hurry. "It's about to head out again, here... let's give it a heave-ho." They all three grabbed the handles of the unruly luggage and hoisted it up over the threshold.

A voice overhead droned on the loudspeaker. "Mind the gap. Please, mind the gap."

---------------------------------------------


The Covent Garden Hotel was unassuming where it sat in the middle of Monmouth Street. The tall brick building blended in with the rest of the shops, distinguished only by its black front and elegant gold lettering. Seraph brushed her hair neatly back behind an ear as she stepped up to the door, but before she could reach out for the handle, it swung open and a man on the other side motioned for her to enter.

She nodded to him, and noticed his head turn to follow her movements as she walked by. Her smile deepened at that, but she didn't return the gaze. Instead, she made her way through the lobby, to the front desk that was flanked on both sides with rich rose drapes, making it seem more like a theatre's stage than a place to check in. The wood of the desk was well oiled, the clock on the wall ticking in the comfortable silence. There was a plate of bright red apples on the counter, and Seraph took one, already thirsting for the taste of the crisp sweetness.

"Ah, hello there! Yes, welcome to the Covent Garden Hotel, may I help you?" said a woman. She appeared a moment later from a side door, her hair neatly pinned at the nape of her neck.

"Yes, I am Seraph Lore, I believe a room has been arranged for me?"

"Miss Lore... indeed! The Loft Suite. Oh you will be quite pleased with it I believe. It has been prepared for your arrival, if you would just sign our ledger here." With that the woman slid a large leather bound book around to receive Seraph's signature.

Seraph did so quickly, giving only a cursory glance at the other names penned in the book before smiling across at the woman. "So there is nothing else I need to do then, as far as payment?"

"No, Miss Lore... it has all been arranged for you. Stay as long as you wish, your first month has been paid, with credit ran on any further time you may need."

"Excellent. Thank you..." she paused, polishing the apple on her coat as she leaned in to read the name on the woman's gold lapel pin. "...Laurel. I have a feeling I will enjoy it here as well."





------------------------------

To be continued....
2000 - A.S. Foxfires Arts

Wednesday, March 31, 2004

(A little bit of the fiction writing that I dabble in. I hope my readers enjoy. :) It's amatuer...but it's mine. Like my favorite fortune cookie once said.. "You create your own stage. The audience is waiting".)
2000 - A.S. Foxfires Arts


"Sights seen in the mind's eye can never be destroyed"
Strabo (64 BC - AD 21)

THE PASSAGE - Chapter One




Seraph closed her eyes as she was told.

Her senses tingled with awareness as the sound of falling water grew louder, mimicked in a gentle touch upon her shoulder. Someone warmed her ear with a whisper, but before sense or reason could give the words shape, they faded into a place that held no form at all. Sound rushed out, as if being pulled through a small hole, leaving only thick quiet to fill the void.

Darkness cradled her. She felt the muted pump of her heart, and the velvet blackness caress her skin the way it did when someone stood too close at night. Was she falling, or flying? Maybe she was levitating.

'Or maybe', she thought, 'I have already arrived'.

The questions drifted in the same dreamy procession as leaves floating downstream, and yet there was no real need for answers. She knew this, for she had crossed over many times before. But regardless of her certainty, the questions always remained.

Or perhaps they were the answers all along.

--

"Open your eyes," a voice said.

It was as if a door were thrown open near the ocean, just in time to hear the seventh wave crash on the shore. A rush of tingles ran wildfire up her spine, while echoing words untangled themselves from her thoughts. She swayed as she felt solid ground beneath her feet and gulped the fresh air, tasting rain on her tongue.

The fading light in the sky eased into her vision. There were storm clouds darkening overhead, and a wind that spiraled down from them teased at her long black hair.

It was then that she heard the chanting. Women's voices, lilting in harmonic tones that seemed to rise and fall with the blowing wind. Before her, solitary on the sloping green plains, a ring of square stones almost triple her height. Torches had been thrust into the ground around them, their flames guttering wildly in the wind. She walked through the wet grass and pressed herself against one of the stones, circling around to the other side to shield herself from the storm. Shadows danced against the slabs of rock like ghosts of the women within the ring. Their hands reached up to the sky, their backs arched in offering. As Seraph stared, a peal of thunder rolled across the plain, and lightning sparked the bank of clouds. In a heartbeat she was blinded by it, clenching her eyes shut until the moment passed....

...but dizziness welled up in her core as the chill of the storm suddenly gave way to a press of hot, dry air. The next breath was laced with spice, and the sound of the women and thunder thinned out until it hissed like a thousand serpents. She pushed away from her brace against the stone and opened her eyes, squinting as she adjusted to brilliant sunlight flashing on pale dunes as far as she could see.

At her feet, a terrace of quarried stone spreading out like a mountain. Pulling her hair back away from her face, she picked her way across the platform of stone, following the call of a reedy voice. The heat blazed against her dusky skin, magnified by the massive granite blocks that had baked under the sun for hours. When she peered down the terraced slope, she saw a young man standing on a high ramp, draped in a pristine white robe and adorned with gold and lapis lazuli. Below him on a grand stairway, a dozen men worked in unison, their backs shining slick with sweat. Across the desert, a shadow of the pyramid stretched out to touch the distant sand, and Seraph knelt down to press her hands against the burning stone...

...but her fingers disappeared beneath the surface of water. Ripples from her touch fanned out through a mirror smooth pool, disrupting the perfect image reflected within. A cool breath of wind chased away the parched heat, and Seraph glanced up, following the line of water and cypress trees as they joined together in the distance beneath the pregnant swell of a palatial tomb. Silence fit the moment as moonlight glowed on the white marble dome and it's guardian minarets. A hint of a smile grew, the moon shining just as deeply in her pale green eyes. 'Such truth in beauty' she thought to herself as she looked back down into the reflecting pool. . .

. . . And saw the face of London's Clock Tower light up. It boomed the hour, and with each heavy chime Seraph felt herself center to the world around her. A double-decker bus roared by in a blur of red, and flashes from a tourist's camera lit up the sidewalk around her. It was raining again, and her brows perked slightly as she realized she was already carrying an umbrella. Flicking it open, she watched the flow of people on the sidewalk, peering over her shoulder as they disappearing down the stairs to Westminster Station. She tightened the scarf at her throat, a faint scent of sandalwood lifting up from her wrists. She looked down to see she was wearing a simple brown wrap skirt, lace up boots and a black duster that hung well past her knees.

"Perfect," she whispered, glancing up at the Clock Tower as she noted the time.

The passage was complete. They would be pleased.

Threading her way through the rush hour crowd, she tossed a coin to a busker.

He quickened the strum of his guitar to match her stride as she disappeared into London's Underground.
(To be continued)

2000 - A.S. Foxfires Arts

Sunday, March 28, 2004

Two of my most beloved poems, by the same writer - Pablo Neruda. His words ring so true in my ears. If you are not familiar with his works, I highly recommend them. Vibrant and sensual, rich enough to taste. He has ruined me for all other poets.

POETRY
And it was at that age...Poetry arrived
in search of me. I don't know, I don't know where
it came from, from winter or a river.
I don't know how or when,
no, they were not voices, they were not
words, nor silence,
but from a street I was summoned,
from the branches of night,
abruptly from the others,
among violent fires
or returning alone,
there I was without a face
and it touched me.

I did not know what to say, my mouth
had no way
with names
my eyes were blind,
and something started in my soul,
fever or forgotten wings,
and I made my own way,
deciphering
that fire
and I wrote the first faint line,
faint, without substance, pure
nonsense,
pure wisdom
of someone who knows nothing,
and suddenly I saw
the heavens
unfastened
and open,
planets,
palpitating planations,
shadow perforated,
riddled
with arrows, fire and flowers,
the winding night, the universe.

And I, infinitesmal being,
drunk with the great starry
void,
likeness, image of
mystery,
I felt myself a pure part
of the abyss,
I wheeled with the stars,
my heart broke free on the open sky.
~*~Pablo Neruda~*~



And another for good measure. One of my favorites by him:

Sonnet XVII
I do not love you as if you were salt-rose, or topaz,
or the arrow of carnations the fire shoots off.
I love you as certain dark things are to be loved,
in secret, between the shadow and the soul.

I love you as the plant that never blooms
but carries in itself the light of hidden flowers;
thanks to your love a certain solid fragrance,
risen from the earth, lives darkly in my body.

I love you without knowing how, or when, or from where.
I love you straightforwardly, without complexities or pride;
so I love you because I know no other way

than this: where I does not exist, nor you,
so close that your hand on my chest is my hand,
so close that your eyes close as I fall asleep.
~*~Pablo Neruda~*~

Thursday, March 25, 2004

I've heard that personal collections tell much about the people who have hoarded them. Some people become obsessed with a certain animal. Others collect a particular artist, or perhaps a type of crystal.

There are two things that I have long been fascinated with, and collect down to this day: Interesting boxes, and journals.

My fascination with boxes began at a very early age, starting with the treasure chests. When I was five years old, my mother bundled me up and carted me off to Disneyland. Everything was a clash of color and sound, whirling rides and fantastical sights at every turn. I have such vivid memories of being there in my baby blue pant suit. But over all the surreal experiences with talking parrots and giant mice dancing around me, I remember one thing gleamingly clear.

The Pirates of the Caribbean.

This ride enthralled me. Scared me. Lured me in with the mystery of pirates and their treasure.

At one point in the ride, there were treasure chests gleaming with pirate gold. I reached out, wanting to pluck one off the pile for myself, but just as soon as my little starfish hand reached out.... the cart we were riding in swung around a corner and plunged us into darkness.

From that day forward I knew I wanted a treasure chest of my very own. And I made one! I found a small plastic Barbie trunk which I very carefully placed every loose rhinestone, every piece of cut glass I could find in my mom's jewelry box. I was a scavanger, looking for anything sparkly to add to my trove.

The day arrived that my little trunk was stuffed full of glittery, shiny gems. I sat down on the floor, got out a piece of butcher paper (ripped on the edges to make it look 'old'), and set out making my Treasure Map. From my bedroom door, I paced out the steps down the stairs, through the living room, into the kitchen and out the back door. Taking a butter knife from the kitchen as I passed through, I counted the paces down the back steps to the sidewalk... then out across the yard to the edge of the above ground swimming pool.

Then I got tricky.

I backtracked some, and veered off beneath the Lilac tree. There was one particular limb that hung out further from the rest and I - not comprehending that time would pass and my tree would grow - made the very tip of that limb my final stop. Directly beneath it, in the green grass of our lawn, I would bury my plastic treasure chest. Butter knife marks the spot.

So I carved out a hunk of sod, and then sat down to finish my map. For effect, I drew the best skull and cross bones I could manage. Then I carefully folded my 'map' up, tucked it in with my jewels, and down into the hole my treasure chest went.

Plugging the hole back up, I ran into the house to dump the dirty knife in the sink. I couldn't stop giggling. I had my very own secret pirate's treasure, map included.

Every night I would go out and rub my toes over the grass that had died on that patch. I made sure water from the sprinkler revived it, and then watched with pride as the green started to return. But, of course... summer ended. School started. I soon traded in obsession with my treasure for the experiences of kindergarten.

But I never lost my fascination with boxes.

Years later, as my parents would take me to the Gun and Antique shows at local county fairgrounds, I would leave my Dad's table where he would be showing all of his firearms, and I would wander the rows of antiques. Every now and then, I would find a box that would catch my eye. Perhaps a small wooden one, with carvings on the top. Once, a large black lacquered one with red velvet lining. Another time, it was an old hat box from Paris. All of these lovely things I scuttled back home with, to add to my collection.

And then came the journals.

My mom gave me my first journal. It was navy blue with a gold lock, and the word "Diary" stamped on the front in gold leaf. I was clumsy with my entries, writing about my day in one and two sentence statements. "It rained and Chinook (our dog at the time) didn't come to the bus stop with me." "Sari (my best friend) wore new shoes today."

Such simple, bold statements of life that was no bigger than the space around me. But I was hooked. Journals were just like treasure chests, only this time...I could write the jewels. I could fill it with as many as I wanted, and they were secret, which of course was paramount for any REAL treasure.

I kept my journals in my boxes, which gave me double the pleasure. Sometimes I would carry one of the boxes over to my bed, just to open it up and sift through the contents, no matter how many times I had done it before. Maybe that night's choice would be the small cedar box which was an advertisement for real cedar hope chests. It had a key that I could lock and unlock it with. Inside were tiny trinkets, paper momentos, and a small pink flowered journal I had bought with my own money. I loved these tokens of my life. They were proof of my existence. Of where I had been. Of what I personally found interesting.

My simple joys from these two things have not waned with time. I spy a hand crafted journal that ties with a strip of leather, and I immediately want to buy it. I see a box with dark wood thatching across the top and a curious lock on it, oooooh - I want to make it mine. I want to take them, and fill them up to the brim with my treasures...so that when they are sitting on the shelves looking lovely and enigmatic, I can tell myself.... There's treasure in there.

So... years have passed. But when I look out the window of the childhood home I grew up in, and see the lilac bush having grown so huge.... I smile to myself. Somewhere out there, beneath the limbs that have stretched out over the thick green grass, is a tiny plastic pirate's chest nestled deep in the ground with the worms and pebbles and brown dirt.

And you know what?

There's treasure in there.....


Monday, March 22, 2004

I'm not sure what's wrong.

There are times in the year where I will suddenly and without warning 'shut down' my creative processes. Well, I don't do it on purpose... I imagine a tiny little munchkin-me riding sidesaddle in my brain who gets her kicks on plucking out that particular mass of goo sometimes.

I sure wish I knew where she flung it.

All around me Spring has been bursting up out of the dead ground. Flowers reaching up for the sun... birds gathering in the wood piles. The slightly peppery scent of an orchard coming back to life. So... why can't I write about it?

Good question.

Thank you. I pride myself on good questions.

Smart aleck.

Anyway....

Every day I come look at my blog. I look at it, and visit the links. I listen to the music (which, by the way - is soon to change. I'm in a Crowded House mood this week. Mmm, Neil Finn - thank you for your songs), and I stare at the Blogger button like it were a little alien having just beamed in from Betelgeuse. If I don't look at it, maybe it will go away... or at least go to the next trailer park down the road.

But of course, I don't *really* want it to go away. I want it to stay awhile. In fact, if I were to be truthful, I might even let it take me back to it's mothership for some testing.

So why the resistance?

Maybe I'm having a temporary aversion to being prodded with long pointy needles. Or, long pointy lines of code for that matter. I guess you could say it's writer's block... but it would be the wrong thing to say. I'm not blocked. In fact, I have so many things boiling inside my little mind that you could say it is writer's overload. I have so MUCH to say, that it has bottlenecked.

The best route to take then, if there is a path to choose - is to let the wine flow one droplet at a time. Because someday, it will become a full glass again.

That being said....

I had the most fascinating dream the other night. It wasn't part of a lengthy epic as my night dreams are prone to be. It was a brief flash - a wavering moment in my subconcious... but it was so beautiful. In fact, I can honestly say this was the most peaceful, serene 'place' I have ever visited in my dreams.

I had walked up the last few steps of a grassy bank, to stand at the edge of a slow moving river. It wasn't very big, in fact a person wouldn't have to be a very strong swimmer to make it to the other side. But it was breathtaking.

Sunlight was streaming down through a wall of mist that had stopped short of the bank on the opposite side. Diffused light focused on the barely moving water, and glistened in near-blinding golden shimmers. The water was an impossible shade of emerald green... like it was a priceless jewel flowing over the rocks. The trees were weeping willows, and their branches hung gently over the water, the tips moving to and fro over the surface.

I stood there, completely engulfed in perfect warmth. I could almost taste the emerald hue, it was that rich. I was stunned by the beauty of sunlight through the mist, and everything about the moment told me that I had arrived. Where? It didn't matter. I had arrived.... and that's all I needed to know.

I desperately wanted to take a picture.

I turned and ran down the bank, to go into a nearby house and fetch my camera. I was moving in slow motion...but not in panic-time. It was simply the way I had to move in this serene place. But by the time I got my camera and climbed back up the hill, the moment was gone. The sun was hiding behind a higher group of clouds, and the water had dimmed to a grey-blue.

But when I woke up shortly thereafter, I still had that warm, green-gold glow radiating inside of me.

Someday, I'm going to be standing on that bank. But I'm not going to leave it to take a picture. I'm just going to lay down in the plush grass, and let the sunlight infuse me.