I heard the coyotes again last night.

It was a brief trill out of the darkness, somewhere on the far edge of the cherry trees. I lay in my bed, listening to the silence that followed, halfway expecting to hear the sudden cadence of paws running through the crust of snow.

They always come from the West in the velvet hush of darkness, beckoning me from the deepest of sleep.

I wavered there on the cusp of slumber, with a vague sensation that the room was spinning. Blue moonlight webbed between the bare limbs of the tree outside the window, and captured me in it's snare.

Suspended between awake and sleep, I was transported with the simple sway of branches. A final cry from the coyotes sent my thoughts winging across the continents, over the oceans, through the fog... to the cold flagstones beside the River Thames. The echo of their wild call held in the winter air like a breath expelled, and wove with a single note peeled from the heart of a violin.

I remembered that violin, singing into the London darkness.

I saw him there, beneath the yellow glow of an aged lantern; a thin heron of a man with a pointed wisp of a beard, and a violin tucked beneath his chin.

His eyes were closed, and soon he drew back the bow to release that single note from it's place...letting the melody drop slowly around him like the arms of a drowzy lover. He spun in the grasp, oblivious to the audience that stood captivated in the shadows. He was a Whirling Dirvish, the cuffs of his long trousers dusting the tops of his polished shoes.

There was a faint trace of a smile beneath his silver whiskers, and a glint of moonlight that bounced off the clasps of his white suspenders. His shirt was not stiffly pressed, but hanging off him like the silks a gypsy might wear. Within the billowing fabric, his boney arms worked away.... one braced beneath the wooden muse he held, the other masterfully guiding the bow to the strings, giving the siren it's voice.

How long had it been since he enthralled his fair mistress with such talent? How many years had passed since he stood in chambers warmed by firelight, and sipped red wine from a glass reflecting the flames? When was the last time he set the violin aside, and traded it for the satin of his beloved's embrace?

And the violin wailed; So long... so very long...

But he danced for her now, on the flagstones, in the cold... his breath swirling around him as he panted the lust only a musician knows. The tones were pure, and sailed along the river like so many restless souls.... and perhaps he imagined her to be one, her ageless beauty wavering at the edge of sallow lamplight.

At last, his shoulders hunched, his grey cheek pressed to the curve of wood as the melody found it's final breathy stanzas.... and the song melted away into the brisk London air. He tucked the violin and bow beneath his arm like a heron folding it's wings in against the wind.

Without opening his eyes, he walked backwards into the shadows and was gone.

The wind rushed up from the Thames, and rocked the branches of the trees growing up out of the walkway.

The moon was trapped in the limbs....

...I know because I saw it there, when my eyes fluttered opened at the sound of a coyote's cry.

Oh.. my...gosh.

Yet again, another diversion from my normal posting routine. But this public service announcement must be made!

As I am sitting here still suffering the effects of my prolonged cold - I made a discovery that could revolutionize life for women everywhere.

Hershey's has a SPA!

Yes... you heard me right. The same people that bring us those blissful little bars of chocolate, those devilish silver wrapped kisses...those hedonistic sweets that make women dance in tribal glee... have a Hershey Day Spa. Where they DIP you in ...yes....chocolate.

*bites her lip*

http://www.spaathotelhershey.com

I could barely contain my overwhelming euphoria at reading the description of this little gem of a day spa trip:

Chocolate Escape - $290
Approximately 3 hours
Whipped Cocoa Bath
Settle into our foaming chocolate milk bath for a soothing and softening signature Hershey experience. Milk will soften and renew the skin while you indulge in this chocolate experience.
Chocolate Bean PolishOne of our signature chocolate services! We combine the gentle exfoliation of cocoa bean husks and walnut shells with a softening Coca Body Moisturizer for superb results. Smells so good, you may want to eat it!
Chocolate Fondue WrapOur exclusive formula of warmed moor mud and essence of cocoa revitalizes and nourishes the skin as it relaxes the body. A luxurious body brushing is followed by the fondue application. The body is then wrapped in a soft warm blanket to enhance the total effect. The Hershey Vichy Shower, promoting velvety smooth skin, culminates the effect.
Cocoa MassageOnly in Hershey, PA can you relax AND enjoy chocolate without a single calorie. Our signature chocolate-scented massage oil along with a Traditional Massage will surely soothe your senses and tempt the taste buds!

I'm just...speechless. Could such a place truly exist? I don't know if I could even dare step foot in such a place... I might explode from sensory overload. Husbands, if you've ever been in the doghouse... if you've ever needed the ultimate solution to every thing you may have ever done wrong - book a trip here, NOW. I'm telling you, this could gain you permanent immunity status from ever getting punished again!!

If word gets out, there might just be a mass exodus to Hershey PA - where a million woman march will storm the battlements of the Chocolate Spa and take it over as a mighty kingdom for all chocolate addicted sweethearts everywhere!!!

Wanted: One bowl of chicken soup, crackers on the side - delivered by Mom.

Yes - tis the season of pounding sinus headaches and hacking bronchial coughs.

Every Spring I know I can look forward to a good week of pure self pity and Oscar worthy whining. It seems the first breath of warmer winds always has a little present or two in store for yours truly. One whiff of it and I'm on the couch, clutching my head and making peculiar little raspy noises when I try to breath.

I managed to go to work, but started to hurdle downhill before I even took the first sip of my latte. It was all I could do to keep my left eye from abandoning it's bony ship. Why do my headaches always hide behind that poor little eyeball? Do they enjoy making me look like a squinty eyed piratess?? Yarrr matey, git yer salty arses out o'me way....

At least I had a dozen pink roses to cheer me! Hubby surprised me with them yesterday, after a particularly nasty morning of having to clean up the... tsunami.... that came out of our dog and washed ashore on the carpet in front of the door. Can we all say 'gag reflex'? Yes, it was that bad.

The roses were a total delight, and kept me smiling on through this morning...even as I answerd the phone at my office with a voice that could rival Marge Simpon's. Fortunately I knew when to stop scaring the clients, and drove home relying on sheer instinct to navigate me down the highway towards home.

The next thing I knew (there's always a next thing to know...) I was building a nest on the couch made up of fluffy patchwork quilts, pillows, and my dog. I took a Tylenol, and then also a children's aspirin. I took the latter just because the doctor says one a day does a world of good. All I know is that the faint orange flavor immediately flashes me back to being a little freckled kid crawling into my mom's bed - and having her wait until I was all propped up with the pillows to hand me my children's aspirin and a glass of water to wash it down with.

There was nothing more reassuring than tasting that orange chalk, and having her tuck me into fresh crisp sheets. I mean, face it... being sick as a kid is great. You may feel miserable, but you get to completely hand over your well being to someone. Mom brings you the aspirin and water, makes you the egg sandwiches and chicken noodle soup with 7UP to wash it down with. She tucks the thermometer under your tongue, and presses a cool cloth to your brow.

She'd even turn on the FM radio to the easy listening station to lull me to sleep. Nothing like having your little kid mind spinning in slow loops from Nyquil, while the 5th Dimension sing about their Beautiful Balloon.

So I curled up on the couch this afternoon and dozed off thinking about those kinds of things.

Up up and away......

--

So here it is, early evening... and although I don't feel much better, I've mustered up some strength ( I thank the members of the Academy...) to come peck away at my journal. I have so many ideas to write about, but instead you've been subjected to the more mundane side of life. The side filled with chicken broth and room humidifiers.

On a side note - the words that my readers ( I have readers!!!) - (I like talking in parenthesis today!) - ( must be the children's aspirin...) have left for me have made me smile from eyeball to aching eyeball. Thank you so much. It's like receiving a dozen pink roses in verbal form.

And on that note, I'm heading out to get a cup of Good Earth "Sweet and Spicy" tea. If you've never had it - get it. I am officially sending you to the store with a note tucked in your pocket that says 'don't forget!'



Also - thanks to Revisionist Reese for providing an entertaining link! See below for the results to my "What Kind of Book Are You?" quiz.

You're A Prayer for Owen Meany!

by John Irving

Despite humble and perhaps literally small beginnings, you inspire
faith in almost everyone you know. You are an agent of higher powers, and you manifest
this fact in mysterious and loud ways. A sense of destiny pervades your every waking
moment, and you prepare with great detail for destiny fulfilled. When you speak, IT
SOUNDS LIKE THIS!


Take the Book Quiz
at the Blue Pyramid.

The Cliff House - http://www.cliffhouseproject.com
I was doing a little research yesterday, when I saw a picture that sent chills right up my little spine. It was of a gigantic mansion perched on the edge of a cliff.

After following this tiny trail of photos to it's source, I found out that this house used to be down near San Fransico - and it was called The Cliff House.

I poured through the pictures, fascinated that such a behemoth could be built right on the verge of the ocean. Massive and brooding, with exaggerated Victorian design... like an ungamely ship ready to crash into the waves. All those windows haunted me when I looked at them. In a few, you could see the shadows of people there... looking out at the waves.

I'm not sure why the vision of this Victorian castle gave me such chills, although - admittedly - most old photographs do. It isn't an unpleasant thing... it's more that I look at the images, the people, and can so easily imagine them taking their next step across the sand. I can see the women in their long skirts walking back up the hard packed road to the Cliff House for tea. As If a person could just leap right through that picture, and witness those lives still in motion.

But the Cliff House itself seemed to be an entity all it's own. From what I read, there were music parlors and art galleries, dining halls with room to dance. There were also coridoors that stretched on for so long, it was easy for patrons to become lost.

Shivers again... lots of shivers.

I imagine being lost at night, in the belly of that beast. A wind storm blasting up from the ocean, engulfing the House in fog. Oil lamps guttering where the drafts sneak in. Oh yes... I can see whole stories unfolding in rich Victorian verbage.

I just stared for a few minutes at the picture, and I realized what the Cliff House reminded me of. The Titanic. So overstated, so eery in it's presence... that there is an air of doom about it. Something sinister just around the corner.

And... as it so happens, I was right.

The Cliff House burned to the rocky shoals it was built on... in a screaming fire that no one could put out.

I'm going to filter all these chills into a short story...

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.

(A little something I found in the Foxfire Archives....)

I used to own my very own roller skates with red sparkle laces.

Oh yes - you didn't realize that the Aimee you've come to know was actually a roller disco queen at one time. Hey, I was like...9 years old - and Xanadu was in the theaters, can you blame me? (And if you don't know what Xanadu is, I'm not 'splaining it to you.)

My mom even took me to roller boogey lessons - where I learned to do the Camel, Shoot the Duck, and Figure 8. In time, I got my own skate case, plastered it with stickers, and was a 'regular' at the rink. I got real daring, and replaced the plain white laces on my skates with glittery red ones, and I would pull on my body leotard with the tiny little ballerina skirt to go skating in. Hmmm - I'm positive I have a picture of me in this very outfit. Dare I dig up that scary little skeleton?

I loved the way the roller rink would smell like Murphy's Oil Soap and Mr. Clean whenever we walked in. We'd stand in line, pay our money ...and knew that there was no leaving once we were in. There was wall to wall shag carpeting everywhere in the 'lace up' area - so even when you had your roller skates on, you had to do this funky little walk til you got to the smooth wooden skate floor. They always had the best disco lights, with a big disco ball right in the middle of the rink. The fun thing to do if you had a good partner was go in the middle right beneath the disco ball, face eachother....crisscross your hands, then start to skate round and round in a tight circle. The more you pulled 'in' with your arms, the faster you went, until you were almost ready to go out of control and fling halfway across the rink. But, just at the last minute - you'd extend your arms, slow down...and just skate off into the boogey wonderland.

There was a little concession stand next to a line of pinball machines. The floor in the concession stand was at a slight incline, and it was bare cement - so every time you crossed over from the shag carpeting to the cement, you'd go sailing right up against the counter with a BANG! I *always* got a blueberry slushie at least some point in the evening. We'd go scoot into one of the four booths that were up along the window looking out to the roller rink. One wall of the concession stand was one of those big wall murals that was supposed to look like you were gazing out on a beach to a tropical sunset. This was so out of place with everything else that I loved it.

There was a "DJ" booth over in the corner of the rink. If you were really brave, you'd skate up to it, get the DJ's attention, and request a song. It was always a rush when they'd actually play it, ESPECIALLY if it was 'couples only'. Over at the opposite end of the rink, high up on the wall...were these big light-up signs that would tell you if it was "ALL SKATE" - "COUPLES ONLY" - "SPEED SKATE" - "GUYS ONLY" - "GIRLS ONLY" - or "SPECIAL". I look back now and grin at the thought of the 'guys only' skate. It was their chance to really impress the girls...and heck, when you are 10 years old...someone sashaying like John Travolta *is* pretty impressive, especially when they're on wheels.

Then one day, we just didn't go back to the rink anymore. My skates got stuffed somewhere in the closet - and the rink got bulldozed, only to have a Wendy's rise up in its ashes.

I wonder if they hear ABBA singing "Dancing Queen" when they're deep frying their onion rings?

I am in a sugar coma.

Brevity is not something that usually pertains to my blog entries - but today, all I can say is:

Apple Pie ala Coldstone Creamery. In a waffle cone dipped in chocolate and rolled in almonds.
Bliss.

I made a phonecall to Tel Aviv yesterday afternoon.

In all the wild imaginings in my life, I never quite thought I'd be placing phonecalls to Israel. But as it is, I needed to contact a man named Ezra there, in order to pave the way for our company to do business with him.

In total this week, I spoke with people from Russia, Poland, Israel, Germany, Scotland, Italy, Australia and New Zealand. I love hearing the different accents, and getting them to chuckle over some pronunciation I inevitably goof.

For me, this is the ultimate part of my job. I get to travel, in a sense, to these places - if for just a brief moment in time. I can't help but wonder what their day has been like. Where their offices are... what the view is from their windows. Is there a little cafe on the corner that they go eat at every day? Or do they suffice with some tea or coffee from a break room down the hall.

I can't help it. I'm a traveler at heart, and curious cat by nature. I am eternally fascinated by diversity. Dialing the long phone numbers to different countries is simply ringing up yet another intriguing facet of my day. I don't know why I am so enthralled with the idea that I've just had a conversation with someone in a different country... but I guess it is because I have a keen sense of 'this would never have happened if... '

If I didn't have this job, I never would have touched on these people's lives. There would be a man in Tel Aviv who would live his entire existance, and I would never realize he was out there. Or there would be a woman in Poland whose voice would never reach my ear. It's amazing to me! When I'm speaking with them, I see in my mind's eye a globe - with a thin glowing line stretching across it from me to them. I want to pin a tiny little flag to the globe that says "I was here".

This fascination of mine also proves something else - which I already knew, but it only strengthens the knowledge; the world really is a small place.

My phonecalls aren't anything of real importance. On a global scale, I'm just a worker ant doing my job, picking up my grain of sand and transporting it to the heap so to speak. But on a personal level, I'm making it easier for someone in another country to obtain something that will make their sport more enjoyable.

My worldwide vocal globetrotting is all about snowboarding, and the gear our tiny little company designs. It isn't anything earth shattering, but I love it. It puts me in touch with a creative process I've never known in a workplace before, and it lets me pick up that phone and muse about an afternoon spent in Scotland, or China, or Italy. Of course, I'm sure our Italian distributor Stefano has no idea of the wide eyed daydreamer talking business to him on the other end of the line.... and how I grin from ear to ear when he says "Ciao!" before he hangs up. But that's okay. He doesn't need to know.

When I spoke with a young man in Germany the other day, he said in a very thick accent "Oh...I saw the article in Transworld about your company. Was that you wearing black in the picture?"

Yes, it sure was.

Somewhere in my imagination, there is a tiny little pin being placed on a map of Germany.

"...so the world goes round and round
with all you ever knew
They say the sky high above
is Caribbean blue... " - Enya

Writing was not my first love.

From the time I could wrap my little fingers around a crayon, drawing was my life. My mother was always opening books to find little surprise doodles on the inside of the covers. My grandmother kept plenty of butcher paper on hand, as well as a jumble of stubby colored pencils and chalks for me to ply my abundant imagination to.

This love spilled over into school, where art projects were seen as rewards, not homework. If we were given choices on the difficulty of the assignment, I always opted for the most difficult art project to tackle. I still remember walking into fifth grade history with one of my end-of-year tasks. Most kids chose the essay. I chose to draw King Tut's mask. I even added in all the gold embelishments. Mr. Davidson gave me an A+ for that one.

And so my love of art grew. But so did my passion for music.

Music always flowed in our house. Whether it was from the old cabinet stereo, or the upright piano that was up against the west wall, there was rarely a silent moment to be had. So it was a natural progression that my parents enrolled me in piano lessons when I was 8 years old, and I found a whole new talent to be enamored with.

Piano came with a strange new language to sort out. Scales and chords...majors and minors. Staccato and legato. Pianissimo and FORTE! I soaked it all in, week after week, and quickly surpassed the weepy little ballads of "Colour My World" and "Time in a Bottle". My first piano teacher was replaced with a classical tutor, who swept me away into the world of Beethoven, Chopin, and Bach.

Her name was Jill, and she had raven black hair that she would have to put up in a bun or else it would get caught beneath her when she sat down. She would chew lightly on her gum as she scrawled endless notes in my spiral notebook for me to pay attention to in my week's practice sessions. I would lug my backpack along as I walked to her house after school, Schirmer's classical piano books wedged in between my folders and schoolbooks.

So I became known as 'Aimee, the artist and musician'. I defined myself by it, day after day. Backdrops for school plays, recitals for audiences of pleased parents - this was my life. This was how I knew to live life.

Junior High came around, and I added even more to my plate. I took up the clarinet - though my first choice was the flute. Girls who played the flute got to carry dainty little black cases that held their pretty silver instruments. Those who played clarinet or saxaphone walked with sagging shoulders from the weight of their chosen horn. I told the teacher I wanted to play flute. He told me I would be a better clarinetist, because....and I quote....'Your lips are too big to play the flute, kiddo.'

So I joined the sagging-shouldered troup. And I also became our concert band's first chair clarinetist.

Now for those of you who do not know what a 'first chair' musician is, let me explain. You must conquer your way to the top. Not only that, but you must do it in front of the whole class. You raise your hand, and challenge someone ahead of you to a duel for the next chair. Those people in first and second chair are often rewarded with solos in concerts, and though it might seem small - it's all you have when you are in school. The challenger picks the piece of music to play, and the battle begins. The audience votes, and the results are instant. You have to collect your music off the stand, and switch places then and there.

I was seated in fifteenth chair. I raised my hand fifteen times, and on by the fifteenth challenge I sat myself down in that number one spot. I remained there until I graduated highschool.

So by the time I was Sophmore in highschool, my talents were cemented. I had the freedom in art class to select whatever my next projects would be. I was good friends with my band teacher, and was allowed to remain in the classroom during break in order to listen to music and stretch out for a snooze behind the trumpet section chairs. My piano lessons had escalated to the point where 24 page Concertos could be played with eyes closed. The definition of myself seemed complete.

And then I met Suzanne.

She was my Collage Prep English teacher. She had a love for language that seeped out of her every pore. She was the first person who ever suggested (as an assignment) on keeping a journal, and writing about things I enjoyed. Oh I had written in the past, and even won a small award and a picture in the local newspaper for writing a little essay on 'What My Home Means To Me'. But her task was enthralling... write about whatever I wished.

So I did. Sprawling descriptions of what a fantasy day would be like. Notes about the latest squabble with my best friend. Lovesick prose about a new crush. Overzealous descriptions of city life which I knew nothing of, and yet felt compelled to pen anyway. Each one was met with encouragement and kind criticism from Suzanne.

I still didn't realize that I was really 'writing'. To me, I was The Artist and Musician. I never conceived that there might be something else out there that would lure my soul and tempt my senses with a new passion. I was simply completing my assignments and enjoying the benefits of pleasing my teacher with my efforts.

Suzanne must have seen something within me, for she kept coaxing me to write more. She paved the way for me to attend a special conference for gifted students, where I stood in front of an audience and read some of my poems. She never turned me away when I had something new to show her, even when it was between classes or time to head home. Little by little, she was nurturing something inside of me that would eventually grow into an all consuming love.

But by the time I was really starting to understand that enchanting artistry of words to paper, it was time to graduate and enter the world. My time with Suzanne slipped away, but what she instilled with me carried on.

The art and music will always be there, waiting in the background for moments stolen from the world. But the words are an ever beating pulse of need. They are there in my mind, and if left untold for too long, they begin to humm like mad bees. I have to get them out, somehow...someway. I get pouty and disorganized if the hectic pace of the work week has kept me from my words. I need the fix. I need that hit of adrenalin and satisfaction. I am a junky for the stories told.

I used to define myself as 'Aimee, the artist and musician'.

Now I simply live, and let the creativity take me where it wishes.

Writing was not my first love. But it has become the soulmate that beckons my Muse like no other.

The night is wild with moonlight, and the snow is melting away. Time to light the candles, listen to the music, and dream away the bitter cold.
-----------------------------------

The lyrics to the current song of the moment...
"The Old Ways" by Loreena McKennitt

On a dark new year's night
On the west coast of Clare
I hear your voice singing
Your eyes danced the song
Your hands played the tune
T'was a vision before me.


We left the music behind and the dance carried on
As we stole away to the seashore
We smelled the brine, felt the wind in our hair

With sadness you paused.


Suddenly I knew that you'd have to go
Your world was not mine, your eyes told me so
Yet it was there I felt the crossroads of time

And I wondered why.


As we cast our gaze on the tumbling sea
A vision came o'er me
Of thundering hooves and beating wings

In clouds above.


As you turned to go I heard you call my name.
You were like a bird in a cage, spreading its
Wings to fly
"The old ways are lost" you sang as you flew

And I wondered why.


The thundering waves are calling me home, home to you
The pounding sea is calling me home, home to you.

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.

45 RPM
One of my favorite things to do in the early 80's was go to DJ's Sound City in the local valley mall, and fork over my $2.00 allowance for the latest New Wave single. I'm talking genuine vinyl 45's. They kept them on a rack behind the cash register, so I would be forced to lean forward and strain to see who had made it into that week's Top Ten. Before there were chips placed in CD cases to trigger a store's alarm, it was probably too tempting to snag one of those little vinyl disks and slip it into your Member's Only jacket on the way out the door.

When buying a whole $8.99 album was beyond my grasp (or beyond my self control to save my allowance for 4 1/2 weeks...), singles became my addiction. The very first 45 I ever bought was "Is There Something I Should Know" by Duran Duran. That of course spawned a decade of pure Fab Five worship that would shape my wardrobe, record collection...and even my hairstyle! This of course was much to the chagrin of my brother who had tried to woo me with the ways of the Metal Gods themselves. He surely built a good foundation of rock by teaching me the essentials... but my Singles were a way of discovering a whole new kind of music. The kind that would make me go out and buy blue-silver lipstick and dye my bangs blonde. The same songs that got me wearing my John Taylor fedora (I bet only 80's teens would even know what a Fedora was!), and wearing only one dangly earring. Yes, rebellion of the New Romantics. I could dance like Molly Ringwald with the best of them, and glower like Souxsie in a most fetching way.

While I saved my major moola for the occasional New Wave 'must have' album, singles provided me a way to listen to other bands without having to invest a so-called fortune. I could single handedly produce one of those "As Seen On TV" CD compilations with my old 45 collection. Bananarama, Kajagoogoo, A-ha, Adam Ant, ABC, David Bowie, Duran Duran, Go West, Glass Tiger, Toni Basil, Thomas Dolby, Howard Jones, The Cure.....just to name a scant few! And the bonus was that there was a "B-Side" to the single. A song that usually didn't make it on the album, so that it made you feel like you were getting a glimpse into something secret. Even the photo sleeves were something to get excited about. A new picture of your favorite band...sometimes even folding out into a limited edition poster! Oh how my bedroom walls rejoiced at the addition of yet another picture taped to the plaster.

I don't even know if Singles are sold in stores anymore. MP3's pretty much killed them, like video killed the radio star (thanks to the Buggles!). But I still have my collection, like medals from an old race won... or better yet, like band buttons on a long trench coat.