The Great Manilow Caper

About eight months ago, my best friend Beth moved into a new townhouse. As I was helping her decorate her new bedroom, she came to me with her head hung low and her arm outstretched, holding out a CD for me.

"Take it," she implored. "I've begun life anew. I now have Bono and the rest of U2 for making my life complete. I want this to be the turning of a new leaf. Please... take this CD. Dispose of it as you will. I will never listen to it again."

I chortled as I took the CD. That large nosed, bad haired image of Barry Manilow smiled at me from the jewel case. He was 'Singin'With The Big Bands'... oh yes he was.

"But BETH! He was your main man for so long! Are you sure? I mean, are you really SURE you are ready to rid yourself of the last morsel of Manilow in your life?"

She glared at me from behind her glasses. "Don't rub it in!! I don't want to admit that I ever listened to him! Just...burn it or something!"

I cackled. I snorted. She biffed me on the arm. I tucked the CD in my purse, knowing I would find a fitting end for this chapter in Beth's life.

Later that night, as I drove to our friend Jeremy's house (which is the hangout for all the Halo addicted guys I know, including my hubby)... an idea flashed into my impish little brain. A few minutes later, the Manilow CD was being nestled under the corner of Jeremy's roommate's bed. Poor Trevor... little did he know we would begin the countdown to when he would find the Manilow CD, and no doubt wonder how in the hell it got there...WHY it got there... and who put it there.

All these months later, and the Manilow CD had been forgotten. Until the phone rang, and the message machine captured the best deadpan voice I've ever heard.

"Hi Larry and Aimee, this is Trevor. I found the gift that you left for me.... between my boxspring and mattress. I'd would like to thank you, but you both suck. So... take care."

BWHAHAH! Ahhhhhhhh.... yes. I can't wait to talk to Jeremy to find out how the Manilow Caper unfolded.

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.

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.

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!

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.