SPRING INTO STORM

Posted on March 23, 2011 by snowbirdredux

STORM COMING OVER WRECK BEACH

THE LAST LIGHT BEFORE THE STORM

It was just spring. And suddenly the radar reports for the central coast of California predicted a storm with icons and colors that screamed out “Cyclone Force, Extreme Weather, Thunder and Lightning and Tornado Conditions”!  And it was my work weekend on the Big Sur coast.

I actually retired partially a few years ago when we moved from Carmel Valley which was about 50 minutes to work, to a spot off the Morro Highway outside of Atascadero, which is now 2 1/2 hours to work. Needless to say, driving back and forth on a daily basis was not an option. So I go up the coast on Friday morning to the Post Ranch Inn Mercantile, then into Carmel to stay with my friend Alice in the evening – back down to work – back to Carmel – back to work – and head back south and home on Sunday evening. As you can see, I probably travel the 90 miles of the Big Sur coast as much as the UPS guy. It has been my beat for ten years and I tell myself I know all its quirks and idiosyncrasies. Yet that is a dangerous tendency for one never wants to take for granted or become complacent on this most stunning, but treacherous highway. And it always surprises.

I am certain that Mother Nature never intended for humankind to build this road. Hike her trails. Share the splendor. Bless the creation. Yes. But blast into her rocky cliffs? Sling concrete across the open spans? Tar and fill, tar and fill, and patch some more? It most likely was never meant to be.

When we actually lived in Big Sur some 30 years ago, a Cal Trans employee told us that the road would never last forever. It was only a matter of time, he said. What motorists didn’t see was the water seeping beneath the concrete, whether from natural springs or rain run-off, running off the cliffs  and into the ground as it took its natural course to the sea. And he was right, I believe. There have been previous “slip-outs”, as they are called, before. So the one between my place of work and Carmel which happened BEFORE the storm arrived, was not a first. But the sixty feet of road which just dropped into the sea, obviously inconvenienced  a lot of people, tourists and workers alike.

Then that cyclone-tornado-thundering force descended upon the Big Sur coast and all Hell broke loose. Again, not a new phenomenon here. And since I was cut off from my usual cozy weekend accommodations, I was fortunate to be “put up” at the notable Post Ranch Inn for the remainder of the weekend.

It was the “going home” which was the difficult part. Again, I have traveled Highway One in many conditions over a number of years. It is almost always beautiful and sometimes a little frightening. Having said that, I will take it any day of the week over driving on L.A. freeways. No contest. But this past Sunday wins hand down for most stressful driving experience. So maybe I WILL master my fear of the upcoming thought of Minnesota ice and snow.

The first rule to know when driving Big Sur Highway One, is that the rocks are very sharp. Very, very sharp. I don’t drive over anything much bigger than a pebble, even if it means I’m in the wrong lane for 30 miles, or snaking along like a drunken navigator. It’s a type of granite as sharp as glass. And the smaller ones are probably more dangerous than the boulders. Jagged and spikey. And if you don’t follow that rule, you will be one of the unfortunates to be seen by the side of the road struggling with their silly little pretend spares.

The second rule to know is that it is only courteous to expect that you will jump out of your car to help clear the path. And this is a particularly sore point for me this week. What were you thinking young man in the small white compact, and you six party animals in the RV (I saw you out on the highway when we were stopped near Lucia by Cal Trans!)? What were you thinking when you stayed inside and watched a woman in her plus 70’s out hefting rocks and small boulders, in the rain and wind, while more rocks rained down from above? And why did you say when I came up to your car, and explained the need to clear a path and the sharpness of the rocks, why did you say “Oh, do you want me to get out and help?”  WHEW!  I got that one off my chest!

So yes, it was a memorably awful drive this week. Maybe the worst I’ve seen. When I got “down the hill” to San Simeon I felt like getting out of the car and kissing the ground. And when I finally got home, I couldn’t wait for a glass of wine and my own bed.

I wish I had taken some photos so you could imagine the enormity of it all. But I was too busy hefting and evading rocks. Maybe next time.

Posted in storm | 1 Comment

HERE COMES SPRING!

Posted on March 21, 2011 by snowbirdredux

Always the first!

Even in California spring is exciting. I can imagine how ecstatic we will be after a Minnesota winter. The daffodils are the first to arrive. I used to order a bushel of 100 plus bulbs each year so you can imagine what a show they have become – all long the road to the entry drive and naturalizing down the hill toward the house.

The peach is next and was planted by the previous owner. It produces little “nubbins” which certainly don’t turn into anything we would like to consume, even though I properly pruned and thinned it the first year. But that’s okay. The birds are happy and we are especially happy on the first day we look out the kitchen window and see the pink in the upper garden.

Prairie Fire is the first of the crab apples, to be followed by the weeping Red Jade. The flowering quince “Toyo Nishiki”, as you can see, blooms with four different color combos, all on the same branch! Imagine.

It’s really starting to happen and every day there’s something new. Although I have to admit to a teeny bit of remorse and a fleeting embarrassment when I see that hundreds of cars were stranded in a blizzard north of Fargo last week. But then, with any luck from the real estate gods, that will be us next year. But then, there’s always spring.

But wait there's more!

the crab apple (Prairie Fire) in the old fish pond - now day lily bed.

Peach tree, trying to produce fruit for the birds. They're entitled.

Flowering Quince (Toyo Nishiki)pink, white, red, pink and white - all on one branch!

Grevillea "Noellii"

Mr. scrub jay on the right side of railing getting his morning peanut.

Posted in Gardening | 1 Comment

LYRA DEARA

Posted on March 20, 2011 by snowbirdredux

There will be one less addition to our journey when the time comes. And this is a bittersweet tale, one that still brings tears when least expected now. One that connects with a flash to a image just out of eye’s reach, surely there, but not. And brings about poignant wishes that we could once again hear the trilling, upbeat sound that always made us laugh.

About a year ago Christmas time, a little scraggely black cat showed up on Button’s feeding porch. I took her to be a juvenal she was so little, and shooed her away, thinking she belonged to the people down the road who are irresponsibly breeding, or rather “letting breed” feral cats, mostly black. I see the offshoots all around the neighborhood. Not my problem! I shooed her and shooed her to no avail. I checked with the neighbors and put a notice at the animal shelter. I tried everything to harden my heart and finally found an appropriate bowl. She was very hungry. Oh well.

Soon I realized she couldn’t be feral for she was fine about being picked up. And when our granddaughter, Cassidy went out on the deck, the little cat jumped about with such glee, rubbing and trilling against her new friend, that I knew for sure we were in trouble. But still I persevered. We did NOT need another cat. Oh, I would feed her with Button, but continue to look at the shelter postings and ask around. Maybe put up some flyers.

More and more she was crying at the door, her nose pressed against the glass. I’ll open it just once, I thought, and see what happens. What happened was that she was so ecstatically grateful and over-the-moon in people heaven that she ran from one chair to the other. There happened to be five of us that day – the two of us, my mother, my daughter, and her best friend, Carole. She would jump up to one person, mewing her peculiar, little, happy rising-at-the-last-syllable me-YOU, to be petted and coo-ed at, then notice there was someone else requiring her attention and jump down to bound to that one, then on to the next, and the next and the next. And so she flitted like a faery spirit on and on. And her me-YOU’s were endless and her happiness so profound and her relief so immense that, well – you get the picture.

But now the question is – What’s to be done about Cosmo our spoiled only cat? He is not a fighter but he is used to being “The One”. He is fine with outside cats, co-exists very well with Button, but has mortified me in the past by his inhospitable behavior when, for instance, our daughter Sheila brought her lovely, unthreatening, laid-back, Siamese Sassy to visit. His wailing and hissing was most unpleasant. And even with repeated tries and “giving-them-time” he has failed to accept a house guest like a good host. And that was part and parcel of my early resolve to not succumb to a little black cat, cruel though it might seem, considering we kept her at bay outside for many months and tried repeatedly to lock away our hearts from the sight of her little face pressed against the pane.

But what do you know. He liked her. It was a miracle. I held my breath as they first tentatively touched noses. And nothing. And in matter of fact, he liked her but she didn’t like him! Well I’m not sure that it was that she didn’t LIKE him, she just only liked people. And Cosmo only wanted to play, became a kitten again, creeping around behind the sofa and springing out to run just so close, then running back again. He did this all the past year from time to time, never giving up, trying desperately to entice her into a good game of tag, like he does with me.  To no avail. And gradually he settled into the role of big brother who likes to poke the little sister – just with a soft paw, a careful, slow nudge, just because he COULD, and make her hiss as if she was yelling “Mom, he’s poking me!” Occasionally we found them curled up together on a chair or on the best sunniest spot on the bed, just barely touching.

But to back up a bit, when we first let her inside and it was decided that she would stay, I at first thought that she was a little boy, a juvenile boy at that, and wrong on both counts. I had temporarily named her Loki after the dark trickster of Nordic legend. And now the vet, who obviously gave her a closer inspection than I had done, pronounced her not only a girl but a girl who had previously been fixed! After a slight shaving the scar revealed the fact. My daughter, Noelle, who had been there on that first fateful open door day, and fallen in love with her sweet spirit immediately, called  her “her alien child”.  And she was. It was as if she had dropped out of the sky from a far distant planet in this little scruffy runt-ish body, with the other-worldly chirping voice that always made us smile. So I called her Lyra after the constellation, and that soon became Lyra Deara, for that is definitely what she was.

Her coat became sleek and healthy and when the sun shone upon it you could see the under-brown, a sure sign of Burmese in the background, and she even grew a bit so that sometimes at a distance it was difficult to tell the difference between her and Cosmo. There was always a strange arch to her lower spine and we wondered if she had incurred an injury in her earlier life, but we would never know and could only imagine what travails she had endured before we opened the door. We offered her  an open door on occasion so that she could go outside for brief cat forays, but she almost always declined, so unpleasant were her outside memories. She was in, she had her family, and that was that.

When I came home one day recently and found her lying upon the window seat where she liked to join me when I read or watched TV, and realized that she had no control over her legs and lower body, and turned her face away from food and water, and hadn’t been to the box in quite some time, we were alarmed beyond belief. The vet kept her overnight for observation, did multiple tests, ruled out many of the usual things, and only concluded that there was a severe spinal issue and she was dying.

I think I’ll bury her ashes under the Fairy Rose. But I think I’ll keep a little bit in this small painted hummingbird box because my Lyra Deara didn’t want to be outside.  She wanted to be with us.

Posted in Cats | 2 Comments

BREAD

Posted on March 18, 2011 by snowbirdredux

I used to bake bread. Then at one point life seemed to intervene and I was rarely home all day or so I rationalized. Robert has missed the bread. In fact, he has taken to saying things like “when we’re snowed in it will be great to lounge in front of a cozy fire with a stack of good books and smell the bread baking. I take a hint as well as the next person, so I decided to get back into the habit before we’re into the snow doldrums and just to prove I haven’t lost the touch. So I have been baking bread the past two months, every week a different type.Other than Aunt Verna’s recipes, which were always first-rate, I tend to like two books by Beth Hensperger – “Beth’s Basic Bread Book” and “Baking Bread – Old and New Traditions”. She goes a long way to explain techniques, equipment, the difference between types of flours and yeasts, the process from A to Z, and my only complaint is that the pages are unseeminly falling apart at the seams so that it now resembles a loose leaf notebook. Last week I made a version of her Italian Country Bread from the second book (pages 42-43) with the addition of golden raisens and pecans (she suggests walnuts, but I will substitute pecans for walnuts any day) and I baked it in a traditional loaf pan for easy toast slicing instead of the usual free form round. It was great as toast, but I have to say it made (Robert made) the VERY BEST EVER FRENCH TOAST. I personally love French Toast and often order it if we happen to  go out to breakfast, so I feel I could qualify for a connoisseur of sorts. The bread should be able to be sliced quite thick and end up crusty on the outside and soft but not mushy in the middle. This was the ultimate, I think, and the flavor of the bread was perfect for this purpose.

Another favorite now, is the Maple, Oatmeal and Oat Bran Bread (same book, page 72) but here I must point out to Ms. Hensperger and to anyone who may follow my advice, that I found a printing error which wasn’t in itself disastrous, but did make a difference in my second try. I noticed that the 1 teaspoon of maple syrup called for in the first step as the sweetening to the yeast, didn’t accomodate the entire rest of the 1/2 cup of maple syrup that was listed in the “ingredients” section above and should have been included with the liquids in step two. So – whoops – my first loaf was just fine, but not as it should have been intended.

This week it’s Pain de Campagne (pages 43-44) the traditional French-style whole wheat country bread which is often decorated with reserved dough formed into braids, wheat sheaths, or a pile of round grapes, leaves and tendrils. That should be fun! But we’ll see about that.

Primarily I want to share a wonderful, creative guideline that I can’t take credit for, but belongs to my friend Linda Farrow who once baked bread for us at our restaurant in Ferndale, Ca – The Stage Door Cafe. Linda, who I am sad to say I have lost touch with over the years, loved to bake bread and I was so impressed with her results that I asked for some lessons and the following is what she shared. Basically it’s a formula that allows for ultimate creativity. It’s probably not for those who need to follow recipes to a T. It’s perfect for the type of cook who tends to say – “this handful looks to be about a tablespoon” or “I think a little extra Chinese 5 spice would be nice”. What it does is open up a world of possibilities and, most likely, emulates what our pioneer grandmas were doing when they utilized whatever they had on hand, although minus the equipment, of course.

First a note about equipment: You will need a stand mixer and a microwave. And if your mixer is a Kitchen Aid (according to Ms. Hensperger, and I have no reason to doubt her here) you may as well throw away your dough hook. It’s seems strange that such a good, standard brand would be amiss in their dough hook, but she says to use the paddle here for bread instead.

LINDA’S BREAD FORMULA

IN YOUR STAND MIXER, MIX TOGETHER THE FOLLOWING:  2 Cups flour: white, wheat or a combination; 2 T. yeast (note: the warm liquid will take care of the yeast in the overall mixing in the next step); 2 handfuls of salt in the “palm” (see what I mean); and any dried herbs or cheese (optional).

HEAT ALL TOGETHER IN A MICROWAVE FOR TWO MINUTES: 2 Cups of Liquid: which might include one or a combination of water, milk, potato water, beer, etc.; 1/4 Cup of yoghurt, cottage cheese, ricotta or sour cream; 2 T. oil (your choice); 2 T. to 2 Cups sweetener (brown sugar, molasses or honey).

POUR THE MICROWAVED LIQUID INTO THE DRY INGREDIENTS IN THE MIXER AND MIX TOGETHER.

ADD ANY ADDITIONS AT THIS TIME: sunflower seeds, oats, raisins, nuts, etc.

DOUGH: Start adding flour, up to 3 1/2 to 4 Cups (white, wheat or a combo) 1/2 a Cup at a time and continue mixing until the dough comes away clean from the sides of the bowl.

PROCEED WITH A BIT OF KNEADING ON YOUR BOARD AND THE USUAL RISINGS AND BAKE.

THANK YOU LINDA!

ADDENDUM: As I was writing this, the Pain de Campagne was baking away. I had decided to daringly glaze on pieces of hastily pulled tendrils and round clumpy grapes and when I first checked the loaf at approximately 35 minutes it looked stunning! I thought it the most gorgeous, artful loaf I had ever seen.  I couldn’t believe it was my creation. But when I pulled it out at the appropriate time, I’m afraid instead of grapes and tendrils I had grapes of wrath – a bit too brown.  But the bread was wonderful!

Posted in food | Leave a comment

THE GREAT MIGRATION

Posted on March 17, 2011 by snowbirdredux

My cousin Curt and his wife, Judy gave us a subscription to Minnesota Conservation Volunteer, a bi-monthly periodical which is reader-supported and encourages conservation and careful use of Minnesota’s natural resources.( http://www.mndnr.gov/magazine)  It was a lovely and thoughtful way to welcome us to a new life and frankly, we couldn’t have enjoyed it more. So how appropriate it seemed when I picked up the March-April 2011 issue today and opened to the contents page to see a lovely photo of snow geese flying north on their early spring migration across the top of the first two pages, along with the quote from Scott Weidensaul from “Living on the Wind” – “Bird migration is the one truly unifying natural phenomenon in the world, stitching the continents together in a way that even the great weather systems, which roar out from the poles but fizzle at the equator, fail to do.”

I am stunned by the poetry in that one sentence. And amazed at the significance it suggests. Just imagine anything being the “one truly unifying natural phenomenon in the world”.  The article that follows, by Lee Pfannmuller entitled “Spring Birding Showcase”, explains how “as snow melts and ice becomes open water, three waves of migratory birds sweep through Minnesota, giving birders a front-row seat to a really big show”.  It includes the first wave of various waterfowl, the second wave of shorebirds, and the third wave consisting of songbirds.  Not this year, but hopefully next, we’ll be out at the lakes and marshlands, out on the trails with our binoculars, experiencing that really big show.

The birds make the migration against extraordinary hazards in “perhaps the most compelling drama in all of natural history”.  One hopes we won’t find our migration when it happens, as dramatic as all that.  I’m already worried enough about the logistics of moving our cranky 16 year old Burmese cat, Cosmo.  And hoping the cross country trip will take place sans tornados, ice or snow.  And that I can convince Robert that, no, he should NOT rent a large van himself to move our belongings.  No. No. No.  Mind you, I’ve always considered him to be a very good driver.  Except  for a period years ago, when he tried to pass on the long horseshoe curve where the Little Sur River empties into the sea. That was always his favorite “passing spot” on our town trips, because he said it provided such great long range visability.  What I said, I can’t really repeat here, except that it had something to do with yelling about not liking the “G Force”.   And he would tell me if I was so nervous I should just “buckle up” and use my seat belt (which should give you an idea of just how long ago this was occurring).  I think we had some crazy notion in those days before the seat belt law, that if we were catapulting over a Big Sur cliff our chances for survival were much greater if we were thrown out rather than riding the car to the bottom.  There’s a interesting  choice!  But needless to say he stopped the “passing frenzy’ many years ago and has been a safe and responsible driver ever since. And I think he’s definitely earned a break and should “leave the driving” to someone else.  I definitely want to feel that in our migration we will somehow be “stitching” two far flung parts of this country together and that we will not “fizzle” in the process.

Posted in Birds | Leave a comment

LETTER TO A PROSPECTIVE BUYER

Posted on March 17, 2011 by snowbirdredux

Along with the garden, a prospective buyer needs to know what the other responsibilities entail.  Number One: FEED THE BIRDS.  We call Castenada Lane the Bird Sanctuary because we have set up multiple feeders, utilizing sunflower seeds, thistle, mixed seed , suet and peanuts and have a number of bird “drips” which they especially love.  Our birds have a good home.  It is theirs.

In the front of my Audubon Field Guide I have scribbled the names of 42 species I have identified from my cozy nook on the window seat without even leaving the house.  Some of them, like the Black Headed Grosbeak and the Violet Green Swallow are visitors, passing through once a year.  Most of them are regular residents, in particular the acorn and Nuttal woodpeckers, the California scrub jay, the house finch and the golden finch, the oak titmouse and the white breasted nuthatch, the western bluebird, the California towhee and the western junco, to name a few.  Those are the birds we feed. Not to mention the hummers who need their feeders regularly washed with soap and water, filled with sugar water and NO RED FOOD DYE. They know where to go. And the jays are ready and waiting for peanuts on the railing outside the kitchen at just the time they hear the coffee grinder in the morning.  Also in residence I should mention the curious Great Horned Owl who echos our hoo, hoo-hoo, hoo, hoo’s and the red shouldered hawk, who screams on high and occasionally sits upon the horizontal oak branch in the lower field.  But they pick up the tab for their meals – probably small furry creatures which we do NOT provide at our feeders.  The wild turkey is NOT indigenous and remains a story for another day.

So Prospective Buyer – you must feed the birds.

Number two: and this is the most important requirement. Button. She is the  perfectly beautiful calico feral cat who comes to the side deck to be fed.  We captured her seven years ago and had her fixed. She is the BEST gopher catcher in the state of California, so she needs to be appreciated. However, she likes her breakfast at 7 a.m. and her dinner between 4 and 5 p.m. please, and it should consist of lightly cooked chicken, chopped and mixed with a combination of oatmeal, peas, bone meal, brewer’s yeast, taurine and fish oil. An occasional whipped egg yolk or a chicken neck or giblets is good too.

So it is rather important that you not have a dog or a mean cat, for this is her yard and we cannot capture her again to take her with us to Minnesota.  And because she doesn’t want to come inside, the snow would be inconvenient. She has a lovely bed here under the house.

Love her and look after her, or you may not buy the house. Period.

Posted in Birds, Cats | Leave a comment

IN THE GARDEN

Posted on March 15, 2011 by snowbirdredux

Fortunately my friend, John, is helping me with the garden.  I know I said before that  it was one bed at a time and the technique really worked, but then, I do need to be up and running for any potential buyers before many weeks go by. The idea is to make it look as if it isn’t all THAT much work. And of course, it is. That and then some. But if it’s  reasonably tidy, and one only sees the fruits of one’s labor and not the actual labor needed, all the better. And as I’m writing this I’m feeling this smacks of some of that higgily-piggily stuff I want to sort out in the inner me and perhaps is a small black mark in subterfuge. Perhaps there is a reason why with every house we’ve sold in the past, the buyers declared that they LOVED the garden, it was the reason they so wanted the property, and then they promptly took out the garden after the deal was done.  Not exactly “took out’ as in totally decimated, but definitely took down a few pegs, many pegs, to a manageable state. That history should give me a big hint about what exactly to expect.

I should really take heed because I, myself, have been bemoaning for some time the very fact that I did, once again, put in a too, too laborious garden. In my defense I didn’t really grasp the fact that I would be 70 plus some day. So, of course, I plowed ahead, literally, and double-dug and added truckloads from Cal Poly of compost and planted 50 plus heirloom roses and every kind of perennial and lots of flowering trees. Sometimes I felt  that I alone must be supporting the nice ladies who owned Bay Laurel Nursery in Atascadero. And to add to the difficulty, the garden, the deer fenced part of the garden, is terraced so there is no easy wheel-barrowing, only what I call bucketing.

I suppose it has something to do with obsessiveness. And uber-enthusiasm.  As in – I think I’ll collect every known kind of Salvia.  That would be fun.  Until I stumble across a book on Salvias and realize that the hundreds of sages were way beyond my accumulation and planting ability.  AND of course, ditto on the heirloom roses. Although I’ve become closer on that account.

Somehow it becomes so fascinating to plant and try-out and experiment and just “see” how a particular plant will pan out. You can read a dozen gardening books, but only the up close and personal  will truly bring out the reality of the delicious scent of Salvia Clevlandia as you’re strolling down the path  on an early evening or the astoundingly  delicate pink of Cuisse de Nymphe, the Maiden’s Blush Rose of 15th century France, lovely beyond belief. Too many plants, not enough time.

All this in spite of the fact that my basic garden design and my preferred house décor have gone from somewhat “busy” to far more zen over time. I think Robert and I have been a great balance for each other in that regard. When we first got together, my old rambling Craftsman was tasteful, I think, but definitely filled with lots of Victoriana spilling over every surface. He, however, lived more like a monk. So, as you can imagine, it was a gradual adjustment over the years, and we have both profited I believe, by an adjustment toward the middle.

When I eventually go to the house on Mt. Faith I will need to be very careful. It has a large yard and I was initially thrilled because it was basically a “blank slate”.  Oops. Danger! Danger! Somehow I must reign in my natural obsessive enthusiasm. Especially because adjusting from California to Minnesota is a far more fascinating challenge than adjusting from Ferndale to Carmel Valley. Just what could I do with lilacs? Can you imagine growing peonies? It’s a whole, new horticultural laboratory of my own making. Too, too heady and thrilling. I must take a deep breath, remember to be realistic, move towards the center of Robert’s Zen, and create something just right.

And while I’m contemplating that, it occurred to me that I could spend my last days here on Castenada Lane not only making things tidy for the new owner, but I could make a garden book and guide, mapping out the plantings by name, relating the history and special needs of each plant, noting the characteristics and idiosyncrasies, the feeding schedule, and by so doing they might, just might decide that they too loved the garden enough to keep it and love it as much as I have.

Posted in Gardening | Tagged | Leave a comment

INSIDE AND OUT

Posted on March 14, 2011 by snowbirdredux

An astrologer told me years ago that as a Libra I would want everything neat and beautiful and spiffy looking on the outside, but most likely I stuffed things higgely-piggely in cupboards and drawers.  She was right.  I’m admitting this for the first time, but she was really, really right.

So now, with the horrendous thought of serious packing ahead hanging over each and every day, and the more dreaded image of prospective buyers actually looking into the mess, heaven forbid, I really have to face the task and get-to-it. My daughter Noelle (also a Libra) and I have always had a running private joke that if one of us wasn’t home, the other one would come over and dig through the other’s underwear drawers! The ultimate degradation. So here’s the plan. I decided to tackle the cleaning up problem in the same way I tackle the garden when I feel overwhelmed by the weeding/mulching/pruning that needs to be done yesterday and I do nothing because it looks way too big and I can’t imagine even making a start. What I do with the outside is – take a deep breath – calm down – make a list – and most importantly, vow to do only one bed each week. How hard can that be? Suddenly this seems manageable. I can do this. And I even seem to drum up some measure of enthusiasm that way. And it always goes way faster than I had imagined. And I often feel so accomplished with my day’s work that I decide to move ahead and do more than planned for that one day. And, guess what, I actually started with my underwear drawer. And I felt so good about that I moved on to socks and sweaters.

The scary, shameful thing is that I had much more in the throw-away bag at the end than I did in the newly neatened drawers. That bag contained much of what my Grandma Marie would call “stove rags”. Stove Rags is a common phrase in our family because of her. Almost as common as “Uff Da” (also because of her). I suppose when clothing got ratty long ago in Varmland, Sweden or Comstock, Minnesota, folks didn’t willy-nilly just throw it away. It was just downgraded into wiping up soot and scrubbing the floors. And trust me, my grandmother was an EXCELLENT cleaner. I don’t think she would have approved of throwing away so many good cleaning cloths. But, even more, she wouldn’t have approved of ratty underwear. But she is certainly looking down approvingly on my cupboards.

So I’m on my way. The drawer in the kitchen that holds our daily vitamin regimen no longer looks like we’re health food store hypochondriacs. I moved the spill-overs, the homeopathic remedies and essential oils and occasionally used supplements into the guest bathroom cabinet. The only problem is that while searching for the Trameel for Robert’s shoulder aches, I discovered that he had done a little cleanup on his own, feeling we still looked like health food store hypochondriacs if a prospective buyer should happen to poke in both cabinets. So I was forced to retrieve the two paper grocery bags HE had stuffed into a clothing hamper in the closet. Next stop – the huge supply cupboard in the office. I’ve saved that til last. And I’m hoping he sticks to his garage which is definitely ONE BIG UFF DA!

And yet, there’s a bigger question here. In other words, if the astrologer was right, and it appeared that she WAS right in regards to the stashing issue, and she was right in her assessment of the way I am very particular about my surroundings, wanting them artistic and beautiful and neat and “just-so”. My brain just doesn’t function in a mess (that I can SEE). And I am one of those compulsive re-arrangers in that I have to constantly re-position in just the “right ratio”, items on a table or shelf. So if I care so much about the outer appearance, and slack off on the inner hidden parts, what does that say about my character? The outer world is just a reflection of the inner – right?

I obviously like to look presentable. I care to a degree about my appearance. But not as much as I did at 21. In fact, I am anything BUT a fashionista. In absolute fact I probably wear stove rags most of the time. Good old comfort clothes. Things I say are “good to keep for gardening and cleaning house and baking (because I throw a lot of flour about)”. My night shirts would probably qualify as stove rags but I don’t throw them out because L.L.Bean doesn’t show them in their catalog anymore and I can’t find any that look just the same. I wear the same over-sized t-shirts every day at home and the “Paris-London-Fargo” and the “I Am A Master Gardener” and the “Snap Out Of It” printing is gradually fading into oblivion. I bite my nails to what I think is about the right length and I don’t worry about it because I don’t use gloves when I garden either. Unless I’m pruning a really knarley rose. And I let Robert cut my hair! So, no, I don’t think my outer appearance is of significant importance to me.

But what about the inner self? Not as possible to define and toss off with an easy, flippant phrase. Have I stashed a lot of junk in there? At this late date have I even started sorting and cleaning? Have I time? Would Grandma Marie approve?

The only thing I’m absolutely certain of is my grandma. So that’s a start. If I were to make a list of good thoughts, deeds and core beliefs that feel embedded in my soul, I might begin with some general feel-good mention of compassion for humanity. Not to mention the birds, and all of God’s creatures. Yes, definitely a start, but also true of pretty much every one I know. I could add a reverence for Mother Earth to the list because I don’t use vile chemicals in the garden, and we recycled before it was fashionable or the law, and I wish, wish, wish for a Prius, or better yet, an all electric car. I have, I must admit, an advantage in this inner life because by some twist of fate I inherited the gene and propensity for extra seratonin – and this by the way of both sides, the Johnsons and the Pedersons. For this I am truly grateful. A HUGE advantage, but not one for which I can take personal spiritual credit. And along the same lines and even more importantly, my mother set the stage and truly lived and defined what it was to be an excellent person. Thank you Harriet. And for Faith. So, that definitely is a start. I’ll have to think long and hard about all the higgely-piggely in there too. But I think I’ll take my own advice and work on one thing at a time. I can do this.

Posted in introspection | 3 Comments

THE JOURNEY

Posted on March 11, 2011 by snowbirdredux

When confronted with aghast statements by incredulous friends and relatives who have heard about our plans to retire and move, yes, from the west coast to the far northern prairie, my husband is fond of responding – “We’re Reverse Snowbirds!”  And so, it seems we are attempting to do and be just that and the journey, in the words of Little Red Riding Hood in Stephen Sondheim’s “Into the Woods” is an apt description of my state of being – in other words “excited AND scared”!

And so I begin.

Posted in retirement | Leave a comment

The Background

Posted on March 10, 2011 by snowbirdredux

We’ve actually already set in motion, if just barely, the plan which will eventually send us packing across thousands of miles to a life of which we have little or no experience, given blizzards, tornadoes, ice on the roads, mosquitoes, high humidity, not to mention – not a Trader Joe’s in sight.  Why, one would ask (and they do) would we give up the California sunshine, that whole vibe and lifestyle?  I keep thinking of my mother who came as a bride in the early thirties on the reverse journey we are taking, continuing to the day of her death singing the praises of what she discovered when she first saw the mountains and the ocean and the palm trees and “thought she’d died and gone to heaven”.  So how did it come about, this reversal of an entire way of life?  It’s called retirement.

Some years ago, when I was still in my early 60’s, or perhaps even earlier, we made an attempt to “get serious” about the whole retirement plan, and that was before nasty, nefarious financial institutions managed to wipe out much of a modest, but hopeful retirement account.  And also before the unholy reality of a ludicrously inflated real estate market here in the Over-The-Moon State of California.  And I frankly don’t feel all that bad about the lost equity after the crash, the now seemingly huge sum that would have sealed our future til the end of our days.  I don’t feel ALL that bad because it wasn’t real, not in the real world out there beyond the borders we still inhabit.  However, it definitely leads us to Plan B, which is actually Plan A with more modest goals and accommodations.

Whenever we did bring up the “what’s the plan and what’s to-be-done about “retirement” subject, it was agreed that the answer would be twofold: live “free and clear” and live near family.  The “free and clear” had a wide range of possibilities at the time.  Family mainly meant California where 5 children and 4 grandchildren and (at the time) a mother were firmly planted.  In the past year, when we could no longer elude the reality of both being on the middle and upper side of the 70’s, and no longer pretend that I would continue to work in perpetuity, the plan, the need for a “real” plan, became more apparent.

It was at a family reunion on a cousin’s farm south of Fargo two years ago, that we had one of those “DUH” moments.  My parents grew up on either side of the Red River of the North, south of Fargo/Moorhead – Hickson, N.D. and Comstock, MN for the record.  I was the only one of eighteen cousins who didn’t grow up “back home”, with the exception of my cousin, Skip, who wasn’t that far off, at least culturally in northern Washington.  I was the only child of parents who had moved to the coast, to the mountains and the ocean and the palm trees, and as a child I longed for the family.  Robert (formerly referred to as just “husband”) was the child of divorced parents and definitely not the recipient for a lot of familial fun.

And that’s where it all began.

 

 

Posted in retirement | 2 Comments