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When it rains, and rains, and rains and …
Now I’m a real nomad. It’s a new season. I’m in a new place. It’s been raining for the last five days and will continue to do so for the duration I’m camping along Coastal Oregon.
This week’s deluge is unusual for September, local weather forecasters report. All part of the adventure and attitude adjustment us nomads make on a daily basis. And while I’d rather be gadding about, hiking and biking without wet shoes and layers of clothes, camping in the rain has its benefits.
No. 1, since I upgraded my travel digs to a 2016 Pleasureway Ascent, I have heat, a toilet, kitchen, and cozy bed that I’m lounging in at this very moment. I have a TV, can you believe it? and occasional cell reception which allows me to movie-binge; I’m in the middle of Netflix’s “The Chosen” and almost done with the new season of “The Morning Show” on Apple TV. I have a ton of healthy food in my pantry and fridge, my beloved books, music, and art materials. Tucked away as efficiently as humanly possible in my 19’ x 6’ apartment-on-wheels, I have everything I need to enjoy a good life.
In my waffle weave bathrobe and fuzzy Target socks, I look outside and watch the grasses and trees flourish, and listen to the pit-pit-pit-patter dancing atop my roof, and realize that Oregon’s rain invites me to breathe-in gratitude as I appreciate the rhythm of Nature.
No. 2, a week-long rain forecast rain clears out a whole bunch of campers; what’s left is a campground sprinkled with camping devotees, quiet and respectful folk who love getting away from it all as much as I do. Rain campers tend to stick to ourselves, except when there’s a break in the rain, then we hop outside, wave hello as we walk the dog, take out the trash, fill up water jugs, exercise, and check-out each other’s rigs.
No. 3, rainy days give nomads a chance to catch up with the doldrums of life-on-the-road, like cleaning the rig, editing-out clothes and extraneous items you packed—just in case—but know you’re never going to use. Lighten the load. Fresh start.
No. 4, when you travel a lot, it’s good to factor-in unplanned “sick” days when you’re not sick. Soup, tea, a manicure, write postcards, take a nap—restore. Rainy days are my sick days. Time to re-assess.
I’ve discovered that I don’t like driving more than four hours a day. I also don’t like rushing to leave a site. I can, and have, but I like taking my time before moving on to my next destination. In Oregon, you can’t check into a campground until 4 p.m. and some places are more follow-the-rule than others about that. On the flipside, you also don’t have to check out until 1 p.m. Since I have no reason to rush, I usually take my time, write a little, clean up, review the map, make breakfast, and prepare a healthy dinner I can heat-up later.
I’m working to reverse my lifelong, driven, deadline-oriented personality; trying to resurrect that little kid who gets so absorbed into what she’s doing she doesn’t hear Mommy calling, “Janet, let’s go. It’s time to go!” for the fourth time.
You know, I don’t remember Mom ever rushing me. There was no, hurry, hurry, we’re late, childhood stress.
It’s a strange, floating place to be in, this time of my life. Since high school, I’ve been doing, accomplishing, assisting, organizing, and polishing my life so it made sense. It was, in many ways, extraordinary and predictable.
And now it’s not.
Now it’s wonder-filled.
My “job” right now is to witness and experience. I don’t have a compelling “need” to report every detail, every encounter, although it’s my natural inclination as a former journalist to do so.
These Oregon rainy days help me to realize how important it is for me not let the inclement weather—or anything else for that matter—ruin my day.
Not the worrying phone call.
Not the muddy shoes tracked across my new rug.
Not the occasional cruddy people.
Not the big branch that hit the back of my rig in the middle of the night and possibly damaged my e-bike and/or solar panel.
Rain washes it all away, clears the canvas, revealing patches of blank, negative space for me to ponder: Should I fill it in with aqua blue or leave well enough alone?
This afternoon, in the drizzle, in the sand-pelting wind, I decided to layer-up and hike across the sand dunes at Nehalem State Park in Manzanita, Oregon. The sand was wet and cold, beige and onyx, and my stride was slow as I climbed to the top of the dune. I almost couldn’t breathe. Not because it winded me, which it did, but because I realized, if I let the rain stop me, I would have missed the wild vista. As it was in the beginning. Just me, Isadora Duncan’s scarf dancing dunes, and the boisterous sea. You know those victory at sea paintings? Those stunning postcards of perfectly framed windswept beaches? It was like that, only a trillion times more magnificent. If I had the ability to fly, I would have done so, right there, like the seagulls, like the Canadian geese, like the shredded soaring cotton clouds.
I don’t want to forget this. Or yesterday. Or what’s to come. Words are my painting, my song, reminding me, it really happened.
* * *
It can be scary. People can be so hurtful. But not you. Your goodness, your sincerity, brings joy and value to the world.
My experience has been, both as a reader and writer, that when a person shares his or her truth, the rain disappears, and we become one.
The ancient redwoods offer many life lessons. They know, for instance, that in order to weather the weather, they need to network with divergent species—hemlock trees, ferns, grasses, and huckleberry bushes. Superficially, literally, their interconnectedness is esthetically beautiful, but dig a few feet below the surface and their complex, interwoven circuitry is astounding. Such could be said about human interactions.
Two years back when I was still teaching, I decided to take a chance and share my life observations via this blog. It’s been a healthy outlet for me, and I hope, adds value in some way to your life. Vulnerability is good. Our cracks make us strong.
“Pay attention, be astonished, and tell about it,” poet Mary Oliver wrote.
Not all the time, I’d add, but when your heart breaks open with ripe nectarine shards.
My two cents: put pen to paper, compose a song, paint a picture, take a photograph, and document what it’s like to be you in this world full of beauty and challenges, in this clumsy, wonderous Fall rainstorm of life that may or may not have a silver lining.
An unexpected gift
How to you begin to describe the feeling? Kayaking on glass with a long-lost friend, being lifted, suspended in a cloud, in a misty dream you once had and forgot; picking huckleberries; crooking your vision up and down, left and right, to gaze at giant redwoods and bleached native grasses; noticing black-slick, Loch Ness-type creatures disappear and reappear—not just one, but two, three, four teenage siblings—otters—out for an afternoon adventure.
At the most western shore is a cement-colored dam forged by behemoth waves and a breech, a re-occurring tributary as ancient as the Yurok people, the original inhabitants of this coastal alcove. Cormorants and egrets dive for their supper as David and I dock along the shore, taking-in the roaring vista Lego-ed with driftwood, crab shells and berry-sized sand pellets.
The scene reminds me of the emperor’s musical, globe-encased diorama described in Ray Bradbury’s “The Flying Machine” where the world is puzzle-pieced together in perfect harmony (prior to an invader who messed up his plans). Me, I am the nameless, flea-sized character paddling alongside David at his favorite place on Earth.
What an honor, what a gift, to have a friend entrust you with what is sacred to him. David, the retired music director of the church choir I once belonged to, regaled me with fishing tales and rescue missions, fickle depths, and diverse water temperature, what to avoid and when to ride the current. His enthusiasm was infectious: He was, and is, a little kid multiplied by seven decades.
David’s sacred place along Highway 101 is not a secret; teeming with wildlife both seen and unseen, it’s glanced at, and considered, by hundreds of travelers oblivious to the lagoon’s curative properties. When I first drove by Stone Lagoon, I wondered if this was the spot my friend had extensively written about and photographed? It’s hard to know when driving 65 mph; so, when David returned a text inviting me to join him for an afternoon kayak trip, I couldn’t wait to join him. After all, I was just up the road, about 30 minutes north where I was camping at Elk Prairie Creek Redwoods National and State Park, one of my very favorite campgrounds.
Forgive me while I digress but being with David reminded me of a favorite story.
When I was a little girl, one of my most cherished books was about a little blind boy who was to be visited by a Princess. He fretted over what to gift the Princess, but none his ideas were good enough.
One day, as he was tending his vegetable patch, the birds and the sun spoke to him, drawing his attention to the juiciest, rosy-red strawberry in the garden.
“It’s perfect,” he said, as his freckled cheeks broadened.
And indeed, it was.
When the Princess gently cupped the tender fruit in her hands, smelled it, admired it, then bite into the sun-stewed fruit, she couldn’t help herself; she kissed the little boy on the cheek, leaving behind a ruby residue.
“This is the finest gift I have ever received,” she declared.
Naturally, the little blind boy was pleased. A stranger, no less a princess with all the resources to buy anything she desired at her polished fingertips, fell in love with what he loved.
She was blind, but now she could see.
* * *
Beauty in simplicity.
Beauty in Nature.
Beauty in silence.
Beauty in conversation.
Beauty in a friend taking a chance that a busy, busy, hectic, LA-based writer/grandma/mom/cousin/sister/auntie would have the capacity to open her heart and walk into a painting, aware of every brush stroke, every color choice, every flying machine. No wonder David returns here three days a week and says that the time spent on Stone Lagoon isn’t counted against his allotted time on Earth.
I have tired, but my descriptive skills aren’t big enough, warm enough, inspiring enough, to capture the mystical beauty of David’s landscape. In my brief five hours exploring Stone Lagoon, I can affirm that it’s an oasis where a person, if so inclined, can re-connect with their truest, mightiest self.
I hope everyone has their own version of Stone Lagoon, a place that brings you joy and peace and reminds you of your value and how much you’re loved.
I am blessed to have discovered many chapels, Cambria, Tuolumne River in Yosemite, Kauai and Maui, the ancient redwoods in Northern California, the paint-chipped balcony at the Portofino Apartments. But I have also learned that if I stay in one place for 15 minutes or, better yet, an hour and do nothing but listen, look, and feel, I can channel “that peace that passes through all understanding” that I long for.
Before launching my trip, a little more than a week ago, I wasn’t blind as was the little boy in “A Present for a Princess”, but I was nearsighted. That’s what happens when I forget, pull away from, prioritize busyness and others’ needs above my own. Being in Nature gives me a chance to breathe and remember what I already know.
While it may not be a juicy strawberry, this Mary Oliver poem expresses my gratitude to David, and all the kind people I’ve met on this journey, especially Julie and Ken who shared their hearts with me as I sort out mine. It’s called “The Other Kingdoms”:
Consider the other kingdoms. The
trees, for example, with their mellow-sounding
titles; oak, aspen, willow.
Or the snow, for which people of the north
have dozens of words to describe its
different arrivals. Or the creatures, with their
thick fur, their shy and wordless gaze. Their
infallible sense of what their lives
are meant to be. Thus the world
grows rich, grows wild, and you too,
grow rich, grow sweetly wild, as you too
were born to be.
Go with the flow
Above, is a canopy of redwoods, an impressionistic painting made even more ethereal without my glasses. Ribbons of sun and blue and burnt sienna surround me. And the silence, padded silence. I’m in the womb of Nature. Protected. Soft. When I close my eyes, I’m elevated to a familiar time and place, a lure that spider-thread’s my soul.
No screaming (exuberant) children. No generators. My fellow campers speak in hushed tones out of reverence for this glorious gift to travelers, Humboldt Redwoods State Park. I’ve been here before with my amigos, slept in the belly of a burnt-out tree that they thought was creepy and I knew, as the sun rays glistened like Mom’s chandelier, was my needle-lined cradle; indeed, in this chapel of angels I was rocked to a most blissful sleep.
This is what I needed for my first night away from the Central Coast: Ancient, familiar, and safe. I could easily stay here for a week. Alas, in a few minutes I will be gone to my next destination—Elk Prairie Creek Redwoods National and State Park—a place I’ve camped twice before. It is equally as reverent, albeit a little more crowded.
Being here, off the road, with immensely respectful camp neighbors (extra clean bathroom and showers and NO trash anywhere) is the hush, hush, HUSH, my soul needed.
My wet hair dries in the pine incense, my skin protected by the shadow of the trees; my glass-less eyes are sharper, telescoping the dichotomy of delicate green shouldered by giant towers, many of whom lived among the dinosaurs. None of it makes sense; it is scary, spectacular and I am alone, yet I’m laced by the movement of others.
The flapping wings of a crow remind me of the adventure that awaits. “It’s time,” he caws, to see what else is out there.”
Coffee. Yogurt, apple, and walnuts, then it’s time to bid this unplanned respite goodbye for now. Time to yee-haw take my covered wagon to hippyland, Arcata, before settling into my next temporary home.
My new theme: go with the flow, ‘cuz it’s all working out.
With new eyes
Celluloid images—about family, friends, departed loved ones—flash, flash, FLASH across my mind’s movie screen. When I walk. When I drive. When I talk to people. When I’m at the grocery store. When I read. When I listen to music.
Run, run to the laptop, my brain tells me.
But it’s never near when I need her. Or her battery’s dead and I’m not near an outlet.
My friend, Julie, shared a trick she does, and I usually do, but never thought it would help while camping: Write notes, she suggested. Create a list with everything you do and need to do, places you visited and liked or didn’t. She’s right. Annotated lists keep me stepping forward, feeling good about my accomplishments, reminding me to “walk two miles” and “use the exercise bands”, “write”, “create art”, “organize the van”, “get gas”, “make a healthy dinner”, and “save leftovers” to eat during my overnight stop to who knows where?
I have a general idea where I’m headed. Tomorrow is my only unplanned night so far. I know I need to drive five hours, so the next day isn’t as long. Tuesday is my true unchartered territory adventure day. Boondock. Harvest Host—if, I can activate the app. It’s my test. My, everything’s going to work out, go with the flow new attitude. Because it’s true. Things do work out. Sometimes, I’ve noticed, overplanning is stressful—must be there by 5 p.m., must keep driving even though I’d rather stop or I’m tired. The same can be said for lists; the worst thing I could do is to be a slave to them—takes away the possibility of discovering important, unplanned moments. I guess it’s all about finding a balance between the whimsy and the watchful.
If this is, indeed, is a trip of transformation and discovery, I have how to learn to be comfortable putting my finger to the wind to see where it takes me.
Keep in mind, we’re just talking about a day. The rest of the month is planned out to a T.
After a second night staying at a Paso Robles winery, I decided to head West and return to my favorite campground, Hearst San Simeon State Beach.
The sun finally made an appearance, so I skedaddled down to the sea to say thank you and farewell to my blessed beach.
No matter where I venture, this will always be my heart place. One day, I hope to settle here. But not now.
News Flash: Did I tell you I sold my VW Eurovan Camper? It was a heart-breaker, but it was time. Too much mechanical uncertainty. But as fate would have it, I was able to replace her with my new, trusty covered wagon I aptly dubbed, Bonnie Doon, which means pretty fort. And that she is. With a toilet, shower, microwave, stove, and lovely bed. A heater. Air conditioner, awning and all the stuff that really matters to me. All the clothes I own. Art materials. Speakers for my music. Big, thick books, and my computer and ukulele, which hasn’t been touched for a year. New tires. A generator. Previously owned by my lovely and meticulous former neighbors. A meant-to-be.
When I lived on Garnet Street, I’d sigh every time I drove past her. Wow, wouldn’t it be great to travel in her? I used to say.
She was always in the back of my mind, but I came to peace with the likelihood that I’d never own a Mercedes Benz Sprinter, much less a high-end Pleasureway from Canada because of the insane cost. It’s OK, I said to myself, “I’ll wait until the Fall when prices come down.” But they didn’t. The same with California housing prices and rent. The bubble never burst. And folks like me realized that there’s no such thing as a bargain when it comes to Class B RVs.
Then out of the blue, my former neighbor texted me. She had NO IDEA I was in the market for a 19’ Ascent TS. She was checking in, seeing how my life was going, and that she and Julie were on their way home from purchasing another, slightly larger, Pleasureway
“By chance, are you interested in selling yours?” I inquired.
“Yes,” she responded.
We worked out an agreeable price. Knowing Julie and Kirsten, I was confident Bonnie Doon was well maintained. With 40,000 miles and a German-designed diesel, she was practically new for a 2016.
Me and my Bonnie Doon. A dream I’ve had for a decade. Taking off. Having an adventure. Minus my dear Monet, who isn’t well enough for the journey, but is being loved by the person who loves her as much as me. I can’t say it’s been easy without my girl. Pretty much my heart is broken. I can’t go to the same places—our beach at San Simeon—because it hurts so much; but I know she is in the best place for her right now, as am I.
Being alone isn’t lonely. With no distractions, suppressed feelings and random thoughts come to the surface. I mull them over, then let ‘em go.
These days it feels like I’m seeing the world for the first time. On a hike I noticed the crunchy leaves, a precursor to Fall. The silence following a gust of wind. The smoky fog, the chattering squirrels. The ex-prison guard camp neighbors who helped me thread a ratchet clamp. An e-bike ride down a winding road, a sunset launch into the unknown.
I have dreamed about going on a trip like this for a least a decade. And now it’s happening. Tomorrow, I head out into tomorrow.
The Gift of Change
My new, next life begins today.
I’m sitting at the edge of San Simeon Creek alongside the best campsite I have ever had watching the ducks and native birds enjoy the early evening sun. I am in my happy place. Another happy place.
I left Happy Place No. 1 today—today. The Portofino Apartments. I had hoped to take-in the view, relax, swim, but nooooooooo, I had accumulated so much stuff over the last eight months it took me from morning to evening to sort out, discard, trash and donate. I had my morning coffee, with my amigo, Bevie, this morning, but there was much still to be done before handing over my key card and parking pass at 9:30 a.m. to Cody, the apartment manager.
It’s been a true gift staying at the Portofino. The view. The kind neighbors. The endearing staff. It was just what the doctor ordered when we arrived in January during the Winter’s rain, post Katie and the g-kid’s August visit when we Disneyland-ed and prepared for the tropical storm of the century. While the apartment’s accommodations were 1980s-dated that view. That view. Honestly, if the rent wasn’t so high, I probably could live there forever.
But that’s what I say about everything and everyone I fall in love with.
Like this place, Cambria. The breeze. The creek views. My veggies cooking in the air fryer in my new-to-me camper van. A fresh start in a place I am oh-so familiar with. My heart spot.
On this today-launched, two-month sojourn, my goals are simple, yet mighty. I want to relax. Truly relax my spirit. I want to re-connect with Nature, my soul—God. I want to awaken my senses to the wind, the stars, Nature’s soothing melodies and rejuvenating perfume.
Also, very important, over the last couple of months I allowed myself to get off-track foodwise; I intend to return to more mindful eating and drinking.
No more blanking out, covering up and avoiding, just me, myself and I enjoying all things creative; my writing, art, dancing and listening.
* * *
Day Two of My Transformation/Discovery Tour 2023
After leaving Cambria I decided to pick up a wine shipment at Brecon Winery along Vineyard Drive. Twist my arm, right? The wines were lovely, but even more so Frank, the server who’s been there for three years, about as long as my club membership. His enthusiasm and knowledge of product was infectious. My favorite wine was, naturally, the most expensive, a beautiful reserve Cabernet Sauvignon—eyes roll back kind of wine. I am not sure I have the will power to save it to share with my amigos, but I’ll do my best.
I do miss them. I wish they had the freedom to join me on what I hoped would be our shared quest to lavish in retirement. Maybe one day. As for now, I enjoy the quietude and return to embracing myself.
My older daughter asked me a few weeks ago if I’d ever want to date? Sometimes I think about it. But mostly now I just want to date myself. I want to discover that little girl who never quite ventured beyond the boundaries of her beloved Spreckles Lane playhouse.
“There is that in me, I do not know what it is, but I know it is in me,” penned Walt Whitman.
This thing I long to know, and when I do, hold on to it for the rest of my days. Feeling at peace. Making plans, but not too many. Talking to people, but not every moment. Taking a nap. Going for a walk. Stretching. Falling asleep to the roar of thunder and rain with a giant grin on my face.
That was me last night at my Harvest Host stopover, Locatelli Winery in San Miguel. Except for one other camper who parked far away from me, I had the whole winery to myself. It’s a pretty good gig. For $99 a year, you can stay at wineries, farms, museums, and other locations overnight. While it’s not required, it’s inferred you buy something from their business. Not a problem! I purchased a lovely rose which was perfect with my simple meal of veggies, hummus, and savory tofu. What a night! I savored “Demon Copperhead”, one of the best books I’ve read in a long time, watched a little TV, (don’t judge me, “Virgin River”) and tried to ignore how hot it was.
Right now, after showering and enjoying my breakfast smoothie—kale, yogurt, blueberries, and a touch of honey—I’m enjoying the silence of this place. I leave in about 15 minutes to do some errands before lunching with my friend, Julie, so I’m trying to soak it all in. My new beginning.
Will I look different when I return? Will my family see it on my face? In my gait? Will my voice be more measured, calm?
Be ye transformed.
After two days on the road, the cocoon is starting to crack as I awaken the dormant, winged creature I once met in a dream.
On the Verge of Tomorrow
“There’s a great big beautiful tomorrow, shining at the end of every day, there’s a great big beautiful tomorrow, and tomorrow’s just a dream away.” I hummed along to that tune every time I walked from Disneyland through Downtown Disney to our hotel room. That was just last week. Me, my daughter, and The Littles all jumbled, tumbled in the Wonderful World of Ultra Stimulation and Dollar Signs. It was charming and hot and humanity-packed and tantrum-iced and princess-glittered and, well, if you’ve been to the Magic Kingdom, you know—-Magic.
But that was last Thursday and I’m sitting on my daughter and son-in-law’s crowded wrought iron-framed balcony in Rego Park, New York. To my right are faded plastic sea toys idled in a bleached water table basin. To my left are the same plants that were tiny sprouts the last time I visited back in July: Thai basil, dill, rosemary, tomatoes, sunflowers, snapdragons, and a hanging strawberry plant, now gangly and in need of some pruning and water, which I’ll do when The Littles, Millie, 3, and Hudson, 21 months, wake up.
It’s almost 8:30 a.m. and they’re still sawing logs. Not unusual considering we didn’t arrive to the apartment until close to 9 p.m. which left them about an hour for dinner and bonding.
Being away from home is exciting, stimulating, and important. But getting back, awwwww, is a big sigh that all is well in the world; it’s a signal, a return normal, a schedule, healthy diet, proper sleep. Normally, when Katie leaves for New York, I’m weepy that she’s gone. This time, because she has two wee children under three, I escorted her home to make sure the five-hour flight was a little less stressful. It’s the first time I got a chance to see the babies bond with their home. As soon as they walked in, sleepy-eyed from the nighttime car ride home, they squealed, jumped up and down, and ran from corner to corner, touching, playing with, tossing books and blankets, trikes, trains and Disney princess dolls. There’s Miranda! from Encanto, Charlie! the perpetual shedding lab mix dog, the basket of balls! the kitchen set! the stroller! the set of wonky drawers brimming with clothes! Stuff. Favorite stuff. In places they remember. Bringing them delight and security. Joy.
If you have read any of my prior blogs, particularly over the last year, you’ll recognize a reoccurring theme: my on-again, off-again relationship with stuff. Chronic shedding and obtaining. Spending and saving. The comfort of having everything I need at my fingertips. The freedom of carrying everything I need on my back or safely tucked away in my four-wheel hacienda. And the ping in my heart that needs to nest, be surrounded by my books and photos and limited items boxed away in the $300 a month storage unit I need to sort through and cut in half—once again. Which I will, start of November, when I return from a two-month sojourn.
My life is changing once again.
I’ll close shop at the Portofino Apartments in Redondo Beach in less than a week’s time. Since January it’s been a respite from the winter (and crazy summer) rains, and broken camper van, and Monet’s ill health, which originally prompted me to anchor in the city I moved away from last summer. My hometown. My beginnings. My family, friends, my hub, and sense of connectedness to the past and present. A place to breathe, this worn, 1970s-vibe, one-bedroom apartment with an incredible view of the Marina.
I could probably live here forever. But that’s what I said about my home on Garnet Street which I sold because I craved the excitement—and fear—of adventure. Staying put, being a couch potato, is my natural go-to. I love to nest, create and re-create my Barbie Dreamhouse settings, build a safe zone, a place to return to. Home. And my Redondo apartment could have been it, had the rent not been so expensive. And while I’ve been assured that rents are expensive everywhere, frankly, I’d rather use rent money to travel.
I’m not saying my knees aren’t shaking. They are. Leaving something I know, am sure of, for the great unknown is not in my nature. All the things that could go wrong—future worries—often consume me. But I know that if I don’t try, if I don’t jump now, that opportunity might just escape me.
So here I sit, now in the quietude of my daughter’s apartment, with the babies and daughter napping, knowing that when I leave this zany, crowded palace of love, I will return to my temporary home to pack up, sort out, donate and move on to a new life.
More reflecting is in store. But for now, as I sip my cold coffee and listen to the baby monitor as my grandchildren stir, I am grateful that my life is where it is, that I had the most incredible summer camping with my grandsons along California’s Central Coast, then visiting the East Coast’s historic sites with both of my daughters, grandchildren, our family reunion in Montana, and Katie and the kiddo’s month-long visit back home to Mama’s bachelorette pad in Redondo.
This time last year I never would have thought I’d have these adventures. One door closes and another opens. The future looks bright.
But for now, I have this precious, New York pre-Fall day to cherish.
Passing the Baton
Montana Reunion 2023
Family from Oregon, Texas and California converge to celebrate a beloved member’s 70th birthday at a spectacular 40-acre, four-bedroom plus two-bedroom cottage home in White Fish, Montana. Every minute bustling, joyous, energy drink-and a few bottles of tequila zany—MAGIC! There was bean bag-tossing, lassoing, baby motorcycle-riding, marshmallow-making, giant breakfast-scarfing, hot tubbing, eating and more eating, river rafting, four-by-four touring, Glacier National Park hiking, campfire-chatting, hail storm dodging, local restaurant-dining and wondering why we all waited so long to get together for a destination vacation clan reunion.
Like a lot of families who put get-togethers on the “one day” list, we needed an excuse: The birthday of an angel, loved by all, wouldn’t hurt a soul, puts others’ interests before her own, our one and only Bevie. In the last decade, she’s gone through monumental challenges, yet it hasn’t impacted her positive, looking-forward attitude. Turns out, I’m not alone in affirming that she’s been the entire clan’s patient teacher, lifelong mentor and sounding board, everyone’s amigo. Past, present and future, our forever friend.
And here we are in Big Sky Country, counting our blessings at a retreat as glorious as the woman of the hour. First, I must share the setting: Back Forty Lodge https://www.backfortylodge.com/: forty acres of pine, cedar, and birch trees. At night, the grounds are a’glow with miniature lights-flocked trees defined by a garland of Edison lights, full moon and roaring campfire. The house itself is ultrachic modern with all the amenities guests could only dream of: high end range, gigantic fridge, two dishwashers, four trash receptacles, the most beautiful organized cupboards you’ve ever seen, two massive, tastefully designed living rooms and a view of pond-bathing bears and deer. From the top balcony you can hang out near the firepit, enjoy dinner, a glass of wine while watching six cousins have a blast on the expansive grassy knoll backyard. If you wish to find quiet, there’s quiet. If you wish to socialize, there are so many possibilities for congregating and having small and large conversations; it’s the perfect setting for both the extrovert and introvert.
Can you tell I LOVE the place? Really, there was no reason to leave and explore, but we did.
Although the river is low due to Montana’s unprecedented drought, there were still opportunities to enjoy a bit of white-water action that our group of 19 thoroughly enjoyed. Some members of the family were brave and 90-degree temps-hot enough to jump into the glacier-cooled river. What a memory! As for me, I got my feet wet knowing it would be way too embarrassing to be hauled into the raft like a giant tuna.
So many best moments of the trip to reflect upon: the night we sang happy birthday to my cousin, the birthday girl, and how she was overcome with tears of joy; the reading of everyone’s contributions to a chat book I put together at the last minute thanks to family member’s contributions. The project was an excuse, just like the trip, to let this precious woman know how much she is adored.
For half of the family the adventure continues to other parts of Montana and Wyoming. And the other half of the tribe, we fly or drive home with full hearts that we made the time and effort to be together, to celebrate this chapter of our lives, as the once young grows old, and the baton of love is passed on to the next generation.
Sitting on the crest of tomorrow, as eight red, yellow and red white sabots skate across the glossy sea, I am reminded, once again, of how quickly life is passing. Here today, gone tomorrow, my parents often said to us kids. Now a member of Crepe-y Knees Jiggly Double Chin Club, their words ring true: One day you’re 33 with two children and one on the way, the next you’re 67 with four grandchildren and another on his way in December. My hope, like my parents’, is that the little kids and their parents will love and support each other as much as my cousin and sister and I have had the privilege to do our entire lives.
Legacy. It’s what we talk about as we sit on the balcony, saluting the sunset, hoping—praying—-that our love will be their love. Were or are we perfect? Not even close. But our love is pure. Not to be questioned. Diminished. By age, ego, squabbles, misunderstandings that, in the scheme of things, don’t matter a squat.
Reunions remind us that all the junk and nonsense that can clog up a life are a waste of time. Love matters. Forgiveness. And an open heart.
Surrounded by Fireflies
Life IZ Good. Sometimes, you just need to pivot to realize it, you know, the half full vs. half empty kind of thing.
Drama happens. The toast gets burned. I lose a $100 bill. Skin cancer is detected. My blurry vision isn’t the scratched glasses, it’s cataracts. I’m still 30, more like 40 pounds overweight. An idiot crashed into my beloved Teddy The Subaru. People—sometimes strangers, sometimes family—say and do shitty things. (Anne Lamont recommends thinking about hurtful folks as having just been released from the ER. They be sick.) My dear Monet’s health is declining. I’m craving sugar—again. After seven months of asking, the apartment manager still hasn’t replaced the water-slogged dishwasher. And on and on and on. Like everyone, I have my fair share to kvetch about.
But then there’s today’s blessed grey skies and 72-degree temps and the two fans I rescued from the storage unit and the cheerful turquoise patio cushions and mat that define the rickety balcony and the ripening avocados encircling a bouquet of flowers I picked up from Costco, the tart and spicy margaritas I made last night for me and the girls and the plumber’s quick fix of the clogged toilet and the fact that, as a renter, I didn’t have to pay for the plumbing problem.
I’m surrounded by fireflies, a billion trillion dandelion sparks that bedazzles my days into an Impressionistic painting.
Gratitude abounds. Monet is resting comfortably at my side so I decided to forgo going to the Barbie movie this afternoon with my daughter and grandson so that I can be present with my pup, with myself, to take stock, to breathe, prepare a healthy smoothie, and reflect upon what’s happened to me over the last year that’s brought me to this place, this moment of self-reflection.
I watch Monet’s eyes flutter and wonder what she thinks. Is she remembering running along the beach at Cambria or cuddling with me on our floor mat last night or feeling snug and secure relaxing on the carpet now that I’ve removed the dated, gigantic furniture obstacles from the apartment, freeing up our temporary abode so we have more room to dance? Or is she in a mud bath feeling the pressure of her own weight against the chocolate coolness of peace? I am grateful, for her, for the fact that she doesn’t appear to be in pain, that I can provide a stable home and that we have this precious time to hang out, to talk or not talk. Together. Chilling out. Just being. Me and my buddy of the last 14 years.
She has slowed down, getting drowsy, droopy. Today she didn’t gobble down her breakfast as she normally does. Her eyes roll back when she sleeps. I sense our time together is short. I paint a picture of her in my head, try to memorize her freckles, her pointed black ears, her rising and falling chest, the way she wags her tail every single time she sees me, her immense loyalty. When it is time for her to go, when it’s my time, I hope to have a calm, predictable send-off, close to the ocean, with good foods cooking, a glass or two of wine nearby, music, singing and, of course, dancing. I affirm to her, “You are loved, Monet. I love you.” And rub her shoulders and head and she knows it to be true. She knows so much more than I ever will. She gives her whole heart away to those she trusts and is suspicious and snarly to those who give pause.
For the last eight months, we have been paused here at the Portofino Apartments in Redondo Beach. The apartment itself is 1970s-style yucky furniture motif. I finally broke down and purchased a carpet cleaner because the flooring is soooooo gross and the management wouldn’t schedule a cleaner. I’ve learned that, as a renter, you ask and ask and ask for things like a new dishwasher, which has been on the manager’s to-do list since January, or a painter to sand and refinish the paint-dripping kitchen cabinets, and your requests are often ignored. I certainly wasn’t that kind of a landlord when I rented out Moonstone Cottage by the Sea, but I guess I’m living in the “real world” of “who cares?” landlords.
Our view, a literal stone’s throw away from the ocean, makes up for the building’s deficiencies. I doubt I will ever again have this view for this long. So, I’m soaking it up for the month of August then I’m off on my next adventure—camping along the coast to Oregon and maybe Washington and Canada. Weather and fire conditions permitting, I might drive East and enjoy the Fall colors, or plant myself along the Eastern Sierras like I did last year. Two months of putting my finger to the wind and seeing which way it blows. Kind of a nice life.
But for now, I’m in the moment, preparing for my daughter and two babies’ arrival, making space, stocking the cupboards, and appreciating this one and only precious life and all its complications.
Eternal flame
This is the summer of wee ones. Under three. Over ten. And those in between. A gaggle of boys and one girl. My grandchildren, starting from the oldest, Jack, Bronson, Millie, and Hudson. Twinkling stars that light up my world.
I’m here in New York with three of my four grandchildren. Mr. Bronson had vacay plans with daddy and couldn’t make it to The Big Apple this year. His spunky joviality is missed. But three kiddos in the squished apartment, a patient lab-ish dog and Cheshire Cat-hairy rescue feline, Grandma and The Mother and Father are probably all this wee New York dwelling can handle amid the hottest global summer on record.
The kids are growing up fast. Millie is Miss Sassy Future Head of Some Mega Corporation. Hudson is our curious dimpled Future Engineer. And dear 11-year-old Jack, a bull in the China shop-big these days. Big feet, big voice, big appetite—especially regarding foods he likes like hamburgers, hot dogs, cucumbers, and pineapple. He is The Littles’ very own baby whisperer; fun, patient, protective, there to assist whenever “JACK” is screamed!!! Being kind isn’t new to Jack, but being immensely responsive to little kids is.
Jack is on the verge of trips like this not being cool. Hanging out with his younger cousins, watching “Peppa Pig”, “Daniel Tiger’s Neighborhood” isn’t exactly a Lego master’s jam. But he sits here, joining-in with the antics of preschoolers, changing his first diaper ever (with detailed instruction by no-megaphone-needed three-year-old Millie), and immersing himself in play kitchen, “Encanto” figurines, bedtime-book-reading wonder. Normally, Jack’s sheepish around tykes, but on this trip I’ve seen him fully embrace his role as elder cousin. The Wise One. A boy with a voice, a role model. And The Littles—putty. You should see the adoration in their eyes when they look at their strong, handsome cousin; it’s heart-melting.
Speaking of which, it’s damn hot here on the East Coast. Draining. Melting. Troubling. Bring on the foggy mornings, afternoons, and evenings of 70s Redondo Beach, CA. My body’s made for brisk. Not freezing, but Autumn/Spring sweater weather.
Here in New York City yesterday, there was an air quality alert, not based on Canada’s fires, but dangerous levels of transportation and factory pollution exasperated by the heat: Avoid going outside because the air is dangerous. Have you seen the Apple series, “Extrapolations”? Think Ray Bradbury’s futuristic predictions. From Apple TV:
“Extrapolations” is a bracing drama from writer, director and executive producer Scott Z. Burns that introduces a near future where the chaotic effects of climate change have become embedded into our everyday lives. Eight interwoven stories about love, work, faith, and family from across the globe will explore the intimate, life-altering choices that must be made when the planet is changing faster than the population. Every story is different, but the fight for our future is universal. And when the fate of humanity is up against a ticking clock, the battle between courage and complacency has never been more urgent. Are we brave enough to become the solution to our own undoing before it’s too late?
It’s terrifying. Not the just the series, but how we’re living, how we refuse to listen to reason, how we’re dooming our children and grandchildren, how we refuse to change course because we’re too stubborn, stupid, set in our ways and/or refuse to modify our lifestyles because we think it’s useless or deny science.
This heat, the extreme weather patterns, makes me want to scream to our “leaders”, Corporate America, gas-guzzling automakers, polluters large and small—-“Do something before it’s too late!”
I don’t get it: Why must we fight, protest, complain to the-powers-that-be, to step-up and do the right thing? But we do. And we must. Because our children and grandchildren are counting on us. Recent headlines confirm climate scientists’ dire warnings. Yet, we continue to twiddle our fingers and do nothing.
So, I’m doing it—again. Researching what the United Nations’ response to climate change is https://www.un.org/en/climatechange, contacting my local, state, and national representatives and compelling them to push Climate Change to the top of the agenda. Today’s contacts included:
EPA: Climate Change Division (202) 343-9990
The White House Climate Change Office https: //www.whitehouse.gov/cpo/
Advancing Earth and Space Sciences (provides letter template and suggestions about how to contact lawmakers): https://www.agu.org/Share-and-Advocate/Share/Policymakers/Contact-elected-officials
My daughter says, “They won’t listen.” And I get it. One person’s email, phone message, letter, is a blip in the scheme of things. But as Assemblyman Al Muratsuchi told my change-maker eighth-graders, “Here’s how it works,” he explained: The squeaky wheel gets attention; the more of us who nag, insist, and make our voices known, the more likely lawmakers will pay attention. “It’s a numbers game.”
In addition to writing emails and making phone calls, each of us can make small changes; instead of wasting, we can re-use. We can be more mindful. “Like the ripples from a stone tossed into the pond from the water’s edge, the effects of our choices extend infinitely outward. Even the smallest of acts reverberates in the ears of unwritten histories,” Justin Young reminds us.
Today’s entry started off with me gushing about my love for my grandchildren. Love is great. The best thing ever. But it’s not enough.
It takes 30 minutes to express your concerns to legislators and corporations. Do it twice a week, same basic letter but new contact, and in a month’s time, you’ve registered your p.o.v. to eight different contacts; multiply that by 20, 100—1,000 comments and the CEOs and politicians start to pay attention.
A few days ago, Jack and I visited President John F. Kennedy’s eternal flame graveside at Arlington National Cemetery in Washington, D.C. I was overwhelmed with emotion as I flashbacked to the President’s assassination; I was in the second grade, 60 years ago. Why? my seven-year-old self-asked, and still asks.
Like others of my generation, President Kennedy’s words reverberated in me, inspiring a lifetime of service. “And so, my fellow Americans: ask not what your country can do for you—ask what you can do for your country.”
I’m retired now, enjoying life; no schedules, no responsibilities, no strings to tie me down. But that doesn’t mean I can’t still be Activist Granny. From my laptop. My phone. Before my lil’ chicks wake up. In between adventures. On the plane ride home from New York.
Dear Congressman Ted Lieu,
As a grandma, I’m scared, really scared, for my little ones’ future. We’ve mucked up the planet and it seems we’re too stuck-in-our-ways to fix it. My daughter says my voice doesn’t count, that writing a letter doesn’t make a difference. She may be right, but I grew up in a different era than her; my generation was inspired by JFK and Martin Luther King, Jr. We were challenged to be of service, to step up and take-action, to be the change.
While I’m more mindful about what I consume and do my best to re-use and re-cycle, I know that my individual efforts aren’t enough to avert the meteoric crisis scientists have warned us about for decades. We desperately need leaders like you to grab the microphone and activate an army of change-makers. We did it during World War II and joined forces after 9-11; we need that same vision and determination to defeat Planet Earth’s most ominous threat—global warming.
Here’s what I’m thinking: As a respected member of Congress, you could use your position to rally music, film, and social media influencers—and invite savvy corporations like Amazon and Apple— to fund a multimedia campaign designed to pressure offending greenhouse gas-producing industries, and inspire change. Similar to waging a political campaign or introducing a new product to the market, the global campaign would articulate a collective vision—before it’s too late.
I know this is a tall ask, suggesting that you use your position and influence to kickstart a worldwide public service campaign—and you’d be right. But change, as we all know, often starts with the courage of a gutsy individual. Mr. Lieu, I pray it’s you.
With great respect and admiration,
Janet Barker,
The Grandma Chronicles
They’re not with me right now. One is at Redondo’s CDC summer program and the older, pre-middle school grandson, is hanging out with friends. Even Yogurtland, an after school treat we indulged in on his ride home from fifth grade, wasn’t enough to lure him away from his adolescent priorities.
I’ve been a grandma of little kids for 11 years now, but our relationships are slowly changing. Grandson No. 1 no longer hugs me in front of his school friends. He waits until we’re safely around the bend, hunkered down inside Teddy Owen Roosevelt, our agreed-upon name for his and my green Subaru, and only then will he allow me to scrunch hug his broadening shoulders. Once inside our Jurassic Park-pretend Jeep, he lets down his guard and returns to his sparkly-brown-eyed-Legos-consumed self. God knows how much I love this boy.
My middling, soon-to-be in fourth-grade, grandson doesn’t mind public affection. His hugs are goofy, and smiles rocket to the stars and back. But he, too, is on the verge of being embarrassed by Grandma. Until that day comes, our teddy bear hugs are like popcorn; a single bowl is never enough. God knows how much I adore this boy.
And don’t me get started about my crazy grandma-love of, and for, my two youngest g-babies, Millie and Hudson, whom I’ll get to hug and hug and hug later this week when Grandson 1 and I fly out to visit the Kwoks and New York and Washington D.C. and Virginia for our U.S. History Tour. Thank goodness for Facetime; I get to participate, in a way, in their daily lives; bathing, munching, screaming, wrestling, and grandma-cam-ing. I ask her, “Is it time for Grandma Cam?” and she almost always says, “Yes!” I take her on a video tour of the apartment; the fridge, the dirty oven, closets, Auntie Bevie and Wendy’s room, snarling Monet, the balcony, what I’m cooking on the stove. And that inspires her to take me on a tour of her home. It’s “our thing” and brings us closer. God knows how much I adore these baby birds.
How I wish my fledglings lived closer.
We grandmas and grandpas and aunties and uncles’ hearts are fused to the youngest members of our tribe. We bring softness, strength, security, laughter, and fun to their lives, as they do ours. It’s a role not to be taken lightly or for granted.
Of all the jobs I’ve had in my life, being a grandparent is, by far, the most profound.
Being in the homestretch of life, Act III, you realize that all the experiences, conversations, and observations you’ve had, has bridged you into the coveted position of Elder, aka, Wise One. Wrinkled, grey, often discarded as past our “prime-time”, our little ones don’t see us that way; to them, we are a combination Yoda, Harrison Ford, Mary Poppins and “Encanto’s” Mirabel, magical and adoring. We are consistent, stable, vulnerable, yet a tad fragile—just like them. Our Littles know that we love them with a force as mighty as The Force; they instinctually sense that we’re here to teach them how to tap into their unique powers with gusto and intent.
It’s such a strange, yet natural, phenomenon, being a grandparent; we realize, and accept, that time is ticking—FAST! This lifespan thing just sort of just creeps up on you; you’ll see: SURPRISE—you’re 67! You look back, shake your head, What just happened?
Wasn’t it just last year? The rains. The cold. Selling my beloved home of two decades. Me, on the road with Monet driving in the Fall along the 395. Worrying about where I’d live while the Eurovan was being fixed. Bleeding out money for repairs. Ending up at the Motel 6-styled Portofino apartment with a forever view. Sharing the short-term rental with my homies and often-visiting grandsons. The seals, now battling algae bloom. The nesting egrets and herons, saved because we rattled some cages, called the International Bird Society, Redondo Beach Animal Control, U.S. Fish and Game, alerting them that cutting the “egret” tree at the wrong time would mean destroying the birds’ habitats, their homes. Informing them for every fledgling displaced, it’s a $5,000 Federal Migrating Bird Protection Act fine. Knowing that for now, while we’re here—watching, informing the correct Powers That Be—this season’s generation of baby birds are safe. Taa-dah! Super Hero-caped Crusader Upstanders Save the Day!
Which is a lesson, isn’t it? Step up. Get involved. Listen. Do what you can while you can. Cogs in the wheel of life. People with a purpose. Animals who teach us not how to die, but how to live. Monet, dear Monet, with a zest for life, for me, that defies her prognosis. Resting, cuddling, eating, pooping, trusting in the rhythm of life. Like my grandchildren, who have no idea what’s around the corner, nor do they care. They play and eat and poop and are up for the next adventure with Grandma or are cool chilling with a big bowl of popcorn, binging on “Raiders” or “Star Wars” or anything else on Disney Plus. Their brows don’t furrow. They don’t care about Trump or Biden or whoever else is running for President. When my little g-boys sleep, they sleep in a blissful alpha state today’s adults need sleep meds to attain.
As for me, I’ve been sleeping really well of late. When I feel that drowsy state of sleep come upon me, I roll with it and allow the fog, the fairy tale mist, to envelop me. “Once upon a time…,” I hear Dad whisper as I snuggle into my sleep mat on the floor, next to Monet, next to the blasting, nonsensical TV watched by an insomniac member of the household, and fall into a deep slumber. The best sleep I’ve had in forever. No aches. No pains. No worries. Just love. On my foam raft, wading down the river, with no destination in mind.
LifeIZGood.com 