Emerge gently...

This is the day the tortoises emerge.  This is the day Rob takes the three file boxes out of the garage and we hold our breath as we lift each lid to behold the wonder of a tortoise alive and well.  

Tortoises are cold blooded, which means only that their internal temperature is not fixed at 98.6 degrees (me and Rob) or 101 degrees (the pups). So when it's cold and rainy outside, they get cold and rainy inside. When winter comes, even a Southern California kind of winter, better to have a big meal, shut down the system, and just sleep off the next six months in a file box in the Hummel garage.  

Sadly this year the Hummels were not quite as in tune with tortoise timing as they should have been. I probably shouldn't admit this publicly, but Bob's box showed scars of not a little struggle to get out.  He actually pushed upward and knocked over Jasmine and Dribble's boxes. Fortunately, all survived the upheaval and the annual liberation went on without further event. Right out of the gate, Bob began to chase Jasmine, whom he thinks of as his girlfriend (though she seems to think otherwise), and Dribble did his thing, which is basically to impersonate a rock.

At the same time that they're ready to run free, I'm ready for hibernation. I envy their ability to stop, save their energy, and come back rested and renewed. Unlike people, their muscles don't seem to atrophy with lack of use. It might be our imaginations, but they seem to come back stronger each year. Bob runs after Jasmine, Jasmine runs from Bob, and Dribble digs a hole to hide. Nothing lost. Everything gained. Emerge.

My post-graduate education at the Tides Motel

What's the deal with current college graduates? They seem filled with ideas about what they want to do. I, on the other hand, graduated with a design-your-own major, which amounted to a lot of biology classes mixed with a K-12 "emergency" (their term, not mine) California teaching credential. And little desire to teach.  Or to ever play genetic god with a fruit fly again.

I didn't know the who-what-when-where-why of life after graduation. I suppose perhaps there are worse places to have landed than the parental home overlooking the ocean in Laguna Beach. I'm asking no sympathy for that, mind you. But in what would later prove to be an unimaginably strange yet fortuitous move, I ended up as a maid in what is now the Tides Motel in Laguna.  

My adventures with wiping hairs out of sinks, vacuuming toenail clippings, and placing the paper sash around the clean toilet only lasted a few months until I decided to run off to Europe on the money I'd made at the motel. But it's not a bad thing to a.) be humbled upon entering the work force, b.) be reminded that there is no job that is ever ever ever beneath you, and c.) learn to appreciate the work of women who don't know you or love you but are ready and willing to clean up after you.

There hasn't been a motel or hotel room I've stayed in since the summer of '76 where I haven't thought about my stint as a maid. In every hotel room, I carefully wipe out the sink. I never leave toenail clippings. All used towels placed in one pile. No diet coke cans or candy wrappers left on the bedside table. I secretly imagine the maids saying to themselves, "What a thoughtful guest!  I hope she'll come back soon!" (This is similar to how I imagine the Macy's saleswoman's reaction upon seeing how neatly I've hung up the bathing suits I've just tried on - the influence of two summers working at the Wet Seal on Balboa Island during high school.)

What am I hoping for as my daughters and nieces and nephews and their friends look for their next job? I hope they find a job where they can learn something about life. I hope that they take away lessons that will feed them forever. Like never leaving your toenail clippings for someone else to vacuum up.

Daughter Emily sent me the following questions from a book called, Rules of the Red Rubber Ball: Find and Sustain your Life's Work and they seem like perfect questions to ponder whether young or old.  Here they are.  I'm not answering them here and now.  But maybe later.  I have to ponder....

What would you do for free?

What activities enthrall you?

What in life do you find irresistible, a source of inspiration, a reason to get out of bed?

What dreams do you chase?

What topics do you love to discuss and ponder?

What's your primal source of joy?

 

Where d'ya get those bags at?

I love my reusable shopping bags, but never so much as today when the teenage boy behind me in line at the grocery store said, "Hey, where d'ya get those bags at?" I mean, there isn't much about me and my possessions that's of even mild interest to a teenage boy, so to have one coveting my shopping bags was a real thrill. 

Now, if only the bag boys at Gelson's would stop trying to cram the contents of an entire aisle into each one. The bags are strong. I'm not.

If anyone's interested, I got the bags at this website: Click here for reusable shopping bags lusted after by teen boy.

Everything that's not on the music...

If you have some time (32 minutes, to be exact), this is a profoundly moving lecture & demonstration by Evelyn Glennie, a masterful Scottish percussionist. She lost her hearing around the age of twelve.  Her talk (and her life) is all about listening. My dad went to one of her performances a few years ago and was raving about it, when I asked if he knew that she was deaf. He said, no - she couldn't possibly be. I guess he didn't read the program. At the beginning of this talk, she takes off her shoes so, I believe, she can hear with her feet as well as with her hands, arms, head, and other assorted body parts. She may be deaf, but I suspect she hears more than the rest of us put together.

She says that if she holds on to the sticks too tightly, they feel "strangely detached" and there is more of a shock to her arms. However, if she holds them loosely, allowing her hands to be merely a "support system" to the sticks, that's when she feels more at one with them and with the instrument, and thus with the music. True in percussion. True in life.

I will refrain from describing the entire talk. It's sooooo much better with a Scottish accent. Click on the video below to begin.

Answering the age old question - Christian Science or Scientology?

Repurposed

Our house is made of repurposed things.  Old siding flipped over became our living room ceiling.  Cedar fence planks became part of our kitchen ceiling.  A log by the side of La Tuna Canyon Road became both our coffee bar and our mantle.  A pallet carrying slate became our medicine cabinet.  And a prop for a disco scene in a movie became a trellis for our wandering grape vine.

Maybe that's why I love this crocodile from the Noah's Ark exhibit at the Skirball Center. (Click on image to enlarge.) It started as a violin case, violin, ladies black glove, and a tire, and together, against all odds, it became a crocodile. 

Maybe that's what I love about the idea of being repurposed. The old and unnecessary becomes the new and essential. Or at the least, the new and surprising. Maybe that's why the crocodile has me thinking about how, most likely, we're all being repurposed within every moment. Snippets of our lives we thought unworkable and ready for the blue bin, are shaped into something of wonder and glory. Thoughts that looked tired and worn are shocked into originality. Memories crushed and cramped in a dusty brain are fitted to receive a crown. 

Just when we think we've got the pieces of our lives computed and sorted, we see it all being reconsidered, rearranged, repurposed. We don't have any choice but to stop and stare. There's nothing we can do about it. We are witnesses to our own new purpose. And that of the universe. We're all becoming crocodiles.

Behold I make all things new.

The Institute of Uncle Jack

Uncle Jack just got his own institute, appropriately named the Jack F. Kemp Institute for Public Economy at Pepperdine's School of Public Policy. Pepperdine is the recipient of his papers and other records of his accomplishments and work and in addition to maintaining the Kemp archive, will be sponsoring a distinguished visiting chair in his name, as well as hosting lectures and conferences. The photo above is from 1989 when he was sworn in as Secretary of Housing and Urban Development by a prim Sandra Day O'Connor, with a happy George Bush Sr. close at hand. (I think Aunt Joanne is the cutest of the bunch.)

If you're interested in finding out more about democratic capitalism, job creation, free markets, and Judeo-Christian values, or just want to see what fuss is about, then click here for a link to the Jack F. Kemp Institute.

If you're feeling the urge for a little Bulgarian music...

Once upon a time I was a singer in Slaveja, a womens' choir that was a part of Avaz, one of the two folkdance troupes in L.A. I say once upon a time, because now there are exactly ZERO folkdance troupes in L.A.

We sang Bulgarian, Croatian, Macedonian, Bosnian, Hungarian, and Russian songs. Once upon a time, some of these countries were bound together in a sham unification called Yugoslavia. We folkdancers knew that Serbia was Serbia, Croatia was Croatia, Bosnia was Bosnia, etc. Different cultures. Different costumes. Different dances. Different rhythms and tones. Sad that it took a war to sort it all out.

Recently some of Avaz' performances were put up on You Tube. Apparently no one had video cameras when I was singing, but the singers and songs didn't change much over the years, so I'm posting one Bulgarian song that's a pretty good likeness to what we looked like (somber elderly farm women) and how we sounded (ethereal).

The rhythm and harmonies are not familiar ones to Western ears. We like our rhythms in 3's and 4's, or multiples thereof. This song is in 11's. Not something that's easy to clap to. Also, we like our harmonies in spreads of 3 or 5. This song sometimes goes into tones that are so close to each other as to sound out of tune. It feels tense. But it eventually gets resolved into something beautiful. At least beautiful to me (and to the Bulgarians).

Multum in Parvo (much in little)

Michael Pennington, the fellow who designed and built our house, is busy designing and building one about a mile away. Rob and I decided to take a look. The outside gives no indication of the scale of the inside. The scale inside is not about square footage. It's about height and drama. I don't know how he does so much with so little. It feels like some sort of magic trick. We've been duped.

Here's the center core of the house, with Michael explaining how he did what he did and what it's going to look like when he's finished. Those huge timbers are going to be left exposed. I love the patterns they create.

Below is one of the metal supports he made and was eager to show what it would be supporting. I thought it was beautiful just sitting around on the floor, leaning against a wall. But then he held it in place, and I saw how perfectly aligned it was to the timbers. Like some ancient religious symbol.


My favorite was this V-shaped light fixture below (click to enlarge). It looks like a fusion of branches and antlers. It's probably six feet tall. He started with the stair railings from a movie he was working on (direct-to-dvd version of Jack and the Beanstalk). They were going to throw out the railings and Michael said no, he'd take them. He used part of them for a chandelier, and part for this.  I'm glad he's doing this much creating, otherwise I fear he might explode. 

It's 1998 and Hillary has Rob scheduled at 9

It's December 18th, 1998, and Congress is about to vote whether or not to impeach the President. We had begun bombing Iraq the day before. So, what's on the President and First Lady's schedule that morning? Rob. And associates. What could be more important than the re-design of the White House screening room?  

Hillary's schedule of activities was just released to the public and can be found on the Clinton Library website. A search of 12/18/98 brings up the following (click on the images to enlarge):

Note that the "Theater Presentation" group is scheduled for 9 AM.  Also note that "POTUS" (President of the United States) is scheduled to attend.  

Hillary walked in promptly at 9, looking cheery and eager. The President walked in at 9:10 looking (as Rob describes him) as if he'd been beaten with a rubber hose. It's really Rob's story to tell, but the President started by saying to Jack Valenti, "Jack, I don't know why they're doin' this to me." Hillary urged the President to turn his attention to the presentation. The President insisted that this would be a perfect time for a group photo.

After the photo-op, the President left to take a phone call from Tony Blair (we were, after all, bombing Iraq). And Hillary stayed to listen. She asked questions. And impressed the group with her focus and understanding of the issues (at least the issues of theater design). Then Rob showed her his digital camera (when digital cameras were barely a sparkle in anyone's eye), she reached beneath his jacket to tuck his press pass into his shirt pocket and then reached beneath to untuck it (leaving some with the misimpression that she was copping a feel), and the following official photo resulted. (Is someone blushing?)

It was really quite an amazing experience, but then the schedule came out online and Rob read through the rest of Hillary's day. He's now struggling to understand why he wasn't invited to the Secret Santa Party at 4:50pm.

Worlds apart

You can't really see the blue sky in the photo above (%#$@% digital camera!) but Thursday, March 27th, in Woodland Hills, California, was warm and sunny and blue and beautiful. Now, take a look at Thursday, March 27th, in Toronto, Ontario, as photographed by Rob. He said it's officially the most snow they've had since the area was settled in 1608. Worlds apart.

Dalsa News in Hollywood Reporter

The Hollywood Reporter just did a story on the Dalsa cameras used on the new Bond film, "Quantum of Solace."  I resisted the temptation to further exploit my photo of Rob on the set in his cute jump suit.  See previous post (click here for Rob in jump suit) if you have the urge to see that again.  If, however, you're interested in reading what the Reporter said, click here for link to article.

Sophie's dad made me cry

So far, we've watched 40 episodes of the HBO series, "In Treatment," about a therapist and five of his patients. Tonight, Sophie's dad finally shows up after we've heard Sophie talking about him throughout eight weeks of therapy, and we're pretty sure we hate him. And who does it turn out to be? Peter Horton, my first boyfriend in college. A little graying around the fringes, but frankly he looks pretty darn good for a good twenty-something years beyond thirty-something.

I had a hard time separating the Peter-as-Sophie's-dad from the Peter-as-Peter I sat with on the Mississippi River bluffs while he told me of his life's ambition to be a Christian Science practitioner. Later my dad told me that was one of the best pick-up lines he'd ever heard.  I didn't know what my dad was talking about.

Peter-as-Sophie's-dad made me cry when he asked Sophie, "Who knows you better than I do?" and she points to her therapist. Peter-as-Peter made me cry when he asked Karen Glasser to the Fall Ball instead of me...

Waiting for OK

I was practicing "STAY" with the pups. This involves putting bits of cheese in front of them, saying "STAY," giving the appropriate hand command, and waiting for the drool to start puddling around them.  Only after I say "OK" are they allowed to eat the cheese. Since Molly is a newcomer to the home, she is just learning the command, but I think she's got the hang of it.

It was only today that I noticed the difference in both pups' stance while waiting (and drooling). Molly (left) keeps her eyes completely focused on the prize (indicated by the blue arrow). While Sparky (right) looks directly at me.

This might seem a stretch, but both positions seem to relate to prayer. Sometimes we're hunched over, staring at the thing we want and are asking God for. Please, please, please, can I have it now? It's right there, I can smell it, I really want it. See? I'm even drooling over it. It's mine, all mine. 

Other times we look up. We look to the one in control, the one who loves us, the one who put the cheese there in the first place.  We don't need keep watch over the cheese. We don't need to worry that our cheese will be eaten by another. We trust. And we look away. 

I can't help but think that God prefers the Sparky stance - wide eyed, looking upward, ears perked, trusting. I don't always know what the cheese is. But I know it will be there, and no one can steal it from me, and God will eventually say "OK." Now, if only I could stop drooling.

Make thy face to shine upon thy servant; and teach me thy statutes.  Psalms 119

Pear blossom snow

It's 85 degrees out and it's snowing.  Flurries of white pear blossoms are swirling around my back yard.  I hadn't thought about all those petals - what must become of them when they're no longer needed by the tree. Already done their job of attracting requisite insects and protecting stamens and pistils and all that.  

In the Bible it says we're supposed to bring forth our fruit with patience.  I'm imagining how the tree must have felt in winter - stripped of fruit, then of leaves. And now, being stripped of its glory of blossoms.  All in preparation for its main purpose - pears.  Pears so large and heavy that when they fall, they can break the glass table underneath (which they did).

So, together, the tree and I (patiently) wait for pears. But meanwhile, I'm basking in the snow.

Sit Down, John!

Thumbs up from both Emily and me on the new HBO series, "John Adams."  We watched parts one and two while dining via room service in San Francisco.  Very handy having Em there to point out when a scene was filmed in CW (Colonial Williamsburg, for those of you not in the know...) and very handy having her there to fully explain the finer points of inoculation and the Boston Massacre.  

Both of us had a hard time not thinking of the musical "1776" which my dad and mom loved.  When John Adams was arguing for the states to declare independence, we kept hearing the song, "Sit Down, John!" running through our brains.  Whenever Lee spoke, we couldn't avoid singing, "Here a Lee, there a Lee, everywhere a Lee a Lee."  And when Abigail was writing to John, we heard, "I am as I ever was, yours, yours, yours."  

Sworn Sisters

Our book club's unofficial title is the "Sworn Sisters." The reference is to the book, "Snow Flower and the Secret Fan," which, if you haven't already read it, is a "don't miss!" But one of our Sworn Sisters left for the far away land of San Francisco, and it was with great joy that I visited her in her new home. Above is the view from her living room, office, AND master bedroom. Imagine that - a view of the Bay Bridge. I had no idea she was living with a bridge.

Just as it gives me great comfort to be able to see first hand where my kids are living, it really felt good to see where Gabrielle of the Sisterhood landed. And to imagine her peeking out at the bridge as she's typing emails to us is a treasured image.

We walked from her condo to a restaurant a few blocks away called Coco500, where we gorged ourselves on baby artichokes, fried string beans, raw yellow fish on basil with blood orange and fennel on top, along with mushroom flatbread. It was divine. The chef is Jennifer, one of the contestants from "TOP CHEF," so now I think I'm going to have to start watching this season.... Here's the link if you're ever on Brannan Streeet in San Francisco. Coco500

Heavenly visit, followed by heavenly food.

Em and I leave tomorrow with plenty more to see and do here. But with happy hearts. We'll be back. Tonight we're excited to watch the new "John Adams" series on HBO. I love traveling with a history nut.

Traveling with a blogger

The nice thing about traveling with a fellow blogger is that there's a good chance he or she might do the blogging of the day, and thus I can ride on his or her coattails. It is especially lovely when that blogger is one's daughter. So, if you're interested in reading anything about our adventures in San Francisco, you can take a look here:

Emily's blog - "Your Local Bavarde"

Beans in a Bottle

I've had these beans in a bottle since 1976, I think.  They are just now starting to change color (not in a good way), so I'm thinking it's time to release them and set them free.  You never know with beans.

Why would I have kept beans from 1976 you (rightly) ask?   The beans in a bottle were a gift from my friend, Jim Gerritsen, who grew the beans and sealed them up good and tight, not imagining (I'm sure) that they would remain that way for over three decades.  

I met Jim in a folkdancing class at Humboldt State.  I have no idea why he was there.  He was not a folkdancer.  But we became friends and I had a front row seat to the beginnings of his life as a farmer, watching as he worked out his plan to buy twenty acres of farmland in Aroostock County, Maine, and become an organic potato farmer.  Jim's the one who talked me into buying two Saanen goats (while I was still in college), one of which was pregnant, thus ultimately making me the proud mother of four goats (and a lot of goat milk).

Jim grew up in an apartment in San Francisco, but was destined to live far away, in harsh but magnificent Maine.  His parents knew what kind of a guy he was and allowed him to use the money they'd saved for college to buy the potato farm.  Twenty acres.  Then twenty more. Don't know how many he's up to now.  But I can't help but stand in awe of someone who lived in a tent for the first winter and built a house almost by himself. He had one horse (Dolly) who helped.  I went to the farm after I had been wandering aimlessly in Europe for a year.  We'd wake up before the chickens, plod out to the forest with Dolly, Jim would cut down a tree, I'd whack off the branches, Dolly would drag the tree home, Jim would dig a hole, while I'd strip the bark.  That's how we got the supports for the barn-to-be.  I hope it's still standing.  It was a lot of work for a gal from the suburbs of San Gabriel.

The great thing about Wood Prairie Farm is that they are totally organic (most likely forged by hours of Arcata co-op meetings), and (somehow, miraculously) totally hip.  Well, Jim is always Jim, but organic potatoes are a hot commodity and the farm has been written up in the New York Times and in Metropolitan Home.  

Jim met his wife, Megan, when she came up north as an organic farm intern.  They now have four children.  And a lot of potatoes.  If you want to buy true certified organic potatoes, or grains, onions, carrots, baking mixes, dried fruit, nuts and, yes, beans, all created by the hardest working guy I've ever met, and his wonderful family, then follow the link below.  The best part is the video farm tour where you can learn all about pennuda oats after blind harrowing, biofumigant rapeseed, and pre-emergent flame weeding.

Click here for a link to great organic potatoes (and other stuff).

No control

Sometimes I look out the window and see some bit of glorious wonder, and think, I had absolutely nothing to do with that bit of glorious wonder, and yet there it is.  I guess that's what spring is all about.  Each year our memory is erased so that each year we may see things new all over again.  

Anyway, here's the birth of beauty going on in my own little patch of home.  I had nothing to do with any of it. I didn't push, pull, unfold, rearrange, manipulate, oversee, check, double-check, evaluate, create, manage, maneuver, force, or even cheer any of it on.  I hardly even noticed.  It just happened.  Beautiful things sometimes just happen.