I'm SAD

Since I'm always back-assward most of my life it would make sense that I don't have Seasonal Affective Disorder in the winter like the normal folks. I have it during heat waves. Not sleeping well, cranky, not inspired to do much, it's been hell since the temperature has hit triple digits. Compound the heat with the smoke in the air and you'll notice there are claw marks on our walls.

We have air-conditioning so it's not that personally I'm hot but it's the fact we have the house closed up tight for more than 24 hours. Sure, when it's hot here during the day night times are likely to be wonderfully cool and after sunset we can open the doors and windows and let the westerly breeze in. When my gut starts grinding it's when the drapes are drawn, the windows and doors tightly shut and, if I do venture outside, I move from an air-condition car to a fortress against the heat. Yesterday, when the thermometer hit 107 standing by a glass window you could feel the heat radiate off.

And then, there's the air-conditioning unit itself. I'm not a fan of white noise so the constant hum of the unit only adds to my discomfort. I vote for warmer temps in the house if it means the AC runs less; I'm usually outvoted.

Other sufferers of this malady might wonder how do I cope. Probably the way SAD folks deal with winters. I sleep, and eat, and watch TV until I can fall asleep, again. Can't wait for winter and it better come quickly before I eat any more and can't get through the door.

Half a life ago when comfort was my enemy

Facebook allows me to play Scrabble with my sister, 1500 miles away, and my daughter, 40 miles, and for this one reason I accept this silly little social networking program. My life did not need social networking. I'm already busy with this blog and our food blog, Peanut Butter ´Etouffee, that is when I post. I give myself no deadlines because I lived by them for so many years. UGH. That's the sound they make, deadline, when they fall on your desk.

What I did find interesting is that "Six Degrees of Separation" thing. I accepted, as a friend, a past co-worker and on her list of friends was the brother of Tony, the best man at my wedding and life long friend of my husband. Then, I found on another co-worker's friend list a man I'd lost touch with, my photography teacher and, I have to say, one of the most influential people in my career, John Gray. Without John I would not have known the joys of photography or never made the career jump to computer graphics and web design. In 2005 I retired from a career I would have never had without his coaching.

John has created a site for John Gray's Photography Classes at Moorpark College to "Share ideas about Photography, Ask Questions, Find out what is happening at Moorpark College." This was a giant leap back in time for me; giant. When I stopped to figure out just when I was there I realized it was half my lifetime ago; thirty years.

At that time I was trying to work and go to school and be a mom so I usually took evening classes and it wasn't until the early 80s, when I quit work for a while, did I get a chance to take one of John's classes. I was hooked and should be honest enough to say I quit so I could take his class. There, now that little secret is out, I feel better.

John always let you go in your own direction; explore your art but reminded you when you became to comfortable in what you were doing. He never preached he taught by example and the critiques in his class by fellow students were the most beneficial lessons learned.

One of the best classes I ever attended was not in the classroom but in a Moorpark College van. Every week we'd go to a different destination to explore all types of photography, or art, and a bit of the local dinning. Exposure became not only light to film but different ways of thinking to eager minds. Most fun were impromptu lessons on depth of field or exposure where ever we happened to be. I cherish the photos I took that year.

Moorpark College drifted in and out of my life but a pivotal moment came when I visited John's classroom while I was taking a process camera class. He dragged me to a his tiny little Macintosh computer to show me I could do the same things I was doing with the process camera but quicker and without a darkroom. I quit that class and signed up for his Intro to Macintosh class and never looked back. Well, except to reminisce about what a great opportunity I had taking John's class.

Too much time on my hands

There a far more important things I need to do.
I have a problem just watching TV.
The Dodgers are on every night.

This is a result of two of the three previous statements. Often I'll read and watch TV unless there are subtitles or the show is interesting to me; PBS's History Detectives is my summer fav. It seems if my brain isn't busy my hands need.

After Lil Bird went on her Sheepherding vacation I found myself reintroduced to some woolie crafts, at one time I did some weaving but that was long ago and I was looking for something creative to do. Needle Felting had been on my "must try" list for a while and found the needles and a book while on vacation.

Briefly, you take roving, unspun wool, and form it into a desired shape, then stab the hell out of it with a special barbed needle about a million times. The barbs racing in and out of the wool causes the fibers to grab hold of each other and hold on for dear life resulting in a denser fabric; felt. It's a pretty mindless repetitive motion; just what I needed. I'm for anything that keeps my hands out of the candy jar so I punched up this little bowl. It might even get better looking by giving it a wash in hot water, can't tell.

My next project is little animals made of wool, maybe people.

Editors note: That last sentence reads odd, doesn't it? Am I going to make animals out of people? That's a chilling thought. Let's have another go at this.

My next project is animals sculpted in wool and I might even try to create some human faces in the fiber, as well.

Whew, glad that got changed.

Another Reagan legacy

When riding public transportation there should be a caveat; try not to travel on really hot days and avoid full moons like the plague. On my trip to the Getty last week I broke both those rules.

Let me remind my readers, new and old, I love riding public transportation. My experiences on LA's train and bus system are, for the most part, easy and rewarding. I've sufficiently moved on from the train wreck to be able to travel again on all systems though the anniversary of the crash is looming. I'll deal with that at a later date.

One observation is so blatant on the bus. Most of the riders either can't afford a car or for some reason are physically/mentally unable to obtain or keep a driver's license. I don't have a problem with that because I truly don't want to eliminate the poor, disabled or chronically unwashed. I want to add more people that own cars and decide it is more efficient to ride a natural gas bus to work/shop or whatever gets them on the street. Everyone knows the traffic in LA is a nightmare. But does everyone know we have a very efficient bus system?

Unfortunately what keeps people from trying the systems are the wackos that ride the bus. Yes, I'm ashamed to call them wackos but everyone riding the bus has a similar story. And, yes, I know they are not going to go away, nor should they. They are part of the Public in public transportation. If we only had a few more semi-normal people to ride it would balance everything.

Take my last ride. Everything was pretty tame until the lady with four stuffed teddy bears got on. She rode quietly until, imagine this, someone started talking loudly on a cell phone. This sent the bear lady over the edge and with fingers stuck in both ears, started ranting and raving. It wasn't until she screamed, "You can't take my baby!" that I noticed all four of the stuffed bears were wearing baby clothes and realized this poor woman needed much more care than the State of California is able to give.

Thank you Ronald Reagan. In the 1980 his policy toward the treatment of mental illness failed to address the issue: the mentally ill. I know it's easy to blame him for the past but what scares me is to think of what will happen with the current budget cuts coming from Sacramento. What legacy will that create?

Now, I've seen everything

Signs of the Apocalypse: Plague, pestilence, wars, me buying a PC. Readers that know me would agree this is a disturbing sign.

It's not that I've never used a PC, there is one in my husbands office and when I was employed I used both a Mac and a PC; I can see some benefits of both. And it's not like I'll be using it for anything serious, just surfing the web when we are camping. A bit of bill paying, blog posting, or e-mailing–nothing serious at all–just a need for a laptop.

Why did I pick a PC over a Mac Laptop? Honestly, it's the price. For the very few times I'll need it I couldn't justify a Mac. That and the fact the Mac Tablet won't be out until next year sometime. What is the Tablet? It will be larger than an Ipod Touch and smaller than a laptop and I'm sure more expensive than both combined but when it does come out I'll have to investigate, sell some blood and buy one. I'm a sucker for Macs you see, been one for ages.

Here's hoping the Mac Tablet comes out next year and not 2012 since that is the expected year of the Apocalypse. I'd sure like to enjoy it before Armageddon.

Is nothing sacred?

There is honestly a product called Anti-Monkey Butt. With this guy on the bottle do I have to say more?

This product was featured at the check-out of a hardware store in Solvang and I can't say why, maybe the picture, it brought me to my knees with laughter. I so wanted my friend to purchase some but he refused but it's still funny. Side splitting, pants wetting, cry your mascara off funny.

True confessions

I met him in parking lot of the Post Office of all places. He stole my heart with his sexy body. He was black with yellow stripes. I felt like a school girl and when I learned he was electric; I fell head over heels in love.

When I saw him I thought I recognized him only when he told me his name did I know for sure."It's Cooper, M. Cooper." Knowing how my husband would feel I went directly home and told him; I'm not ashamed of my new love. Devastated to learn we couldn't be together I begged for him to reconsider but I was informed he might have time for me in 2012 but no sooner.

My unrequited love will have to wait until then I'll dream of time we can be united and silently slip away.

One soul; stolen

He hates when I take his picture; he always said it steals his soul. What the hell would I do with his soul?

There wasn't a recent photo of my beloved so, with camera on the table I tilted it up a bit and snapped this without his knowing.

This pretty much sums up his existence. He's wearing a t-shirt and a baseball cap. The t-shirt is more than likely car related and the cap was probably given to him. It's summer so he's wearing shorts and tennis shoes; no socks. His arms are scared from hard work as is his back but you rarely hear him complain.

I've gotten to know his moods, both high and low, and love him in spite of the low ones. He takes very good care of me and I think I've been good for him. If I'm cranky, he knows what to say; if he is I know to leave him alone. Though the road to this place has not been easy; both of us can be stubborn beyond belief-we are good for each other.

This is the man I've known and loved for 40 years. The father of our one and only daughter and all around good guy and he'll never know I took this photo. He doesn't bother with the 'net and maybe that is a good thing.

The tasty grape

You can't write about our vacation and not mention a little wine tasting. The central coast of California in the past decade had turned from rolling hills of cattle grazing to vineyards.

We found Roblar Winery in the Santa Ynez valley when we went looking for an establishment listed in the travel book that featured olives. Don't trust those Chamber of Commerce books they send you, this one was more wrong than right.

Frustrated with the address given we pulled into the parking lot of a beautiful building that looked like a very large restaurant. No signage. None. But once inside we realized we'd found a tasting room/restaurant and completely ignoring the fact it wasn't even noon, approached the bar. This was the first of many.

The wine was very tasty and after the seven servings we were on our way. The Syrah was, in my uneducated opinion, the best but at 48 bucks a bottle not on my shopping list. Onward.

A few more stops, one for a light lunch which I did not partake and this is a key part to the afternoon for me, and then to Fess Parker Winery. Whoo doggies, everyone remembers Fess Parker, right? Well, for some of you youngins, here's what we were doing in the early 50s. Watching Davy, Davy Crocket, king of the wild frontier.

After that, it was all a blur, a few more wineries, some good others crap then, at the last, I realized how the word "tipsy" got associated with inebriation. First, let me state I was not drunk but tipsy, yes. I bent over to pick up something and just keep going. My inner ear was screaming at me to – balance, get your balance, girl – but my brain said, hey man, just go with the flow. So I flowed down to my knees. Glad I was alone.

All in all it was a wonderful day and by the time we got back to our camp, I was fine. I was surprised at how much wine I'd bought but fine.

On a mission

La Purisima Mission, just one in a chain stretching the length of the state, is a wonderful stop while heading to Lompoc. We put it on our list of "Things to do" while vacationing in Central California.

Because it is far from any city the mission complex has the space to show the vastness of outposts settled by the church in the 18th century. This large tract of land is used to illustrate the hardships of creating a settlement so far from Spain and whether you agree with their intrusion on the native population or not, it is interesting to see how they lived.

The local Indians did not fare well under the Mission rule, many died, their culture stripped from them in the name of civilization, and many conscripted into the army. Oh, and let's not forget their baptisms into Mother Church.

In 1834, when the Missions were ordered to secularize, the native population, once again, got the worst of the bargain. The promised land they'd farmed was eventually taken away and the Padres left Purisima to populate another Mission in Santa Ynez leaving the Chumash Indiangs to fend for themselves.

Walking through the buildings you get a sense of the pride once there but also the sadness of the treatment of the native peoples. Working so hard to be treated with respect that never came. My fourth-grade history never talked of this aspect of the California Missions but then that was in the late 50s. I wonder what they tell the kids now?

Bees as far as the eye can see

It's only natural to find bees in a field of lavender but this was amazing. I've heard that with global warming there were less honey bees. You'd have never thought that by seeing this beautiful field. This is Andre's Lavender and they sold a variety of products as well as plants. Since I'd scalded my hand a few days earlier I bought a small bottle of oil. This oil is said to have medicinal properties and I can't say it helped but the aroma is great; and that's enough for me.

This is the second field we stopped to visit. The first was Clairmont Lavender Farm owned by a curmudgeon who, when asked about the tour touted in the vacationers handbook, told us we could walk through any of the fields if we liked. What a jerk.

If it weren't for the bees I'd have laid right down in this field it was that beautiful.

More little cuties.

The one horse wasn't happy until everyone was up.

Too late!

Vacation was filled with chuckles, this is just a sample. We did laugh a lot but eventually got around to a snap or two. I'll be posting them this week once I concur Dirty Laundry Mountain.

The horses referred to in the sign were miniature horses at the Quicksilver Ranch. Click on the link to see what they are all about but I'm warning you, it's a real schmaltzy website. The designer should be hung by their thumbs for that one.

The ranch is free to visit and if you're in the Santa Ynez Valley in Central California do stop by. These tiny horses are so cute and the babies even tinier.

Facebook is worthy; imagine that

Facebook has it's advantages though I've not yet decided it's worth all that much to me. It did let me get back in contact with someone I'd not spoken with in ages, John Gray. John was my first photography teacher and an inspiration to me my whole adult life. Everyone should have a "John Gray" in their lives. I would never have explored the wonder that is the computer graphics or stepped outside of my comfort zone to try new things. So I thank Facebook for allowing me to listen to John once more.

John would always propose questions to make his students think and now with Facebook he can reach a larger audience. Here is just one of the current questions. I'm posing this to you, the photographer or anyone else that would care to answer. Answer here and I'll send them on to John.

"Recently I asked my classes to write a paragraph or two answering the following question: How do you think the world would be different if photography were never invented? You can post them on Facebook or you can send them to my email account. If you are in touch with any photographers please pass the question on."

Time seems to fly faster than a Saturn-five rocket

A few years ago I had this post, Moon dust gets in your eyes. We are now celebrating the 40th anniversary of the Moon Walk as well as 4o years with my darling companion. Forty years ago Apollo 11 on a Saturn V rocket headed toward an eventual landing on the moon and I've been in love ever since.

Since my sister and her beloved also had their first date then as well, I'm wishing them a happy 40th year, too.

A royal visit

The Princess came to visit last night. She brought her royal entourage and was very pleased with her new ball and bubbles. Most of dinner was to her liking except for the carrots. We look forward to seeing her visit us again.

Lightening strikes

Some lucky bastard/bastardettet has won the California Lottery but that's not news. Someone is always winning the California Lottery; it's just not me. It's just never in my neighborhood, either. Ah, but Wednesday night some lucky schmo did indeed win and the ticket was bought blocks from my house. There was ten mil walking distance from my purse and I bought mine across the street.

At first I was pissed. Oh great lightening doesn't strike twice-- now I've got to go to another town to buy my tickets. Then it realized how great is to win ten million. Good for them. I hope they need it, who couldn't use ten mil right now, or I hope their family or friends or neighbors could use it and they will be generous enough to do something fun, like throw a big party.

So now I've got to change my lottery ticket buying policy, now I can't buy a ticket here anymore. Vacation is coming up and I'll buy a ticket when I get out of town. I might even buy a few tickets along the way. We could stop every twenty miles and buy a ticket or two. Or find a town where no one has won. I wonder if there's a list?

Warn the townspeople

Oh Crap! Sarah Palin is coming to Simi Valley to speak at the Reagan Library. August 8. I must find something else to do that week for the town will be atwitter. I mean honestly, all the Republicans will be Twittering their heads off.

This, is life

There is a blog I read regularly, The Pioneer Woman. She's funny, witty, and has a bunch of kids, dogs, horses, and family. Mix that all together with the fact she's a dynamite cook and a fantastic photographer who lives on a cattle ranch and you've got a great read. I keep a link to her on the right side of this blog under Foodie Friends so visit her from time to time for a laugh or a tear or a damn good recipe. If you are into homeschooling she's got that covered as well.

PW often photographs her dogs and this snap makes me smile. I keep going back to these photos and what I realized is this is an analogy for life. Sometimes it grips you right by the throat but if you relax it will stop. It might even give you a slobbery kiss.

Editors note: No dogs were harmed in the shooting of these photos. PW wouldn't hurt a flea. Well, maybe a flea but never another dog. That's one of her attributes I admire.

It's not what's for supper

I've never had a problem eating animals. Killing them, that might be more difficult but if I were hungry I'm sure I'd have no problem. I never had a problem until now. Lil bird is off at Sheep Camp and these two precious animals were born while she was there. She also has adorable pix of her holding one shortly after it was born all dewy eyed and nuzzley.

Look at them, all sproingy with their new little lambie legs and sweet little lambie eyes. Well at the market this morning, as a picked up some lamb chops, those sweet little lambie eyes were staring back at me. Damn. I love lamb, in all chops and cuts but those precious little wet noses and darling sproingy legs wouldn't let me put those tasty lamb chops in my basket.

Now one of lil bird's fortes is a scrumptious rack of lamb and I wonder how this experience will effect her. That lamb she fixes is wonderful. Damn, I say, damn.

Life is good but going to get better

As a working person looking at a retired person a vacation doesn't make any sense. But I am looking forward to getting away and relaxing. At home I have no excuse for being lazy but on vacation I can sleep late, eat someone else's food, and drink wine.

The past two weeks have been challenging but being evacuated from the Getty Center yesterday was the last straw. My beloved Wednesday afternoons canceled. I do so look forward to spending my time there and it was snatched away before we even got started. Not one visitor did I assist in finding the restroom nor delight with my humor about the coffee cart. No special information such as the number of goats that eat the brush on the hillsides. Which brings up a good point, did those goats do their jobs this year? One does wonder with the ferocity of the fire racing up the canyon yesterday.

So I missed one day, there will be more, and now we know how efficient the GC is at getting 2500 people off the hill. Good job.

Lil bird goes to camp

Our darling daughter is going to camp; Sheep Camp on Martha's Vineyard to be exact. You can follow her adventures on her blog, Maltese Parakeet. There will be a request for a Twitter password but if you don't have one, just cancel and you can read her blog updates. Her first update was from the airplane at 30,000 feet.

The backstory for this trip; she loves to knit and is quite accomplished, so when see saw the blog Fiber Farm she jumped at a chance to visit and learn how to get yarn from the sheep to the needles.

Some people were very suprised when they heard how she was spending her vacation but not her mother and father. She has always been the type of person who, when sees something she wants, goes out and accomplishes it. Love her spirit. Good luck lil bird.

A funny for the 4th

Because I'm not a fan of the e-mail passed on from friend to friend my good friends rarely send them to me but after the week I've had this one was appreciated.

Briefly, my week: First was the leak and now our Honda Hybrid, six years of age, has decided it would like some new batteries. Not those everyday, lets buy them at Pep Boy's batteries, but the fancy designer type. You know the type, the ones costing us three grand. Yes, three large will just about cover it. I'm wondering how much you can get for a kidney.

So, here is a funny for the 4th. I do need to predicate this with a warning. Do not be drinking, sipping or even thinking of doing the aforementioned while reading this. Honest.

WARNING TO WOMEN!!

Some of you may have already been warned of this …

You've heard about people who have been abducted and had their kidneys removed by black-market organ thieves.

My thighs were stolen from me during the night a few years ago. I went to sleep and woke up with someone else's thighs. It was just that quick. The replacements had the texture of cooked oatmeal. Whose thighs were these and what happened to mine?

I spent the entire summer looking for my thighs.

Finally, hurt and angry, I resigned myself to living out my life in jeans. And then the thieves struck again.

My bum was next. I knew it was the same gang, because they took pains to match my new rear-end to the thighs they had stuck me with earlier.

But my new bum was attached at least three inches lower than my original! I realized I'd have to give up my jeans in favour of long skirts.

Two years ago I realized my arms had been switched ...

One morning I was drying my hair and was horrified to see the flesh of my upper arm swing to and fro with the motion of the hairbrush. This was really getting scary - my body was being replaced one section at a time.

What could they do to me next?

When my poor neck suddenly disappeared and was replaced with a turkey neck, I decided to tell my story. Women of the world wake up and smell the coffee! Those 'plastic ' surgeons are using REAL replacement body parts -stolen from you and me! The next time someone you know has something 'lifted', look again - was it lifted from you?

THIS IS NOT A HOAX. This is happening to women everywhere every night.

WARN YOUR FRIENDS!

P.S. Last year I thought some one had stolen my Boobs. I was lying in bed and they were gone! But when I jumped out of bed, I was relieved to see that they had just been hiding in my armpits as I slept.. Now I keep them hidden in my waistband.

Thought this was too 'important' not to pass on... Have a wonderful day - with a joy filled heart.

P.P..S. - These same thieves came into my closet and shrank my clothes! How do they do it????

Just thought you should know.

My jackass ears payed off

For the past two days we've known we had a water leak in the wall between the living room and front bath room. Soggy carpet drew our attention to the problem but replacing the toilet seal didn't fix it at all. After tearing up the carpet in the living room we saw it was a very slow but constant leak. This morning, when all was quiet, I listened to the wall and I heard what I thought was a hissing noise. My beloved measured the area of the sound and climbed into the attic about the bathroom. When he came down he knew the next step was to remove some drywall. Behind the toilet was the logical place and after exposing the water line in the area I'd heard the hiss he shined a light into the abyss.

It took a minute of peering in to find an almost imperceptible pin-prick of a leak in the copper pipe. The water was spraying against the wall stud, then dripping down to run out into the living room.

Now the oddest thing about the leak, there was nothing touching the pipe or had touched it nor was it bent or crimped. The house is over 40 years-old but copper isn't supposed to corrode.

Now, my darling is putting on his plumber pants and fixing this problem. And, no one should complain about my "jackass ears" again.

Momma, ok you can take my Kodachrome now.

Kodak announces the end of Kodachrome. Reading that article had me searching my archives to find an unused roll of Kodachrome. No luck but I did take a bit of a trip down memory lane. Pictures of our lil bird when she was actually a little bird. Family long gone. Family and friends, including myself, no longer young. Ah photography, thanks Louis Daguerre, and while I'm at it, thanks George Eastman. "They give us those nice bright colors. They give us the greens of summers. Makes you think all the world's a sunny day," Paul Simon sang.

Now, the replacement: digital. Not as sensual as developing your own film. Long hours in the dark room replaced with snap out the disc, stick it the computer, open a file, choose print. Amazing for someone like me because I can look at a black and white I labored over in the dark room remembering each exposure I tried, each area I dodged or burned. There was something magical about controlling the light in the dark and it was a feeling I don't get from Photoshop.

Digital is what we have, what I use and actually what I'm happy with but, I do long for a darkroom session, again. Anyone out there feel the same?

Buddy: The poor little doggy

He might have had a reaction to the non-itch meds he's been taking so they gave him Valium, put him on IVs for a while, and now he's home. He's asleep and not puking or shaking so there was an immediate improvement. We'll see how he's doing tomorrow. I thought he was a goner.

Accepting good wishes and cookies

When our thirteen-year-old wire haired terrorist walked away from his usual piece of toast this morning I told my beloved there was something wrong.

He's been seeing the Vet for a "chewing" problem and the meds seemed to have slowed it down but he's not his usual self. I goog'ed (this is my new word for research on Google) his meds and one of the side effects is lethargy but I'll give the Vet a call today because walking away from a handout is something he'd never do if he felt good.

Two and a half months

I had a visit from the lil guy and his mom on Tuesday. This time he was wide awake and ready to smile. What a cutie he is. He's 14 pounds and 24 inches long and he won't be three months until July 3rd. We won't be able to call him lil guy much longer.

When parents die

So many times when adversity visits a friend I can't say, yes I know what you are going through because I don't. I don't have Cancer. I've not lost my job. My child is alive. I can only be a witness to the pain and hold a hand or lend an ear. I guess you could call me lucky in that respect. Sure, I've had adversities but none so powerful as the loss of your mother and this is the journey a good friend is experiencing right now.

Both my parents lived to an age where you wouldn't say they died young but any age is difficult to lose your parents. The title daughter isn't something you earn it is bestowed on you by your parents and, eventually, it is them that takes it away.

Death steals from the living and hopefully, gives peace to the dying. So to all my dear friends who've lost that title I wish peace as well.

Di, Ingrid, Sandi, my darling sister, and now Kathleen your memory will never replace their presence but it will soothe your heart.

Right in the middle of the stinkin' valley

On Monday I was feeling rather tense. Honestly, I was in a hateful mood. I hated my representatives in Sacramento and wrote them.* I hated the idiots in Thugville for rioting after a stupid basketball game. I hated the city of Los Angeles for wanting to spend way too much money on the parade to honor the Lakers and wrote the mayor. I hated Iran but didn't know who to write. About the time I was ready to hate the whole world my beloved walked into my office, sat down and said let's go somewhere. Quickly I Googled, "What to do in San Fernando Valley" and came up with a few gardens to visit. We chose The Japanese Garden at the Tillman Water Reclamation plant in Van Nuys.

Skip this part if you don't care what happens to your poop.
Don't know what goes on at a water reclamation plant? Neither did I but check the link to find out. It's quite interesting. Let me give the highlights. You flush your toilet or run your garbage disposal and all this stuff goes to the sewer. Eventually it makes to 6100 Woodley Ave, Van Nuys, CA. There it goes into a series of holding tanks where it is screened and sifted and aerated and then some stuff heads off to another plant, the sludge, and the water is cleaned so it can be used to water golf courses and landscaping. This water is not for drinking though they say it would be safe but some of the water is used in the Japanese Garden.

All of this is done in large open tanks and yes, it smells like crap, because that is what most of it is. They have life preservers hanging on the fence around the open tanks but honestly, would you want to live after falling in? Lets move away from here and go to the garden.

We parked in the lot, payed our senior price of $2, and walked to the entry of the garden. It's a small door, traditional to a Japanese garden, made so you can't see what's in there just yet. When you walk through the whole expanse opens to this wonder garden of lakes, streams, water falls all beautifully and skillfully landscaped. Huge Koi swim in the water and there is an occasional water fowl. I can't describe everything because ever path we took had a different water feature or exquisite grouping of plants. The more than six acres was peaceful and, even though a group of pre-school children followed us into the garden, we found some quiet places to sit and watch the water; sometimes moving, other times calm. Ok, this was what I needed and when I left I felt calm and relaxed.

* If you want, you can e-mail your representatives in Sacrament and tell them they better get busy and do their jobs while we still have a state to do it in. Don't know who they are?

Find your CA state rep.

Lakers win, LA Citizens, losers

Look at this fat bastard. He has expensive shoes, a Lakers jersey, and a Lakers jacket. He could afford to pay for the damage he's done. I hope they threw his sorry ass in jail so he can celebrate with Bubba who would love this wanna-be punk.

Los Angeles, in as tight a financial situation as most of California, is going to co-host a Lakers victory parade. Why? 1 milbucks could very easily be spent on something equally as good for the city, couldn't they? LA aleady payed overtime for the rioting last night. Some please make the connection for me between pride in "your" team winning a championship and destroying a city bus.

Kitchen stories: Thanks for the move

The first settlers to the area was the Miami nation and village became their traditional capital. The settlement, at the Maumee, St Joseph and St Marys Rivers, was called Kekionga and the Miami lived there peacefully until around 1676 when the French missionaries found them.

In 1790 President George Washington ordered that Indiana be "secured", which meant the native population better skedaddle or die. After two losses to the Miami tribes General "Mad" Anthony Wayne routed the tribe, established a fort at the three rivers, and named the fort after himself. Fort Wayne was established and was a moderately successful venture.

By the mid-20th century it was a strong manufacturing center with the likes of GE, Westinghouse, Magnavox, and a variety of auto manufacturing support industries. At the end of the century Ft Wayne went the way of the other mid-west cities and became part of the country know as the Rust Belt. General Electric was the death knell for Ft Wayne and it has struggled ever since.

My family left in 1957 and not because they were visionaries but only because my father was stationed in Port Hueneme for a portion of 1944. He'd never gotten over California and they finally made the move more than ten years later.

In 1995 and divorced for many years, my mother found the need to be with her brothers and sisters and moved back to the town where she grew up. While visiting her I found the area beautiful but stifling. It felt as if the town was stuck in a fifties era mentality of segregation and ignorance. All my relatives, plain and simple, were bigots. Because of that President Obama carrying the state of Indiana, great though it maybe, was a shock. Growing up in California was the best education our parents could have given us. Thanks Mom and Dad.

Hot flash for him

Man discovers hot flashes and cravings from the other side. This story, though only humorous to women of a certain age, is so painfully honest I thought some might enjoy reading what menopause is like.

My Brief Life as a Woman

Moon and K go to town

Friday found two friends on public transportation heading East under cloudy skies. Since my traveling companion posted about the trip on her blog, I don't have to.

She took some very good snaps.

San Antonio Winery

Here comes the pole

Editor's note: While chatting with some friends I related the funny story of the electric company replacing a power pole in our back yard in late 2005.

To find the exact date I looked on my blog and to my amazement could not find the original post. Very new to blogging then I could have deleted the post. Luckily I still had the text and photos from the event. I'm republishing the story even though it's over three years old.


You can rock my cradle just don't kick my cribs

Cribs, in this instance, are platforms the outriggers of HUGE cranes sit on while they lift a power pole over your house. Let me say it again, over your house.

We have a power pole in our back yard and two weeks ago Edison, our power company, came and dug a new hole next to the old pole. The existing pole also carries the TV cable and over the years had gotten pretty beat up so they had plans to replace it. The next week we received a notice that next Monday the power would be off for most of the day. On Thursday they delivered the pole along with street signs warning Monday morning, bright and early, the street would be closed. Don't park on the street or they'll tow your car. Amazing how many didn't read the notice but the crew gave them time to get their cars moved anyway.

I can't say enough about how nice these guys were. After they got the serious business of setting up the crane they were kind enough to talk with us and answer some questions; I always have questions. I was totally fascinated with just the idea of lifting a forty foot pole over my house and I'll admit, a bit nervous. I had a vision of the pole crashing down through my almost-finished new kitchen but after talking with the guys, and seeing their attention to detail and safety, knew that wouldn't happen.

Here are the guys when they were done.

Now blooming at the Getty Center Central Garden

This plant, Geranium Maderense is a true geranium. Hard to believe for it doesn't look like and geranium I'm used to. It has a long woody trunk that ends in a two to three foot head of blossoms. It's blooming right now at the edge of the stream, as well as other locations in the Central Garden. By the looks of it it will flower for a few more weeks. Very showy.

Never wake a sleeping baby

The lil guy, now two months, came to visit and this is what we got. Adorable and we stood and watched him sleep. He was sleeping so comfortable who could pick him up. Unfortunately we were on our way out so Mom will just have to bring him back again when she can visit longer and we can actually see those eyes open.

Buddy dog was interested even though he didn't make a noise. Don't you wonder what the dog is thinking when he sees a little person?

Note to lil bird, he seems to like the car seat.

Growing up: Pre California

My sister and I were born in Indiana but left in 1957 which made me seven-years-old, her 14. We had both sets of grandparents and a myriad of cousins, aunts and uncles, and assorted friends of the family and one Aunt and Uncle in California and no friends. My parents being the friendly type they had no problem with the latter and as crazy as both sided of the family were leaving the former seemed ok, too.

When told about the move, which was only a few weeks before, I never remember feeling sad at the thought of leaving all this. Though only as far as the first grade in my education I still had friends I'd made but I can not remember even one day in California that I yearned to return to Indiana. My sister might have had different feeling, maybe my Mom but my Dad, nope he knew what he wanted and it was to get the hell out of Indiana. He was stationed in Southern California during World War II and he never got over the fact that the weather was so nice. No snow in the winter, no bugs in the summer. I remember watching something about President Eisenhower at his Palm Springs Western White House and Daddy commenting on the fact we had feet of snow and they had yards of sunshine and they were golfing right there in January, hitting the ball is short sleeves. Our time had come to move. Yes, I remember President Eisenhower, I'm that old.

It was June 1957, we had a new Mercury Turnpike Cruiser, ours was two-toned copper color, and after selling everything in our house we loaded up a few things and off we went down Route 66, heading West.

That was an adventure for a seven-year-old who'd never been further than Chicago. Momma planned ahead for me she had books and paper and crayons so I had things to keep me busy but I did enjoy seeing the country whiz by my window and every night, Daddy would find a motel with a swimming pool for us. I thought life was grand.

We had one near tragedy. When my parents sold everything they took the money with them. The cash was in a wallet and Momma kept it in her purse or in the glove box when we were traveling. One morning, for some reason she put it in the pocket of her jacket. As the day went on and the weather brightened she removed the jacket but had it in the front seat.

Often we'd stop and get gas and that meant we could get out, stretch our legs and make a potty stop. We'd all done that and were back in the car and ready to head down the road. We were only about fifteen minutes away when Momma screamed. Her jacket must have fallen out of the car at the gas station and all our money was in the pocket.

I never saw my Dad drive so fast and when we pulled in to the station there was the jacket lying on a stack of tires. He waved to the attendant, said it was his, grabbed it, then got back in the car just as fast as he could. He couldn't look but handed it to Mom and yes, all the money was still in the wallet. That was the first time I'd seen my parents cry. Daddy found a motel early that day, he was way too upset to go any further.

Sad Day

California Supreme Court upheld the ban on same-sex marriage. The decision, however, preserves the 18,000 marriages performed between the court’s decision last May that same-sex marriage was lawful and the passage by voters in November of Proposition 8, which banned it. Supporters of the proposition argued that the marriages should no longer be recognized. (as appeared in NY Times article)

So those marriages from May to November are ok? How does that make sense. If they are valid then this shouldn't even be a question. This is what I hate about the way we handle propositions in California. If you have enough money you can get anything on a ballot measure and those bastards in Sacramento do nothing.

Free, not always the best choice

Today started the free-in-the-park-concerts and we tried the Thousand Oaks flavor of the month. The group billed themselves as Manhattan Transfer meets Take 6. This was a bit of an overstatement but it was free. They were real fine with the harmony but white people should never cover James Brown, N-E-V-E-R.

Free concerts mean people drag their kids and food and chairs and blankets and it's a bit odd. Why would people come to the concert only to talk with friends and ignore the performance on stage? On one side of us, a man started talking when the performers came out and never; never shut up. I mean he didn't even take a freakin' breath.

The group on the other side had a million kids with assorted parents and not once did they look at the stage. They too were afflicted with diarrhea of the mouth. These people were not on the periphery but close enough to see the group.

Truly, I have no problem with kids being at these concerts, and if they run around and don't pay attention, hey they're kids, but what's up with their stupid parents? Sit out away from everyone who might not like to hear your conversation or your cell phone and have a nice day in the park.

Up by the stage there were a group of parents dancing with children. The kids were having a ball, the parents, too. This is great, kids need to see live performances and what better place. Their experience was much better than the little ones running amok while their parents all chatted like magpies. Selfish bastards. And to think, the park wouldn't let me bring my dog. Why?

Today is our little girl's birthday

Being parents mean you no longer turn on your planetary axis but on your child's. The world slows when they are small to give you time to learn about each other. Time for you to bring them from their world into yours. Your steps become tiny as they run to keep up until you stride together side by side. Hoping all along you've prepared them for the lives they'll live without your guidance.

From the beginning your hearts are tied together, and though miles will eventually separate you, the gentle tug is always there reminding you both you are made of the same cells, the same breath, the same stardust.

We wish our lil bird the most happy day and look back on all the love and good things she's accomplished this year knowing a year isn't made up of days and hours and minutes but of memories.

Happy Birthday

Wish I'd said that

It's not a lie, it's a gift for fiction.

Growing up: Wild Violets

ED note: I follow a blog from Chicago, Mr Brown Thumb, and his latest post reminded me of a long forgotten memory. I found his writings on Blogs of Note and his blog is being picked up by Chicago Now an offshoot of the Chicago Tribune, their new online venture. He is funny AND informative.

In my early years I remember my grandmother Emily, everyone called her Pruce, lived in a small house with her second husband Virgil. The house was Pruce's before they married and I guess they saw no need to move anywhere else. Pruce had raised her children there after her first husband, Thomas died.

The house was tiny, just two bedrooms, with the kitchen being the biggest room in the house. There was a walk-in pantry and only one bathroom but who even noticed then. No one but the wealthy had more than one toilet. The tub was big and deep and sat on four claw feet. The underneath of the cast iron tub was painted the color of the walls but occasionally the paint would chip off to reveal layers of the past decor. Baths in that tub were the greatest and it was usually with a cousin or two but it was big enough for the whole family. I can still feel how cold that porcelain was until the water warmed the iron tub. If we were lucky we'd get a bubble bath which was a few sprinkles of Tide detergent. I'm surprised we had any skin left after that.

There was a register in the floor and after a bath on cold days momma would spread a towel on the grate so you could warm up while she dried you off. The coal furnace in the basement would be humming along sending a continuous blast of warm air through the register. I was too young to shovel coal so it seems like a great way to heat the house. To leave the bathroom you had to run from register to register, jumping like little goats, until you got to the bedroom and changed your clothes. As an adult, I know it was two steps to the register and two steps to the bedroom but as a little kid it was a race to stay warm.

The basement was always a bit scary for me down a few rickety stairs and always smelling of dust and mildew. The furnace took up most of the space but a little corner held the washer. It was a big tub with a wringer. The two rollers had an electric motor and you had to be very careful not to get caught. Today we say, "Don't get your panties in a bunch" then it was "Don't get your tit in the wringer" -- same thing.

Grandma had a big wooden paddle and she'd fish out the clothes from soapy water of the tub and feed them through the wringer into a deep sink. Then she'd drain the water, refill the tub and rinse the clothes, then back through the wringer again. You can see why wash days took all day and this was seen as modern for the time. The clothes would go into a basket and upstairs to hang outside on the clothes line.

She'd fill her apron pocket with clothes pins and stand on a box while I helped by handing her the wet clothes. Not the sheets because they were too big and heavy even though she'd run them through the wringer a few times.

Because the clothes line would sag under the weight of the wet clothes you had to prop it up. For that there was a long stick with a notch at one end. You'd put that notch in the center of the line and lift everything up. This made sure nothing like the heavy wet sheets would drag in the grass. Everyone had this method and I remember a cousin getting whipped from my Dad's father for running through the wet laundry and knocking out the post. You only had to see that once before you figured out we couldn't play there but there was something quite strange about running through the wet sheets as the wind flapped them about.

Besides the clothes line, the back yard was big enough for a small garden and a sidewalk leading to a detached garage set on the alley. Along that sidewalk, in the spring, the wild violets would grow and it was our job to carefully pick hand fulls and bring them to Grandma where she'd put a little water in a jelly glass and set them on the kitchen table. If you grew up in the 50s who culd forget the jelly glass, everyone had them. Good old Welch's Grape Jelly. On the shady side of the house the lily of the valleys grew and when there were enough they'd get added to our bouquets. We learned at an early age what not to pick because my cousin Dana and I got our butts spanked for picking some of Grandma's strawberries, green of course, and proudly bringing them to her.

There were no fences but we knew not to wander anywhere or play in the alley for the fear of the switch. When I was old enough we could walk down the alley to a little store about a half a block away. The proprietor was Herb and he knew everyone and everyone's kids and grandkids. You'd walk in the back screen door to the distinctive smell of butcher shop. Herb had penny candies and he'd always stop what he was doing to sell you some. I'm sure it wasn't his biggest sale of the day. Next door to Herb's was the Dewald Tap, a small neighborhood bar that my Grandpa Virgil frequented. Virgil love his beer. This bar was not unlike the one in the Simpson's and anytime they show Moe's Tavern I'd remember the Dewald Tap. The door was always open and it was dark in there but, on occasion, we'd peek in to see the bar stools and hear the jukebox.

So this post was suppose to be about violets but somehow it got me thinking of a variety of different memories on East Creighton in Ft Wayne, Indiana in the 50s. You see, it was at this kitchen table that I heard most of the stories, met most of the relatives and have most of my Indiana memories.

Growing up: the Plunge

During the summer we'd meet at the "Plunge," the local swimming pool, and spend the morning there. It was 25 cents to swim for the morning session and for a 10 cents deposit you could put your dry clothes in a cubby hole. You'd get a big old rusty safety pin that made a hole in your bathing suit with the number of the cubby and when you brought it back you'd get your dime. Everyone said the old man behind the counter would go through your stuff and steal your money but I never had much stuff and never lost any money. You could change your clothes in the locker room but I always wore my bathing suit under my shorts and t-shirt. Who wants to waste time plus the dressing room smelled of chlorine and mold so you wanted to get outside quickly.

We'd swim, really just play in the roped off shallow water, until the lifeguards blew the whistle for a rest. This would give everyone a chance to use the bathroom, yeah, like most didn't just pee in the pool, or rest a few minutes, or buy a snack from the vending machine. If I had an extra dime I'd buy a bag of Corn Nuts. They were salty and tasted like chlorine but I loved them. We'd sit on the deck waiting to be whistled back in and it seemed like ages. At noon they'd blow the whistle again and that was the end of the first session. You had to leave but you could come back at 1:00 and pay another quarter. Most of the time that would be enough water even if you were only ten.

Even if you went alone there were kids you knew from school and summer was a great time for the Plunge. There was a girl who's mother wouldn't let her go alone, which was so embarrassing. The mom would pick me up and drive us there then sit on a blanket outside the pool fence. My friend was an only child and she could swim because she had private lessons, but mostly we just splashed and played Marco Polo. I could swim a little but to go beyond the roped off section you had to prove to the lifeguard you could swim the width of the pool. I tried it once and then some punk boy kicked me in the gut as I was swimming by. The lifeguards only gave you one chance so it was back to the shallow end.

We could only watch the older kids in the deep center of the pool jumping off the diving boards. Every once in a while some brave soul would climb the ladder to the high dive. There would be a hush as they walked to the end of the board and jumped off. Some would cheer and clap others boo, tough judges there. Once someone thought they were brave and climbed the ladder only to climb back down again. I felt sorry for that boy as everyone booed him as he walked back to his friends. This is where I learned about peer pressure.

After the swim session we'd go across the street to a little mom and pop store, I think it was called the Corner, and buy candy. You'd have your wet bathing suit rolled up in your wet towel and one of the owners would always yell at us not to leave them on the floor as we perused the candy selections. My favorite was Abba-zaba, a taffy with peanut butter on the inside. You could chew that forever and it would last me all the way home, usually barefoot hopping from one shady spot to the next.

Wish I'd said that

On Twitter there is something going on about how to create your Porn Name with the suggestion of your pet's name and the name of the street you grew up on. Mine is rather tame, Sassy Fairbanks. So I'm reading some of these Twits and someone changes the rules: your SS# and mother's maiden name, please. Too funny.

Editor note: I just realized lil bird's would be Armstrong Downing. Unfortunately I realized it while drinking my tea. I must go wipe-up my desk.

I have a green daughter

Mother's Day present from my thoughtful daughter. It is a recycled pot filled with drought resistant plants. How great is that? She really knows her momma.

Thanks lil bird.

Happy Mother's Day

Growing up: Culver Center

Culver City was a nice little town in Southern California to grow up in during the early 60s. Tucked in between the Pacific Ocean and downtown Los Angeles, and in the sunny part of the state, what's not to like about it.

We had so much freedom then and I can remember, at age 10 or so, walking by myself to friends houses or to the big shopping area, Culver Center, about a mile and a half, to meet friends. During the summer we rarely wore shoes and when we'd cross the hot blacktop street we'd either run or walk on the painted white crosswalk lines. I guess I got fed up with this and bought myself a pair of Zorries, that's what we called thongs, and wore them home only to rub a nasty blister between my toes.

Culver Center was one of the first shopping centers in Southern California and the strong merchant's association, with the help of the city council, kept May Company, a large department store chain, from moving in. The block had a long narrow street with businesses on both sides and large parking lots in the back. At one end was a Bank of America and a Market Basket, a chain super market. There were a few shoe stores and both men and women's clothing stores, all privately owned. At the other end was Hellmans Hardware and a toy store where I bought a hula hoop when it was such a craze. I paid one dollar in 1959 and that was a few weeks allowance.

Mom worked at Torrey's, a jewelry store in Culver Center so if I stopped by she'd give me a quarter. When she was almost 16 my sister worked across the street at W.T. Grants, the five-and-dime store. Her job was to dip up ice cream cones and sell candy and we all fell in love with Jordan Almonds when she had that job. You could go in and buy a nickel's worth of candy in a little white bag. Most of the time my money was spent on a Drum Stick ice cream or root beer Popsicle at Thrifty Drug Store. We never had enough money to go to Curries so that experience was reserved when adults were paying the bill and it was a treat. Their "Mile High" ice cream cones were wonderful and there was a giant replica of it outside. It was the pole to hold up the front of the building painted like a huge ice cream cone. Fascinating to a ten-year-old.

Culver Center had a music store, Martin's. There was a little soundproof booths, only big enough for two people, with turntables so you could listen to a record to make sure you liked it. My sister remembers seeing a young Johnny Mathis come to Martin's Music to sign autographs. What a heartthrob he was.

A big favorite with my sister's friends was Wellingtons. This was a drug store but they had a soda counter and a magazine rack. What teenager didn't love Wellingtons. They made hamburgers but I loved the grilled cheese sandwiches, that was my treat. I can remember listening to the big kids talk about the scandal of the day, Payola.

Since my mom worked on Friday evenings Daddy would often take his two daughters to Ships for dinner. Ships was a coffee shop and though it wasn't on Culver Center street it was on the next corner. Everyone went to Ships with it's 50s modern deco and coffee shop fare but it was too expensive to be a teen hangout. Being a small town you would see many familiar families in line for a table. Fried shrimp and a baked potato I thought that was the best. My sister loved the boysenberry deep-dish cobbler. They came out hot with a scoop of ice cream. They had toasters at each table. Who knows, it was the 50s.

During Christmas they decorated all the store fronts and the street and parked Santa's Sleigh in front of the toy store. You could just walk up and sit on his lap to tell him your holiday wish, no photographers waiting to take your photo but mom or dad could snap one if they had a camera. I was in third grade when I realized a teacher from our school was Santa. I never told anyone for fear of not getting any presents but when I sat on his lap I saw it was him. To me he looked like a sad Santa and as an adult I'm sure there was some humiliation taking this part-time job. Teachers have never been paid what they deserve.

Most of Culver Center is gone now. A Ralph's market took over the Market Basket and Ships has gone the way of most 50s coffee shops. It was torn down and it's now a Starbucks and a juice stand. Grants and Wellington's are gone too and the Thrifty's is a Rite-Aid but I can't help thinking that it was there when I needed it and I'm glad for that.

No lint

Oh this is pathetic. You know the lint you clean out of filter on your dryer? Well, if you wash a load of everyday clothes, dry them, and have no lint afterwards; your clothes are old. Mine seems to be pathetically old.

What a dope

Manny Ramirez has really got himself into trouble this time. He's brought shame to himself and a team and city that took him in. I usually want to give people the benefit of the doubt and hear the whole story but if it looks like a pig and smells like a pig … and this does; then he's a pig. I hope the Dodger's let him go.

The drug he tested positive for is HCG. It is one of dozens of substances prohibited under baseball's drug policy. Players can call a hotline to check on the legality of any substances, and they can obtain a therapeutic use exemption for any legitimate medical use of a banned substance. So did Manny think he was smarter than everyone else? Or was he just too stupid.

Thanks Manny, I hope you rot in hell.

G**** H***

My office window faces the front of the house. Yes, I have an office and for the life of me I can't figure out why I need an office but it's my space; I've claimed it. He has the entire outside, garage, yard, storage area and I have two rooms; my office and a miniature room I laughingly call my studio. I share my workspace with two large stand-alone closets with drawers and storage. It is also crammed with "stuff" waiting to find a home whether it's going off to a charitable organization or the trash, I'm still trying to decide.

At first these cupboards were to house my artwork and supplies but I found I really needed some more space for those big-box food items and it's now become the Glory Hole. To glass blowers it's the furnace, miners; the opening of a mine, but my mom always gave that name to a large cupboard where you stored food.

Typing those two words, G**** H*** is going to get me into a whole bunch of trouble. You see G**** H*** has some porn reference and there will be a lots of people, surprised people by Google-ing those two words and coming up with this rather tame site.

Third Eye: Open

Ajna Chakra

After I'd had that lightening bolt experience and started painting again I shared my first pastel with a docent friend and she immediately said it opened my Third Eye. This is an Eastern spiritual reference to vision. It did get me thinking. Is there a special part in your brain that if repressed kills your creativity?

Some researchers have suggested that the third eye is in fact the partially dormant, pineal gland which resides between the two hemispheres of the brain. This pineal gland has some cells that resemble the photoreceptor cells in the eye and some reptiles can sense light via that third eye

Do I believe this? I'm such a skeptic which leaves me in a place where I don't believe much of anything. Raised in a Catholic family I tend not to agree with anything from Rome but do feel somehow we, as organisms, have a connection. Whether it's electrically or biologically or spiritual, I have no idea but feel some invisible connection.

Listening to NPR, National Public Radio, I heard an interview with Bruce Hood, chair of developmental psychology and director of the Cognitive Development Centre at the University of Bristol in southwest England. He's written a book, Supersense: Believing the Unbelievable. What he said was superstition is baked into our human nature. Humans are born with brains designed to make sense of the world and that sometimes leads to beliefs that go beyond any natural explanation. To be true they would have to be supernatural and it's these supernatural beliefs that bind us together into a society. If you get time, listen to the interview it is thought provoking.

So, are you superstitious?

Remember Yom Hashoah

Last week was Holocaust Remembrance Day. Because it follows the Hebrew calendar it falls on different days. Next year it will be April 11. I'm posting this because I have a number of Jewish friends and like them, I don't want anyone to forget the horrors.

To augment the family income, my mom was a dressmaker in her spare time and she made an acquaintance with the owners of the local fabric store, Joe and Pauline Meyerhoff. I understood their thick accents meant they weren't from the United States but I'd never asked where they were from.

A trip to this yard goods store, for a nine-year-old, was fun so I never minded tagging along. The deep shelves lining the walls were stacked with long rolls of fabric with the smaller bolts sitting on tables. They were neatly arranged by the type of fabric and then into similar hues. I was fascinated by the color and can even remember the smells which, as an adult I know now, were from the dyes.

In the front of the store, near the windows, was a wide low table was used to measure and cut the fabric. Pauline would roll out the fabric, lay it flat then slice it off with the sharp long handled shears. If it were near the end Pauline would measure the remaining fabric and always say, "Only a few inches I'll give you a good price." I think she always did, I never heard my mom say anything bad about Pauline. After she was done Joe would quickly re-roll the bolts and place them back on the shelves. I think Joe was the neat one. They worked well together.

In the back of the store were racks of buttons, zippers and thread and I never tired runny my fingers over myriad of colors. I was convinced, if you tried hard enough, you could tell colors by touch and would experiment every time I was there. My successes only reinforced my theory; my failures meant I need more practice.

Pauline was a sweet woman though always seemed a bit sad to me while Joe was outgoing and gregarious. He would talk to me, not as a child but, as an adult and it made me feel special. Of course the of candy he had for me didn't hurt. My mom would buy her fabric but chat as well and what they talked about I have no idea. The Meyerhoffs learned momma was a dressmaker and would give out her phone number to customers needing her service. She got a lot of jobs from their store.

One afternoon while watching Pauline cut fabric, I noticed something on her forearm and, as children would do, was caught staring. At first she pulled her cardigan sleeve down to cover it and my mom admonished me for staring but she then called me closer. "Did you notice my tattoo, she asked?" I said yes and she then, after asking my mother's permission, proceeded to quietly tell me why she had the tattoo.

When Joe and I were younger we lived in Germany. We knew each others families and when we were old enough, we got married. From across the table Joe added, "She stole my heart when I was your age." Pauline waved him off and with her usual quite voice went on. There were some wicked people who hated all the Jews and put us in prison just for what we believed. Young and old, brothers and sister and husbands and wives; we all went to the prison camps. They made us work hard and every day some of our friends or neighbors or family died. They fed us horrible food and many starved.

By this time Joe had come to stand next to Pauline and wrapping his arms around his wife he added he would eat no matter how bad the food because he knew they would survive somehow and get out. Pauline smiled softly and said this was true and Joe would often force her to eat something. She turned to him, gently touched his hand, and said he did save my life.

We were some of the lucky ones and when released we learned Joe and I were the only ones left from both our families so with nothing to keep us in Germany, we left and came to the United States to start over. Now we have lovely American friends who have made us feel very welcome even if we are Jews. The wicked people put a number on our arms that would never come off. Now it just reminds all of us never to forget.

Even at such a young age I understood the pain these two people went through and regretfully, had a million questions I did not ask. I did ask my parents about what Pauline had told me and they said it was all true. I think that is when I realized there were evil people in the world.

There are very few survivors from the prison camps these days and I would love to find out what happen to these two dear people. There was a famous survivor names Joe Meyerhoff but he was a professor on the East coast. I might not even have the correct spelling of their last name but I do remember they kindness and could never understand why someone would want to kill them.

Kitchen stories: Little Crow

My father, one of three boys and two girls, had a bit of a different name and I never did find out where the name came from. His full name was Dorus Eugene Eley but everyone called him Dory. That's all I remember him being called but when we left Indiana to come to California in 1957 he changed his name to Gene. I guess he never liked the name.

This photo is of Daddy at about three-years-old and I love that you can see the shadow of the photographer to the left. My Grandfather Howard did take photos and developed and printed them himself so I would assume that was him taking this photo. This is unmistakable as Gene.

His older brother was named Gayle, yet another odd name for a boy but get this, his sisters were Harriet and Bernadette. The last boy, Roger. Whew, the cycle of odd names was broken. I never asked my grandmother, Lavon just what she was thinking when she named the kids but then her name was odd, Lavon Sumaria.

My uncle Gayle had a nickname and I only remember hearing it a few times as a kid. He really took after his father Howard and had a lot of his traits, a quick temper being one of them. His first wife Margaret was a good match for him because her temper was as bad as his.

Margaret was dear to me, she would babysit me from time to time and showered me with attention. She had three boys and would have loved a daughter. I was only about five when I remembered a particularly bad argument of theirs. They'd scream at each other like crazy and this time Gayle must have really made Aunt Margaret mad because as he was leaving she threw a kitchen chair at him, it hit the wall and one leg stuck. When he came back they patched things up but that did leave quite an impression of me not to mention a hole in the wall.

At times my dad, especially when he wanted to make his older brother mad, called him Crow. The nickname would make him furious so it wasn't used often. I never knew what it meant until years later, when my Uncle Roger moved to California. Roger was a great story teller and I have most of the family history from him. He was relating the story of Doggie Votaw to me and then asked if I'd remembered they called his brother Crow. He then related the following.

When Gayle was just a little kid he'd drop his pants and pee just anywhere. His mom would scold him but this didn't make him stop. One day he decided it would be fun to pee through a knothole in the fence. He dropped his pants and poked his little penis through the hole. There was a big old crow on the other side and it decided that was one great worm and grabbed a hold. Gayle ran home without his pants screaming bloody murder the whole way and from then on they called him Crow. You can see why, as an adult, he hated that name.

My mother is Frog Clan

Frogs are good signs.
The Frog is a doctor and healer, seer,
and fortune-teller.
The Frog is a messenger of rain …

We need the Frog now.

Today is Earth Day so all you losers not recycling or saving water get with the damn program, will ya?

Last Friday darling companion and myself went to the local Farmer's Market and the city had a handful of booths set up to remind folks what to do. At every booth we both said, "We do that."

So what's left for us? We've cut our water and electric consumption way back. We ride public transportation and my darling rides his bike around town. We don't use plastic bags unless we recycle them so will you fat bastards get off the couch and recycle, now!

One last rant; to the designers and makers of washing machines: Now you come out with energy efficient machines. Where were you ten years ago?

To those of you that are already friendly to Mother Earth, thank you. Thank you very much and keep up the good work.

The little guy

His first pix on the blog he was only a few hours old and crying. Here he is much happier and all of 17 days old. I got to hold him this morning and see his mommy and daddy. All is well. He's a very cuddly little guy.

Kitchen stories: Best of Show

If I were to judge my father's mother Lavon on her cooking I'd give her the blue ribbon on her pies. Of my two grandmothers her pies were winners. She was the slowest cook I'd ever seen but the results were fantastic.

Her pies were nothing fancy, always a fruit pie, but crust that was perfect every time. I'd watched her many times as a child but had the pleasure of watching her make pies when she'd visit California for the winter. She'd stopped using lard but Crisco still gave her a very tender crust, though she said she missed that flavor. She could roll a ball of dough into a perfect circle every time and if you've ever tried you'll appreciate this talent. Each pie maker has their own way to finish off the edge of the pie. My mom and Lavon used the tines of a fork to decorate the edge. I pinch the edge into a scallop but ever so often I'll use their method just to remember their method. Though my mom's mother Emily was a good cook she was more of a cake or cookie baker. My mom Lorna learned a lot from her mother-in-law Lavon when it came to pies.

Much of Lavon's life was spent watching the pennies and when she cooked she made use of everything. I still can't throw out and extra pie dough. You either made a small pie or baked the extra on a cookie sheet sprinkled with cinnamon and sugar. That was always the treat I loved best but sometimes she'd have enough and make a "Vaseline Pie." What it was really was a Sugar Pie. This is sugar, milk and an egg baked into a custard; it only looks like Vaseline but tastes great. I remember eating the last piece of sugar pie once and caught hell from my uncle Roger. My pie making skills are some of my best but I've tried to make a sugar pie but it never comes out like she did. I think it was just her "touch" that made it so good.