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It’ s never too late

July 14th, 2015
Brian Wilson and his family at the Greek Theatre concert in Los Angeles.

Brian Wilson and his family at the Greek Theatre concert in Los Angeles.

This is my birthday month, so I’m reflecting on my age and looking at my life from years of experience.  It’s hard to believe I’m 63 years old, because I don’t feel like any age at all.  The body’s older, but I still feel like me.

I notice Brian Wilson from the Beach Boys seems enthusiastic enough to defy age, and he recently had a birthday at the end of June.  He performed a concert at the Greek Theatre, opening with folk singer Rodriguez, who was the subject of the documentary, Looking for Sugar Man. Continue reading “It’ s never too late” »

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I wish he knew

July 7th, 2015
sunrise over the ocean

sunrise over ocean

I love music so much.  I remember where and when songs played in my life. My first kiss occurred in seventh grade, with George, under a pool table at Korinne Koltoff’s house, while her juke box played the Beach Boys’ Surfer Girl. My friends loved the Beatles, but I resonated with Brian Wilson Beach Boys’ harmonies and their tender sounds. I was a Stinson Beach body surfer girl. Continue reading “I wish he knew” »

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writing more than what happened

June 30th, 2015
root

root sunrise

I’ve been writing all my life, triggered by lost things, like fathers and friends, subdivision developments pocking Marin County.  What happened?  I want things to stay the same, but not really.

I hope to explore legacies inherited from my family. When my memoir exploded from my brain, I wanted to tell all the stories left my my people, like the Irish side and my doctor grandpa who built his own skeleton for medical school. People are not interested, but I am.

Ok, I inherited booze problems and a love of words. I sing songs and feel sorrow in my pores. Yet, hilarity and funny expresssions also bend around the corners on how I do my days.

Give me time to keep growing, California weather, color and dreams.  I rely on color because its honest expressions in things like roses and blue sky make my life worth living.  I love to check out the green bushes and grey roads with black tar stripes as I walk on Spink Road in my town.

My dreams contain most of my truth because their messages come when I’m looking for direction.  Sometimes they drive the truth into the future, like when I dreamt about my third husband four years before I met him.

I’m crafting two and three dimensional objects in my studio, what a blast to build with clay or oil up a canvas.

My husband and I built a lavender labyrinth that doubled in size this spring, fed by Mokelumne River water pumped up from our pond. I harvested bouquets that are drying and we may make $50 this year.

I’m happy to still be breathing, and so glad to know you can read!  Thanks for the time you spent on this.

Part 1

June 9th, 2015
Craig is so beautiful

Craig is so beautiful

I didn’t quit my job, just took a leave of absence, in case I hated the fifteen feet of rain that falls annually in Craig, Alaska.  I bought Tim’s new Honda Civic because he was too cheap to give it to me, and parked it at my mother’s for a month while I took a vacation in Baja, Mexico, with a friend in her small RV.

We drove through south and central Mexico, to Guymas, and I had a fling with a charming Argentine-Italian from Cupertino with a sexy voice who was also a teacher.  We sat under dried palm fronds during the day,played in Mulege’s phosphorescent water at night and drank tequilla, which still flattened my ass.  One night we watched the grunion run, incredible army of silver fish swimming to the shore.

After vacation, I drove from Portland to Seattle’s ferry terminal with my Honda packed to about an inch off the ground.  The blue plastic tarpolin on top of the car ripped to shreds on my way up the freeway.  I pulled off to retie it, shaking on the side of the freeway, alone with my two tranquilized cats inside.

I boarded the Columbia, a big ferry, and left Seattle from the harbor with the space needle poking up into the sky. Goodbye city life, I’m fading into the sunset, in God’s hands.  It’s now up to him, her, it, the force, cosmic consciousness, whatever.

In pre-dawn hours the Columbia smoothly rounded a South Eastern corner of the inland passage, Alaska’s Marine Highway.  My sleepy eyes focused on the horizon of Ketchikan’s multi-colored lights, twinkling like a Queen’s jeweled bracelet.  That early August morning, in the water after a rain, fog, and silvery blue-black sky, wilderness wrapped itself around me, smelling of coastal cedars, hemlock, spruce and pine.  I was a chechaquo- a greenhorn, newcomer- preparing to spend my first winter in Alaska. Ketchikan was the last city I saw before sailing west to Prince of Wales Island on the smaller ferry, Aurora.

I unloaded my car off the Colombia as dawn began to glow, and nothing was open at the Ketchikan dock, so I drove five miles down the only main street, Tongass, along the water’s edge, until I reached the historic old boardwalk and creek area.  I peeked through windows slowly as I drove along, and parked on the street.

A tall, stringbean of a man in fishing boots and old Army jacket came out of the Shamrock Bar across the street and loped toward me. He saw my car, circled around it in about four steps.

“Your car’s PACKED!”

“Yeah, I’m moving up here.”

“I mean, it’s JAM-PACKED!”

“Yeah.”

“You’ve got two cats in there?” he peered into the car with his hands shoved in his jacket.

“I’ve got two cats in the box in the passenger seat.”

“My God. I never saw anything like it.” His head hovering over the top of my car, he said, “You’re chechaquo, all right. Let me show you something.”

He motioned to follow him as he turned on his heel, dance-hopped, and jumped toward the creek, waving his arms, laughing like Nathaniel Hawthorne’s Ichabod Crane, looking back at me. We crossed to the top of the bridge, and he pointed toward Ketchikan Creek.

“Ketchikan means stinking fish. In the old days, fish were so thick a man could walk across their backs!”

I looked over and saw solid teeming black mass made of the backs of salmon. Laughing at my huge eyes and half-opened mouth, he said, “I love showing this creek to newcomers.  No one can believe it!”

I boarded my car onto the Aurora ferry. Clouds disappeared, revealing a royal blue sky, and the sun shone in horizontal beams creating long shadows.  We passed abandoned villages like Old Kassan, New Kassan, with their corresponding old and new totem poles still colored richly, and dried up fishing skiffs moored along the rocky shore.

One of the car deck hands invited me to the bridge to introduce me to the captain and watch them navigate. The captain wore silver wire rim glasses and a uniform, looking to me like Mark Twain on a Mississippi River boat, his square, rugged face framed by thinning, gray hair. I stood in back and watched everything. Eventually, the Captain let me steer using the shiny, wooden knobby wheel.

“The Inland Passage is like a great highway of water, and we navigate it using landmarks such as these islands and reefs,” he explained.

Hundreds of tiny islands with only a few trees came and went.  Though I didn’t see them I knew that all through the Southeast Alaska wilderness I was surrounded by bald eagles, ravens, wolves, and black bears, wild rams, and orca whales.

We arrived at Hollis ferry terminal, Prince of Wales Island’s only stop.  The ten foot by twenty foot wooden office stood next to a ramp leading to the only road, and there was no town at Hollis and no pavement, just thirty miles of dirt logging roads running west to Craig.  My car almost bottomed out on the ramp, and it took me over an hour to drive the gravely miles to downtown.

The sun was low when Craig, population nine hundred, came into view, with its mixture of trailers and wooden homes built on a smaller island.  A one-lane bridge connected the island and its fishing marina to another marina. Main Street was a loop. No stop lights, one stop sign in the heart of town.  Children in down vests and jeans walked down the center of the street, stepping aside to stare at my car as I passed by.  Large trawler and seine fishing boats docked; seasonal workers milled around nets.  This was unlike anyplace else on Earth I had ever seen, and it was a dream.

I passed an orange Bronco jeep, and the driver had his window rolled down.  We exchanged eye contact, and he smiled at me.

“Wow” I thought, that smile was worth driving up for.

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Spiritual walking

May 26th, 2015
Spain-Camino-de-Santiago1

a typical sight on the Camino

I recently made a ten day spiritual walking pilgrimage to Galicia, Spain and the Camino, the way of St. James.  This ancient pilgrimage is 850 km long through Spain, over a thousand years old, and has had a huge resurgence in the last fifteen years. There are many trails, and I only did a small part of it.  It goes lots of places, from France, Portugal, Europe, as far away as Hungary.  The French pilgrimage takes at least two months to walk.   I’m glad to have walked some of it. Continue reading “Spiritual walking” »

Trust

May 19th, 2015
he did not really care

he did not really care

I recently had a conversation with a British woman who told me about her recent breakup with a man she felt was ‘keeping her a secret.’  He didn’t introduce her to his friends or family, and he never showed affection toward her in public.  He almost acted embarrassed to know her.  She confided that several boyfriends did not show her public respect, and yet going out with these males had become a sort of pattern. Continue reading “Trust” »

memory and time

April 21st, 2015
who are the goldfish?

who are the fish?

 

 

 

 

 

perception on the past and the past on perception

I’m a kid or all grown up

life in a tank or a creek

 

I grab the sleek who says it really happened?

time like a slippery goldfish

ten gallon tank

kitchen sink

 

while washing dishes I watch my tank remembering Strawberry’s fair

I won tiny goldfish who traveled home in a plastic bag

the bag burst and fish flopped on our car mat

I’d never seen that before

I picked him up with my hands

 

Alaska creek on Prince of Wales Island

at the beginning or end of a given day

I splash in a stream

and picked up  a coho salmon all squirm with my bare hands

 

 

 

 

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I believe

March 31st, 2015

the potential of life

I believe when I close my eyes I leave my body

I’m inside wind blown eucalyptus rustling drapers of bark strips

 

I believe yesterday creates today

because what I saw that night when Redwood Giants Varsity Football

ran onto Brentwood’s  lighted heritage stadium

my son became a man

 

 

I believe my love of three husbands created

what I understand about hard won dignity

Saturday’s hope forges memories when it was good

 

most of the bubbles float up to surface and pop

paper narcissus bulbs take root and blossom before New Year’s day

 

I believe Ginsberg’s Molak sought truthful San Francisco rooftops for his drunken friends

breathing life back from

double-paned windows of that psychiatric building

where his mother, Naomi couldn’t recognize her son

there’s a howl

 

I believe my chihuahua smiles at me when I tuck him under my arm

once in awhile I’m  grateful I can still walk

and my old phone number has a new ring to it

 

I was young with my second husband and we fished

off  St. John’s Island in Alaska’s Gulf

drawing a sixteen horsepower engine through green water

 

 

 

 

Changing locations

February 10th, 2015
Craig,  Alaska from Sunnahae Mountain

Craig, Alaska from Sunnahae Mountain

Here’s a little tale from my past:

I didn’t quit my job, just took a leave of absence, in case I hated the fifteen feet of rain that falls annually in Craig, Alaska.  I bought Tim’s new Honda Civic because he was too cheap to give it to me, and parked it at my mother’s for a month while I took a vacation in Baja, Mexico, with a friend in her small RV.  We drove through south and central Mexico, to Guymas, and I had a fling with a charming Argentine-Italian from Cupertino with a sexy voice who was also a teacher.  We sat under dried palm fronds during the day, played in Mulege’s phosphorescent water at night and drank tequilla, which still flattened my ass.   One night we watched the grunion run, incredible army of silver fish swimming to the shore. Continue reading “Changing locations” »

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Dream comes true

December 30th, 2014
boys need good men

boys need good men

My counselor suggested I start looking for a healthy partner, since my single mother gig was four years rolling.  Sure, I wanted a dad for my little son Brian, but my life was mostly fine, easy, no conflicts, plenty of fun.  I was busy staying sober and teaching, scared of screwing up again.

“You’ll never meet anyone if you stay home. Go do things, be with people who like to do what you like to do.”  I trusted this counselor to think I was ready for dating after four years as a single parent.  What’s to lose?  I love men, needed a real one in my life.  I wanted to be ‘normal’ and live in joy.  After all, I’d had ENOUGH sorrow.

A Sierra Club singles dance was being held in Strawberry near my house, in the same recreation center where my drunk dad fell down and mortified me in sixth grade.  I could make peace with that place, move on. 400 people attend the event, wouldn’t some man want to dance with me?  I put on my favorite flowing flowered red, orange and purple dress with sandals, and went.

He faced the door when I came inside and he was talking to other people.  Frank stood a full head taller than anyone in the room, wore a pink shirt with a red tie, a grey woolen blazer.  He was brown haired with a kind, honest expression on his face.

“He’s too cute for me,”   I thought, pheromones flowing.  He’s out of my league.  I only date losers.

Instead, I asked nondescript men to dance, and some said no—what the hell?   I thought we were at a singles dance!   I kept asking, anyway, wanted to have fun after such a long time.

Frank asked me to dance, looked directly at me, crinkled his eyes and smiled his loving smile.  My heart went wild and I almost jumped him.

I instantly recognized a powerful dream I had when I left  Alaska four years before.  Here was the bearlike man who made me feel okay!  I had forgotten my dream, but it’s true!  After the first dance, I went into a bathroom stall and hyperventilated. Whether or not I ever saw Frank again did not even matter to me.  I believe my dreams are messages.  Sobriety taught me to trust my intuition.  I had a dream and it was coming true right now!

We went onto the balcony and talked.  His wool jacket in June made sweat bead on his brow.

“Should you check your jacket?”

“ No, I’m fine.”  He was stubborn, there’s a clue.  Frank was a native San Franciscan, a Civil Engineer working in the East Bay, and specialized in soils and dam safety.

His Portuguese mother’s ancestors were farmers who immigrated from the Azore Islands.  They were the family who settled in old Tiburon’s Reed Station a hundred years before, in exactly the same place as my neighborhood across the street.  They might have planted the gigantic tulip tree near my house where I played as a kid!  They probably helped build the old barn behind my mother’s house.  We know they were famous for producing Marin County’s finest butter and cream dairy on Del Mar School property.

 “I come as a package, with a nearly four year-old boy who lights up my life,”   I told Frank about Brian right away, in case he didn’t like kids, briefly outlining circumstances of my second divorce.  Who wants a divorcee with a child?

Frank mattered to me, big time.  I wanted to see him again, so we exchanged phone numbers, though I was too shy to call him.  It’s that old generational thinking that sticks inside a person.

Frank’s honest eyes and smile gave me courage to believe that some stronger force than me handled this planet. I couldn’t have possibly orchestrated such a miracle as my dream coming true like it did in Strawberry’s recreation hall that night.

Frank called two weeks later, and invited me to hike with him on Tennesse Valley’s beach trail near Mill Valley.  Little Brian stood on the driveway when Frank pulled up in his funky tan van.

“Are you my mom’s date?”  Brian looked up at Frank and smiled at him.  Frank looked at Brian with indescribable gentleness, and I saw a good man.  I knew I loved him, even though he was a stranger.

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