Seasonless Sights

It's December in "sunny California."  Even here in the northern part of the state, the term seems appropriate.  As I wander around the block with the dog, it's impossible to ignore that, though it's cold enough for gloves, the magnolia's showing signs of blossoming yet again.  There are roses in every other yard--still persisting despite the few nights of freezing temperatures.  Privets are evergreen and everywhere--pesky things that they are. 

The dog steps a little livelier to avoid any prolonged contact with the cold concrete, and he's just a tiny bit less enthusiastic about running across the wet lawns. 

Our heater shuts off rarely now, and soup is the order of the day.  Pureed butternut squash and potato topped with yogurt or sour cream and butter-fried sage leaves.  Add to that a green salad with a lovely sweet Jiro persimmon and a rosemary baguette.  A plate of cookies and sliced oranges for dessert while we firmly plant our elbows on the table to enjoy some conversation and the rest of the wine--sated and cozy.

Tomorrow we'll check for signs of spring--or is that Christmas peeking around the corner???

World AIDS Day

I was reminded today that it's World AIDs Day, which takes me back to memories of dear friends I lost to this dreaded affliction.  While I am saddened to be taken back to those all-too-fresh painful memories--even after many years, I am grateful for the reminder.  And I am grateful for the advances in modern medicine that have extended the lives of many other dear friends.

Our blessings are many.  Our memories are dear.  Let us not forget.

Post-Thanksgiving Peace

The house is quiet after the hum, no roar, of family and friends enjoyed over the Thanksgiving weekend.  With two extra dogs and several extra people in our small California bungalow (actually more like small California tract home), the activity never lessened.  There were, fortunately, no mishaps--no broken bones, no food poisoning, no family feuds, no trips to the vet, and no tears.  It was a happy affair all around. 

Thanksgiving is my favorite time of year.  The leaves are falling, which takes me back to my northeastern childhood when leaves were there for the jumping--and burning--done with impunity in the days of innocence.  While spring is the harbinger of new growth, fall is the waning of the seasons and the start of a new cycle--for me.  Winter in California's central valley is brief; and while we experience the occasional morning with "cat ice" on our puddles, the temperature rarely dips below 40 degrees.  Only once or twice is it necessary to run outside just before bed to cover the lemon tree (bush) with a sheet to protect it from the frost.

As a child, Christmas was a put-together affair.  We weren't much for ritual and so didn't have much to fall back on to make it Christmas-y.  And money was very tight in our clergyman-father's family, making the Christmas gifting a major chore for my beleaguered mother.  So Thanksgiving was our ritual.  And we loved it.  I especially loved the food, the smells, the busyness, the cranberries and the crispy air. 

The ritual persists and I am thankful for it.  

Milo Prevails

After our rabies scare of over six weeks ago and the quarantine we were subjected to, I am happy to report that the rabies-free fairy has dusted our dog, Milo, with good health.  We are now able to welcome friends and family back into our home.  Now if we can only teach Milo to stick to the dog treats instead of the occasional sick bat, he'd be more likely assured of a longer and healthier life.  But as dogs rarely think about the consequences of frolicking with unhealthy things, we will probably have many more trips to the vet before he reaches his dotage. 

Smile for the people, Milo.  

Shorter Days

The pesky privets and pyracantha in our back yard are berried out.  The birds will be here soon to repaint the cars with their monochrome white palette.  How those weightless creatures can be so messy stymies me.


I'm never prepared for the shorter days and the impending desire to hibernate that I feel so strongly.  If it weren't for the need for exercise and healthy living, I'd probably never move from in front of the computer or the comfort of my cozy sofa.  Winter makes me recall fondly (though foolishly) the snowy seasons of my youth when I didn't have to dress children in snowsuits, constantly clean up their puddles of melted snow just inside the door, brave the elements for another run to the grocery store, bring in the (literally) frozen sheets and clothes that had been hanging outside to dry.  I've lived in and visited snow in my adulthood and would not choose to do it again.  The adult version is much less romantic but for those few hours after a snowstorm when the sounds of the world are muffled by the natural acoustic insulation that had fallen from the sky. 

I suppose this is the time when writers are supposed to be their most creative--locked in their writers' caves distracted less by the chirping birds and the dappled light through the foliage.  There is, however, a folding in of mind and body that occurs in the colder weather.  It's like the spring crocus closing at night in order to restore itself for the new day.  Does that mean that writers who live closer to the equator are more prolific?  Or is it just that they are more likely to be drawn outside to ponder nature and muse in preparation for writing?

I'd like to think I will prevail.  A season-free writer, if you will.  The words will continue falling from my mind onto the keyboard come rain, sleet, snow and sun.

Old Friends

 In August, an old friend of my father's came from Pennsylvania with his wife to attend a nephew's wedding.  He and I made arrangements months in advance for me to drive to Palo Alto from Sacramento to make sure Dad and he were able to enjoy a visit.  To the South Bay we went for a long lunch and visit with Dick and Marge.  Dad is a retired Unitarian Universalist minister.  Dick is a retired piano professor at a college near Philadelphia.  They became friends in Canton, New York, where Dick was a student at St. Lawrence University and Dad was the minister at the Canton Universalist Church.  While I'm no spring chicken--in fact, retired after many years of paid employment--visiting with these two men--one an octogenarian (Dick) and one a nonagenerian (Dad)--was memorable for me.  Also memorable for them, they were able to reminisce in a way that gave me hope for my dotage. 

They talked.

They laughed. 

They appreciated each other.

Friendship is a blessing. 

Lonely Dog

Almost two weeks ago, our sweet Milo found a sick bat on the back patio.  Thinking it had been placed there specifically for his own enjoyment, he played around with it.  Eventually, the bat died and Sam carefully placed it in a plastic bag using a stick.  And the next morning, Phil took it in to the county animal control center for testing.  Milo and the house were placed in quarantine for ten days, so no one except the people who live in this house could come here.  So it's been an unusual ten days.

Last evening, we finally received a call from the county  Evidently, there was not enough "brain matter" to know whether or not the bat had had rabies, so the quarantine continues for 30 days!  Yikes.  Poor puppy is getting mighty lonely.  No walks around the block.  No visits with my sister's dog.  No visits from Winston and Jack, son Seth's dogs.  No visit from any humans.  Milo's friend, one of our cats, Max, still shares and still plays; but there's an equally serious implication for him and his brother, Spike.  We've invested a fortune in frisbees and other flying things to keep Milo entertained and exercised in the back yard.  Good thing we have a lot of space back there. 

In the meantime we are required to observe the dog for any evidence of symptoms that would indicate rabies.  We are on the edge of our seats--at the mercy of the dog gods, hoping for the very best and worried about the very worst.