My Inspiring Sea.

While driving home, I noticed the Pacific Ocean in front of me--sparkling, dancing under a rim of blue sky and sunlight with a conopy of blue gray clouds overhead.  It was inspiring and I felt a poem blooming in my mind.  I have never been able to write poetry before but lately poems surface without much effort.  Today's poem was having a difficult birth.  I know what I wanted to say, but the words would not fit together.  So, after dinner I took a walk down to my favorite promenade on the Great Highway.

Before I crossed to the sea wall side across the Highway, I saw a youngish woman in a wet suit and a surf board heading for the beach.  I asked her how the surfers knew to run down to the waves, and she explained it was a combination of things--the weather, the tides, the waves.   Then I noticed how the surf seemed fairly calm tonight, medium waves and very still air.  As I walked a little way on the promenade,  words started forming into a poem.  Then I sat down on one of the built-in concrete benchs, pulled out my cell phone, clicking on notes,  and what do you know--  I was able to write the poem while watching the sea.

It is always transforming right before my eyes,

Reflecting the light from the ever-changing skies.

Sometimes, it is brooding--so somber and grey.

                                               Then it turns its soul to a quiet, reflective way                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                          At times it dances--sparkling and bright

At others, it roars with menacing might.

I think its moods are a reflection of me--

THIS MOVING, FLUID, LIVING SEA.

On Searching for Summer Sun

It is the middle of summer and daylight lingers til 8:00 for my evening walk.  I put on my warm jacket, scarf and Irish beret to head for the little vegetable market, but the distant beach lured me down to the walk on Great Highway. The weather was dismal and cold, but I walked quickly soaking up all that my senses could hold.  The sky was thick with gray misty fog, which clung to the ocean, giving the water the same gray somber color.  The waves crested and fell as I had seen them before, but tonight the beauty of the surf looked sad and ominous.  The Seagulls flew around as usual and a few people were out jogging and racing by me on their bicycles, but there was such stillness and quiet dreariness.  I felt so alone.


Having lived here all my life, I should be used to this foggy weather.  When I was a child, the schools closed for summer vacation for almost three months, and my family hardly ever went out of the city or the neighborhood, and we rarely went away on a vacation.  I was exposed to the cold summers never really being aware that the rest of the country was basking in sunshine.  I remember going to Fleishhacker Pool by the ocean to take swimming lessons.  There has been a lot of nostalgia concerning this pool, but I disliked it immensely.  We had to go into the cold bathhouses to don our swimming suits, and I remember coming out wrapped in a towel, wearing a tight swim cap, and shivering waiting to take lessons.  As soon as I got into the frigid, ocean water and tasted the salt on my lips,  I wanted to get out.  The experience was torture.  I didn't learn to swim until I went to Camp Fire Girl camp. 


During those summer months, I know we played outdoors frequently, riding bikes, running up and down the blocks, playing games in the street, and I don't remember being cold--probably because we were active.  We also went to the Parkside Theater for matinees and stayed indoors in our "rumpus" room making up adventures, coloring in coloring books, playing monopoly and reading "Little Lulu."
It was later when I was 12 years old that I was able to go to camp for a couple of weeks and discover a whole new environment, which I loved.   We also went to a 'family friend's home "down the Peninsula" to play with their children and swim in their new pool.  Another friend had a cabin in the Santa Cruz mountains, and I loved being outdoors in the forest, going for walks and spending hot afternoons swimming in the nearby community pool. 


When my children were growing up, I suddenly felt some anxiety about not having a real summer. 
I hadn't missed it when I was a small child, but by the time my kids were old enough to explore, I wanted sunshine.  I would gather them into the car and off we'd go, looking for warmth.  Usually I would head south,, finding a nice playground in San Mateo.  Once I felt adventurous and took the train to San Jose to go to a park there, but what I didn't know was that there was no bus to the park.  A nice mother with children drove us down there, but I had to go back with her to the top of the grade, because I would have been stranded. 


Every year we did take vacations--driving to Canada, Colorado, Grand Tetons, and going to Camp Mather, and then camping in Yosemite.  I loved the outdoors and dreamt of living in the mountains, so when we had the chance, we bought a cabin in the Sierra's where we spent many a summer swimming and hiking. 


Now that my family is grown and have their own children and lives,  I find myself back in "My fair City" looking out my back window at the dense, drippy fog.  I long again to find the sunshine.  On Fourth of July, my husband and I went looking for some warmth and rediscovered a delightful place, only 20 miles from our home.  It was the Pulgas Water Temple, built as a shrine to the monumental feat of bringing the water from the Tuolumne River in the Sierras all the way across the Central Valley to us people on the coast.  The grounds were well manicured and the surrounding areas on Crystal Springs Lake offered some hiking trails.  The Crystal Springs Reservoir and Lake is located east of the coastal mountains and protected from the fog.


Now when my spirits are low due to the wet, dense fog, I can remind myself that I live in a magnificently beautiful city, surrounded on three sides by water and coastal mountains in the distance.  If I really want sun, it is only a few miles away--down the highway, across the bridge or over Twin Peaks to downtown and the Bay.  I can also remember that the fog does have benefits-- when the rest of the country is sweltering and forest fires are raging, it is cool where I live.  When we drive over the Bay Bridge after crossing the hot valley, the fog pouring over the hills is such a welcome sight.  It always feels good to come home.

 

Memories of "Gimpy"

October has been a spectacular month in my usual foggy neighborhood.  The days have been warm and balmy and the sunsets extraordinary.  I have taken advantage of the good weather by walking to the beach often during these past weeks.  It has been so enjoyable and mood elevating to walk on the smooth, shiny sand as the frothy waves tease my steady gait by their ebb and flow.  As I dodge the shallow tide, I watch the birds doing a similar dance.

Of course, my favorite birds (as I wrote about before) are the little plovers which move as if in a ballet chorus, but I watch the other groups of birds also.  The Cormorants are not as pretty, but they also have a rythym to their movements.  The black crows are there making their presence known by their loud squawking and aerial acrobatics.  But the bird that find very mysterious is the lone Seagull.

Usually I find seagulls, especially annoying.  They are like robber-barons waiting for the opportune moment to take advantage of someone or something vulnerable.  They rip food out of other birds'  claws and eat any kind of garbage they can find.  I've even seen them take a hotdog out of a child's hands as he was eating it, leaving the poor boy crying in astonishment.  It seems they are constantly on the offensive, asserting their power.

This month, however, I saw seagulls in a different light.  I saw them as individuals, as somewhat regal, noble birds.   I tried taking photographs, but they were often illusive.  I saw a lone seagull standing very quietly, looking pensively at the sea, turning his head occasionally to watch me as I looked at him.  Just when I thought I could capture his image, he turned away snobbishly and flew over the waves as if to defy me.
As I kept walking slowly along the shore attempting to get close enough for a photograph, I was reminded of my father's story he told me when I was a child.

My father often liked to walk on the beach although he never took me with.  He also liked to write poetry and tell stories, but he did tell me a story about Gimpy, the one-legged seagull he befriended on the beach.  He said that the Seagull would talk to him.  Of course when I was only 8 or 10, I didn't believe him, but later in high school, I thought his story worthy enough to tell to my class in Advanced Composition class.

Unfortunately, I have forgotten the gist of the story.  I remember the story left an impression on me, and when I found the copy I had written long ago, I knew I wanted to keep it, so I must have put it somewhere for safekeeping.  Now I cannot find the paper I had written.  I feel very sad that his story will be lost.

He had also written a lot of poetry in high school and I remember seeing a notebook with his poems, but alas it is also gone.  Possibly he took it with him when my parents separated, or maybe my mother threw it out, but I do want people to know this other side of my father--that he was creative and was able to express himself well.

And this writing all came about because of my encounter with a seagull--maybe they do talk to us after all.
Thank-you.    (And maybe, I will find that paper I wrote about "Gimpy" one of these days again.)

Plovers on the beach

             A thin layer of haze hung on the horizon, but the bright sun made the beach inviting.
I walked down to the ocean just as the tide was receding and the retreating waves left the smooth sand as shiny as glass.  Surfers were coming ashore with their boards, stripping down the top half of their wet suits, and walking down the beach.   A few joggers ran past me and dog walkers strutted by with their pets following obediently alongside.  Then I came upon one of my favorite sights--a flock of snowy plovers clustered together. 

          These little birds are so pretty and delicate with their white chests and greyish head and wings.
Their dainty pointed beaks are perfect for finding morsels of delicious food in the sand.  Their tooth pick legs look so fragile, but they whisk back and forth rapidly, propelling the little birds smoothly over the sand.  Their heads and bodies stay straight and still, which causes them to resemble a machine navigating in the desert. 

          There were about five snowy plovers near the waves searching for food when, suddenly, one bird hurriedly turned and headed towards the flock several yards away.  When he reached the group, several birds flew up in the air and the rest started moving en masse following each other until the whole flock had transported themselves to the shore line.  It was as if the first little plover was calling the others to dinner, because they all started poking their beaks into the sand to find food.  I think that after high tide, the water recedes leaving little creatures in the wet sand. 

          As I watched the flock, they seemed to move as in a dance.  The ocean waves would flow in and the birds in unison would move away.  Then they would move sideways down the beach or run back to their resting spot.  At times, they split into two groups running so smoothly here and there like a ballet as the tide ebbed and flowed.  A few birds caught in the water would flap their wings like they were bathing and then run off looking for more food.  One little guy had a long wormy tidbit in his beak and another plover chased him down the beach until he gave up, leaving the first plover with his prize.  Some of the birds showed a little independence, but mostly, the birds stayed in groups, and flowed as a unit.  One bird would start to shift in a direction, and then a wave of changing motion would occur bringing the birds to another spot.

          I stood for awhile enjoy the Snowy Plover, realizing that these birds are an endangered species.  There is a sign posted on the Great Highway as you descend onto the beach telling people that the Plovers are a protected species, to keep dogs on leash, and  not to harass them.  The problem is that every time someone walks by the flock, the birds adjust their position to be at a safe distance from others.  It is funny to watch, but on the other hand, the poor birds are using up a lot of energy having to move.  The beach has been their habitat up and down California for eons, so people need to be respectful and try to keep their distance.  Fortunately, the Coastal area is often foggy so most of the time people and dogs stay away.  I hope so, because these enchanting little birds need to be a part of our beach for a long time.

Poems about critters

My brain has discovered how to make poems.  I don't actually make them up or work hard--my mind just automatically starts composing.  Sometimes, I actually have to find a few words that rhyme and then change words around, but I don't work at this. (Okay, you say,  the poems sound like it)   Really, the poems are just for me and just for fun.  If someone else enjoys them, all the better.

Poems about Critters

I found a little lady bug

walking on my desk.

She shouldn't really be there.

She's not my invited guest.

I scooped her up so gently,

and brought her to the yard.

There she was very happy,

Playing in the chard.

(actually I don't grow chard, only strawberries and chives.)

_____________________________________________________________

I saw a tiny spider

huddled in the rug.

I tried so hard to catch him,

but he was one scared bug.

On some paper I scooted him

right into my hand.

And brought him to the out-of doors,

Where on a tree leaf he did land.

____________________________________________________________________________

A little ol'goat, I saw in the zoo,

With twisty horns and beard askew, 

Sat all alone, watching children play.

If he could talk, what would he say?

______________________________________________________________________________

On an evening stroll by the beach as sun set:

A flock of funny sea birds 

Were sitting in the sand.

Their pointy beaks and spindly legs

did not look so grand.

Some sat there oh so quietly,

And when a dog came by to play,

They nonchalantly all stood up

and quickly skampered away.

________________________________________________________________________________

Critters at Stowe Lake

Looking for butterflies and none could be found.

But plenty of other wildlife did abound.

Enticing bright flowers flirted with bees,

And skittish squirrels eating peanuts would tease

The vigilant Jay Bird flitting in the trees.

Turtles on a log were basking in the sun

While a myriad of ducks splashed nearby for fun.

As my enchanting afternoon came to a close,

Two proud seagulls struck a pose.  

_________________________________________________________________________________

Spider at the Cabin

Falling, falling on a silken thread,

Tickling my nose while I lie in bed--

Where did you come from, you silly ole bug.

I ought to give your tiny rope a tug.

Maybe it's fun swinging to and fro,

But I really think that you should go.

You belong outdoors with the ants and bees.

And there I shall bring you, if you please.  

________________________________________________________________________________

A Hot Day on the Beach

Little snowy plovers running by the sea-

In their little flocks, they are pretty as can be.

Poking in the moist sand with their narrow beak,

They find tasty little morsels wherever they do seek.

Soon a frothy wave runs up to the shore,

And the little snowy plovers start running once more.  
_________________________________________________________________________________
June 1, 2014 at the Cabin

A big ole'turtle is sitting all alone
In a pile of dried oak leaves.
We approach very slowly so as not to disturb
But we are the enemy, she perceives.

Her eyes peak quietly out of her shell
And she watches us while lying so still.
We wonder why she lay under the flume
As we wander quickly down the hill.
----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

The Birthday Cake

My granddaughter's birthday was coming up, and I saw a cute picture of a pink "Castle" cake that looked simple to make.  It was just two double layer cakes, one 9 inches and one 6 inches placed on top with ice-cream cones for towers.  I thought I would make it.

I have never been able to make a "scratch cake" in the past.  They usually turn out flat and don't rise well, so I figured I'd have to make one from a box mix.  I went to the grocery store and critically examined all the ingredients in the brand-name cake mixes.  They all had partially-hydrogenated oils from soy, corn, and cottonseed, a lot of strange chemical names, and plain sugar.  I don't like putting all those ingredients in my own body, so why would I put them in a four-year old's.

  I have also been hearing a lot about GMO foods. Doing a little "research" on my I-pad, I discovered that some of the main foods that are modified are corn, soybeans, rapeseed, sugar beets, and baked goods made from these products. Many people are wary of consuming food that has been altered genetically even though the regulatory agencies have approved them. I for one would prefer eating "natural products." Unfortunately, food manufacturers in this country don't have to label food as genetically modified, so the only way I read that you can be safe is to buy organic products and make things from scratch. Well, there was my dilemma, but I decided to do it anyway.

  First, I needed better cake pans that didn't burn the cake, so I went to a "kitchen store" and found some heavy-gauge baking pans that were "pricey," but, hesitantly, I purchased them. I also noticed they had a cake mix for sale that said örganic" that didn't have any undesired ingredients. Since each box cost about $15.00 for a sheet cake and I would need two boxes, I decided to wait and look further. During the next few days I searched some of the new "healthy stores" that sold organic food, but there were no Organic Cake mixes. My next option was to buy some cake flour that had no other ingredients and some organic oils, butter, eggs, etc. and make my cake from "scratch."

I was so very nervous. I remembered all my past failures and figured that if the cake flopped, I would just run to the grocery store and buy one from their bakery. (but to me they are so gross.) My son, who bakes cupcakes perfectly, says he just follows the directions in the recipe and they come out fine. He tests their doneness with a toothpick. Okay, that gave me a little confidence. When the afternoon arrived for baking, I assembled all my baking equipment and carefully laid out all the ingredients on the table in the order of assembly. I very carefully mixed the cane sugar, butter, eggs to a foamy texture and then added the flour mixture and organic vanilla. It smelled and tasted so good. I carefully lined the new cake pans with parchment paper and poured in my batter as evenly as I could and baked them in the preheated oven for about an hour (a little longer than it said.) The toothpick came out clean and the cakes bounced back. Voila--when I turned out the cakes on the rack, they looked so beautiful and smelled even better.

With such success, I quickly made my next two round cake layers with similar results, only this time I made sure they were even by weighing them on a food scale. They were beautiful. Then it was time to frost. I made the frosting with organic butter, and pure cane sugar, organic milk and a little organic peppermint. (I cheated and put in two drops of red #40 dye. A little couldn't hurt, could it?) The frosting was perfect also, but when I went to put the cake together to make a castle, it all fell apart. I had to cut two of the layers to 6 inches and therein was the problem. They weren't cut exactly and the cake looked awful. The layers were also sliding and I had to put on too much frosting. In order to save the cake, I took off the top layer and just wrote Happy Birthday and put on pink sprinkles. It would pass. At the party, the adults all seemed to like the peppermint cake, but ironically the kids all ate the alternative cupcakes made from boxed mix. Oh well. They all survived. When I came home and did a little more research, I discovered that our "Rainbow Grocery" in the City carries a line of boxed organic cake mix, called "Wholesome Chow." I'll have to check it out, but I'm not sure I ever want to make another cake.

  Disclaimer: This text is not supposed to be a treatise on research. It is only about my process of discovery.

Our wild ride through downtown Boston.

We have just returned home after two weeks on the East Coast, and while riding on the train to Washington D.C. I wrote the following:

After a very pleasant day visiting a cousin in Ipswich, my husband drove us back to Boston where we were staying.  As we approached the city at dusk, the smooth freeway rose upward over the streets and curved to the right carrying us towards a spectacular view of a full moon hovering over tall skyscrapers.  Then we crossed a bridge with the moon shining before us like a beacon.  I kept trying to get a photo, but to no avail.  Bill was driving our little rental car very fast and the scenery kept changing.  Quickly we were on the city streets merging into an onslaught of rushing cars.  Bill had to navigate the streets and look for street signs to find our way back to the hotel while I was watching out the window with delight as the Boston streets whizzed by.  I had not been able to do any sightseeing during the previous three days, so this evening ride was my only glimpse of downtown Boston and the financial district. 

The moon continued to shine overhead darting between buildings as we sped down the streets, turning corners, crossing bridges and stopping at traffic lights.  I wanted to capture the moon in my camera but there were only fleeting moments before it disappeared.  The few photos I caught were only blurs, but I kept trying.  After we drove around the area for awhile, I noticed I was seeing the same scenery repeatedly.  We crossed the bridge over the river several times in both directions.  The Boston Commons went by my window more than once and names of streets kept reappearing.  Around and around we went, turning this way and that, flowing onto one-way streets, and following the other cars like a herd of cattle being driven by an unknown force.  At the same time, Bill's expletives became louder and more frantic and my glee dissipated.  I figured we were in trouble, lost in a maze with no direction or way out. 

Bill shoved the map at me, telling me to find the streets we were passing by, but I could hardly see the little print and could not find the street names.  I knew where we should have been heading, but I could not find our place on the map.  Several times I begged for us to stop so I could get my bearings and figure out where we were.  At last, we pulled into a dead-end street and I found our position, but I didn't know which direction we were facing.  Bill kept thinking we were driving in the wrong direction and I kept yelling "Where's the St. Charles river?"  The traffic slowed next to a park and I saw a young man strolling by with ear nubs in his ears, apparently listening to his I-pod.  I frantically called to him and waved out the open window.  After I waved three desperate times, he turned and looked at me.  "Where is the River?" I said.  "Do you want to go to the River?  he replied.  "No, I just want to know where it is," I yelled.  He pointed to my right, and with a sigh of relief, I said "Thanks."  We were going in the right direction towards the Hotel.  Bill then turned right around the Park onto a one-way street and thought he made another mistake, but I had the map and told him to turn left on the next street.  He turned left, then left again going in the opposite direction.  With map in hand, I found the street we needed and told my frustrated driver to turn right up ahead a couple of blocks.  This time he turned on the correct street and suddenly our maze unraveled--we were out.  We were on our way to the hotel--What a relief.  Next trip I'm bringing my GPS.