Roses in the Desert!

When I left Seattle, I thought I'd be saying good-bye to roses in public places. I thought a rose garden would take so much effort in the desert that only home gardeners would be willing to give the care and watering required. Happily, I was wrong. (Click on this picture. Do you see them? Not winning any contests--except the one where they survive through 120-degree summer heat--yet they seem gorgeous to me.)

Today, Oliver and I searched for new grass to walk on, since both the dog park and the area around the duck ponds in our retirement complex are closed for reseeding. Our backyard is all rock and desert plants (not his favorite recreational milieu.) My little scruffdog dances and rolls with excitement each morning, knowing it's time to ride in the car to a place of grass. I think there is a law somewhere against refusing to give a sweet, otherwise undemanding dog the one thing that makes him dance, isn't there? So, I pulled out the map and found Miles Park, just a couple of miles away.

This park is completely different from the manicured desert-landscaped grounds of our complex. Miles Park looks like the parks of my Lakewood (CA) childhood, surrounded by homes built circa WWII, with big grass playing fields and covered picnic tables. Workers with lunch boxes arrived in their trucks, greeting friends at the tables. Mothers chased toddlers through the play area. Water sparkled in large Rain Bird sprinkler arces, creating something I haven't seen since I got here: mud. Oliver was ready to tramp right through it. (You can take the dog out of Washington, but you can't take Washington out of the dog.)

And then I saw them--roses! We skirted the patches of mud to walk down the little sidewalk that ran between the rows of bushes. The blooms were small by Washington standards, and had not much aroma, but they were lovely, as only roses can be. If I'd been wearing a hat, I'd have doffed it in respect to the City of Indio gardeners who make this unlikely patch of prettiness possible for all of us to enjoy.

I like desert lanscaping, and I'm prepared to live with it for a long time. But this is such a big move, and everything is so very different than it has been for 20 years, I think finding something familiar just thrilled my heart. I don't have to always be New Susan, Desert Retiree. I can be Old Susan ,who remembers parks with space for imagination and play, and neighborhoods of small bungalows brimming over with Baby Boomer children.

Maybe I'm learning to integrate the various stages of my life. It seems appropriate, somehow. Thanks, Oliver, for the assist. I wouldn't get "out and about" nearly as much if you weren't such a good morning dancer!

The Tax Man Cometh

I love having my own pretty little house with a great view of Shadow Hills, blooming desert plants, and a little waterfall. I love that Oliver has a patio and a tiny back yard to nose around in. The only thing I don't love is the tax bill.

It came last week, with two little payment stubs--one-half due November 1st and one-half due February 1st. I knew it was coming, and I saved money. But somehow, it always knocks the wind out of me whenever I get an official-looking letter from a government taxing agency.

The Riverside County Assessor sent me a supplemental form that showed the correct purchase price of my home. But the tax bill was based on the previous owner's purchase price, which was considerably higher than my bargain basement deal. I asked Bill for advice. "Pay it," he said. They'll credit you later. Don't wait for them to fix it before you pay--their remedy for unpaid taxes is to sell your house!" Duly terrified, I resolved to follow his advice if I couldn't get a human on the phone at the Assessor's office.

I called several times; the first time I went through the telephone tree from Hell only to be told my situation required help from an agent, but due to a system problem I couldn't be put through to one. The next day, I made it through the demonic telephone menu, was put on hold, and was told I was the 12th caller. Then I was the 10th, then...well you get the idea. When I finally got to the first position, the bad music on hold ceased. Then the telephone survey I agreed to take began. "No!" I shouted into the phone, "No survey! Agent! Give me an agent!" The cheery automated system said, "This ends the call. Good-bye." I knew it couldn't hear me. I knew it was stupid to yell at it. But I told it how wrong it was, and that this indeed did not end the matter.

I finally got through to a human (hint: press the button for "I want to pay my taxes.") He was friendly and helpful. When I told him my situation, he said, "Just pay it. They'll credit you the overage on your next installment." [Hand smacking forehead. I coulda just listened to Bill!] I emailed Bill to tell him how smart he is. I mailed the check (certified, with proof of delivery receipt). Now I'm sitting back, playing with my dog and listening to my waterfall, waiting for the government magic to happen. It's all good. I'm sure it is. Really.

The Birds are Migrating

Driving down my street at sunset a couple of days ago, I saw a migrating flock of very large birds, flying high and silent. Mesmerized, I pulled over and got out of my car to wonder at them. The sun made their white bellies glint golden against the blue sky, and their V formation constantly reformed itself. It took me a while to recognize them as geese, based on their shape. In Washington, I usually saw Canada geese flying low, honking to each other. This was beautiful and awe-inspiring, these birds moving with quiet purpose on their long journey south. I don't know what they do when they get there, but I hope they get good rest and lots of food. They deserve it.

The next morning I turned onto the main street of my retirement community and saw a couple of very large motor homes, pulling SUVs, enter the gates. I didn't think much of it until I saw several more the next day. And then some more. Suddenly, I realized this was the migration the other year-round desert residents told me about. The Return of the Snow Birds.

The Return of the Snowbirds means the population will swell until early spring. The pools, restaurants and doctor's offices will be crowded. Stores and banks will have long lines. I'm part of a several-thousand-year-old human tradition: people coming to the Coachella Valley for the winter. Artesian wells, sunshine and warm temperatures drew the Native American tribes out of their mountains and hills long before we discovered its pleasures--in fact, "Indio" means "Indian," the town so named because of the tribes that used to gather here.

Retirees are only the latest nomadic tribe in the area. Their predecessors are still here, offering the new tribe shelter, food, and enertainment. That used to be called Pow Wow. Now it's called casinos. Only the birds still do it the old way. Still, both kinds of migratory flocks are pretty amazing.

Commando Gardeners

As the owner of a dog with colitis, I have plenty of time at my end of the leash to contemplate the scenery and think odd thoughts. Outside my mother's house this morning, I was lost in reverie while Oliver tried his best to do his business.

My attention was jerked back to the present when a small, beat-up pickup truck full of gardening equipment, topped by a large orange water cooler, careened around the corner. Before it even stopped, the doors flew open and three men in large straw hats leaped out. Each grabbed a piece of equipment--a mower, an edger, and a weed whacker--and started the engines in the middle of the street. They ran to the neighbor's yard and edged and mowed at full speed. If lawn care was an Olympic event, these guys would win, hands down. Two of them disappeared into the back yard while one remained to water the flowers under the neighbor's window. The two reappeared from the back yard, then I looked down to check on Oliver.

When I looked up, the straw hats, the equipment, and the truck were gone. No more than ten minutes had passed. Did I just witness a new phenomenen--Commando Gardening? Or did I just imagine it? Oliver isn't talking.

Mojo Criollo and the Cardenas Market

Moving to a new area is fraught with opportunities to take a half a day to do something that used to take a half an hour in the last place you lived. Because in the last place you lived, you knew exactly where to go to get all the weird little things that make your world more comfortable. Like your favorite chicken marinade.

My favorite happens to come in a big bottle--wine bottle size--from the Goya company, and is called Mojo Criollo. No, I don't know what that means. All I know is that it makes blah chicken breasts taste like a fiesta in my mouth, instead of like dry, boring diet food.

I was getting this elixir at the Safeway when I lived in Washington. Wouldn't you think that in Indio, CA, where the population is a much higher percentage Latino, you'd be able to get this stuff just about anywhere? Well, you'd be wrong.

This is where the half-day comes in. My mother's side of the family lacks the brain computer chip that gives people that geographic orientation known as a "sense of direction." I hold them completely responsible for the fact that I have to have written directions to every place I go in a new town, until I actually memorize the routes. The only directions I've memorized so far are the ones to my community clubhouse and the nearest Starbucks. So, going anywhere else takes the usual time to get there, plus 15-30 minutes for getting lost. Multiply that by the four grocery stores I tried, and I think you get the picture. I finally asked my Mexican-American housekeeper to tell me where a good Mexican store was.

All I can say to the Cardenas family, who started a chain of Mexican grocery stores all over Southern California, is: "Thank you, thank you, thank you!" In a store decorated to look like an outdoor market I found my mojo criollo marinade, my favorite fresh tortillas, and a shaker of Adobo (the Mexican equivalent of Laurie's Seasoned Salt.) Signs were in Spanish and English, the music was lively, and families laughed and shopped and ate sweets. I could come to love this.

A huge fake orange tree presided over the produce section, and a faux bank housed the customer service area near the check-out stands.

I think I'm love with the store. I know I'll be back again soon--even before I run out of mojo criollo.