Rain in the Desert

My desert hasn't had a serious rain in about six years. That must be why the newscasters got so excited about the 0.50 inch that misted its way toward the dusty earth yesterday morning. I slept in for ten minutes, so I missed it. And 0.50 inch doesn't leave enough evidence to convince a former Northwesterner that "rain" actually occurred.

I did see a bit of a rainbow from my backyard. Seattle had plenty of moisture in the air for rainbows, but often not enough sun to make them show up. My desert has plenty of sunshine, but not much moisture in the air. In either place, when the right amount of both ingredients show up at the same time, the result is magical. I stood on my little step ladder and aimed my iPhone camera over the north wall at the stub of a rainbow hanging beneath the dramatic clouds. I was rather pleased with the results.

Then I noticed the buildings in the lower left corner of the picture. It's the new high school. I've never actually stood on a step ladder to see much of the world beyond my little wall (being short makes it easy to pretend there's no one here but me.) I drove to the school a couple of weeks ago to offer to volunteer in the office. I have to drive south for about 1/2 mile to get out of my complex, then back north to the school. That's enough to totally disorient a person with no sense of direction. I was surprised at what the picture showed me--that the school is only a couple of blocks from me. (That explains why the PA system sounds like it's in my backyard when they have football games.)

I should do the Meerkat thing more often; who knows what I might learn about the street behind me!

Thanksgiving--Chocolate, ice picks, and terror-filled freeways

Unlike many of my fellow boomers, I still have a bright, lively mom, and I now live close enough to her to drive to her house for Thanksgiving--even though it takes 2 hours of sheer terror on the L.A. freeways to get there. I'm praying and invoking the gods of several religions right now, because I'm leaving in about an hour.

I'm taking her a little box of chocolate covered dates from the date farm a few miles from my house here in Indio. Well, it's the date farm store, anyway. The date trees are gone, having been sacrificed to the never-ending march of the suburbs into agricultural land. I would complain about this, but I realize I'm a big part of the problem. The new home my parents moved into in 1951 in Lakewood CA (where I am bound today--Mom still lives there) was built on farm land. "Volunteer" tomato plants showed up in the yard for years after we moved in. A house I moved to in Irvine CA in the 1980s still had asparagus fields next to it. My home in Bothell WA was built on a former cow pasture, with some of the original shade trees in the neighborhood park.

But who knew date palms in a desert whose temperatures sometimes reach 120 degrees F. would be endangered by the voracious appetite for new homes? The Shields Date Store is still at the old location, on the old highway, for people like me who like to grab a bit of history before it disappears forever (because we keep building our homes over it!) The box says "Indio," so I suspect there are still some date groves around here, somewhere.

I bought some fabulous strawberries at a local farmer's market, and decided they, too, should be enrobed in chocolate and taken to my mom, who adores chocolate almost as much as I do. It was not until I was in the process of melting chocolate, preparatory to dipping them and laying them on a cookie sheet, that I realized: 1) the counter spaces in my new kitchen are broken up into such small surfaces I couldn't lay out all my ingredients in one place, 2) my side-by-side refrigerator doesn't have a big enough space for a cookie sheet, 3) I have no waxed paper, 4), I have no cooking spray. I put the chocolate dipped strawberries directly on a plate. Not the smartest thing to do. They look pretty good on the plate, but half of the chocolate stays behind when you try to pick up the strawberry. (Sigh.) I'll just have to put an ice pick next to the plate, the way you put a pie server next to a pie plate. ("It's fun--try it!...The band-aids are in the drawer...")

OK, I've procrastinated as long as I can. Time to put strawberries, dates, overnight bag, and little dog in car. When I worked in sales, they taught us to wiggle our toes and take a deep breath before entering an office on a cold call. Somehow, it got your circulation going and your courage up. I think I'll get in the car, wiggle my toes, pump my fist in the air and holler, "Look out, Suckers, here I come!" That should get me ready for the maze of 10-lane freeways full of crazed holiday seekers. If not, I'll just white-knuckle it, as usual.

I hope your Thanksgiving is just as interesting as mine promises to be (minus the ice-pick, of course!)

Holiday Nostalgia

Getting a nice new life is wonderful--and stressful. Holidays are stressful. Put those two things together, and what do you get? A mishmash of emotions that can wallop you when you're not even looking.

I love seeing the sun play on Shadow Hills each morning when I open my blinds. I carry my sleepy little dog out to his favorite bush to pee, and I rejoice in the birdsong that greets us. We get back into bed and sleep an extra hour, listening to the waterfall through the open window. Thanksgiving is almost here and Christmas is around the corner (facts that flummox me, because it looks like summer out there!), and I'll be with family. It's all good, right?

So, why did I get tears in my eyes when I walked into the aroma of fresh-cut pine trees at Stater Brothers grocery store? It's the aroma of the Pacific Northwest, as dependable there as the sunshine is here. I didn't realize how much I miss it, until that moment. I felt sad in the bakery aisle when I saw the pineapple upside-down cake mix and realized I wouldn't be tasting my friend Melody's homemade-in-an-iron-skillet pineapple upside-down cake this Christmas. It's the little things that get me. The comforts of small familiar things are strung together like cranberries on a Christmas tree. When the string breaks, all those little things fall away, leaving a bare tree. I guess that's where I am now. I have a bare tree and need some cranberries. But it will take time.

I hold Oliver a lot; we both enjoy it. But it doesn't mean I wouldn't like to hold my former tiny black dog and feel his bony little body in the crook of my arm. I'm making new acquaintances, some of whom I think will become friends, over time. We talk and talk, getting to know each other. For the holidays, I sure would like to sit in my old friends' living rooms, sipping wine or tea or Scotch, sometimes being quiet together because we already know and love each other.

It's very American to start over again in a new place. We're all emigrants and pioneers, giving up our familiar comforts and companions for something we hope will be better in some way. My hopes are being fulfilled, but holidays are about celebrating bonds and familiarity--both in short supply when you're "the new girl." When you're in transition, there's nothing quite like the holiday season to remind you what you've given up.

I look forward to stringing together many years' worth of experiences and comforts in my new life. I won't forget--because I can't--the one I just dismantled. I'll hang out with my old family that hasn't seen much of me in the last 20 years, and chat up my new acquaintances at the holiday parties. And maybe I'll indulge myself in just a little bit of holiday nostalgia, quietly toasting my beloved buddies in the Northwest. Skoll!

Metamorphosizing back into a Californian

Remember the Looney Tunes scenes where a character shape-shifts to blend in with its surroundings? (Think Bugs Bunny mimicking a tree, Porky Pig being slapped around and crammed into a uniform to look like a soldier, and Wiley Coyote trying to look like anything but a coyote.) That's sort of what's happening to me right now, so I'm thinking it's best to write down my observations before the metamorphosis is complete. I'm pretty sure I'll get amnesia about my 20 Northwest years. I can feel my inner Californian resurfacing, and there will be no way to stuff her back in the box once she's out.

I'm starting to smile goofily at strangers for no good reason, 60 degrees is beginning to feel chilly, and massive amounts of caffein do not call to me any more. I think the 70 mph sign on the freeway is a minimum speed limit. Yesterday, Oprah interviewed a famous female porn star and then broke for a commercial that showed our local weather person. The porn star and the weather woman looked like twins, and it didn't seem weird to me.

I expect sunshine when I open my blinds in the morning, and I'm starting to forget what it's like to put on two layers of clothing, a hat, and boots just to take the little dog out. I can almost tell apart the neighbors who have shared plastic surgeons and now look like each other. Swimming in an outdoor swimming pool in November has stopped feeling like a magical wonder and now just feels like a delicious luxury for which I will ever be grateful. Palm trees are back in my consciousness.

It's going to take a little longer to get used to the quantities of personal information Californians immediately share with strangers. Seattlites hold their cards close to their chests and sometimes don't change their expressions for hours, even when walking through a group of smiling people. They say it's the Scandinavian ancestry. I think it's the darkness. It's hard to be gregarious when you're struggling to determine if you should be asleep or awake. Sunscreen is the only thing Californians buy in the same quantities that Northwesterners buy caffeine. No little endcap at Walgreen's can contain the length and width of California sunscreen variety--whole rows are devoted to the stuff. I wouldn't be surprised to find that many California newlyweds met at the sunscreen display.

Blue sky, being able to see for miles, and tiny lizards living under my shutters are becoming commonplace in my daily life. I no longer expect hand-numbingly cold water from the cold water tap. I don't know how to turn on the heater in my house and don't expect I will need to know. But those are desert things, not just California things. Being expected to look good while chasing little lizards and drinking tepid water, however, definitely is a California thing. Ah, well. It may a while before I can meet that expectation. Maybe a long while.

In the meantime, I'll just practice saying, "Have a nice day!" like I mean it, and talking to the person next to me in line at the grocery store about my dog's most intimate problems.

Have a nice day, OK?

Palm Trees in Skirts

Urban palm trees have always been a puzzle to me. Who thought tall skinny things with a feather duster on top were decorative? Why plant them? I have to admit, they add a welcome green relief to the unrelenting sand and rock of the desert, but really--palm trees? In the city?

Many years ago I knew a young woman from Pennsylvania who came to live in San Diego for a little while. One day she said, "I've decided I can't be civil to palm trees." And she moved back to Pennsylvania. I didn't get her remark for some time. I think I understand now. They really don't belong in the city, do they? They look so fragile, so tenative, as if they know they shouldn't be there. Deprived of their natural "skirts" of dead fronds (because you really wouldn't want a rat habitat next to your house, would you?), they lose some of their visual appeal (well, I think so, anyway.)

Wild palms are a different story. The Coachella Reserve and wildlife refuge is not far from my home. I stopped by and got this swell photo of real, live, indigineous California Fan Palms. I'd never seen wild palms before. Don't they look nice and sturdy, and...well, confident? Who knew a skirt could be so empowering?