A place for fog ...

The edge of collected images seems to dull in the passage of time and daily distractions. It is in the silence where they beg to appear from back in the line. Tilted heads leaning to be seen to the side of the even administrations that only have one purpose and that are born to tunnel vision, they stand perfectly straight—perhaps necessarily, though they are, without any personality, solid colors. Clear. Obvious. Styrofoam.

Notes sing and the fingers back there in the line snap, heads nod, hips move, and words rise like a melodic phoenix to remind something in me that rhythm is the jukebox of the heart, so I sing to remind those tilted heads they’re not just in line, they offer a place for fog where the world softens in meaningful nostalgia, and they remind my feet they’re not just for shoes, for walking.

CONDIMENTS IN MISUSE (just another rant)

Someone will say it’s the way your parents initiated their 

use. Others will point to 23 & Me and insist that it lies 

completely in your genes, because some people eat cilantro 

and taste soap and others don’t. One rogue group believes 

it’s a matter of aesthetics: the color of the condiment trumps 

all.

Watching someone put ketchup on a hot dog, for instance, 

causes me to wince and imagine the unimaginable: what the 

mix of ketchup and dog might taste like. There are states 

that I’m told have laws about ketchup use: shall only be used 

on fries. Which, of course, makes perfect sense. Would or 

could you say that someone who misuses a condiment has 

no taste no taste? And there are those who commit even 

more serious breaches, like putting mayonnaise on a 

dog. This is so far over the line I’d forgive anyone who water-

boarded such transgressors.

There is no constitutional right or protection against 

condiment misuse. While I know the government has its 

priorities (like creating a Space Force or dealing with anyone 

who is a shade darker than the President), I think a new 

branch of federal agents called The Condiment Cops should 

be seriously considered. Assigned to all stadiums and public 

venues, these CC’s could mete out instant justice when they 

identify misuse, an approach I think everyone would relish.

Mixed use, of course, would have to be contested in the courts …

Bronx Cowboy

My genes were trained from an embryo to go Cowboy.  Now of course it all seems so incongruous; 'Bronx Cowboys"- but there it was, in Black and Fuzzy white; Hop-a-long, Poncho and Cisco, Roy Rodgers, the Lone Ranger (who was hardly "lone" Tonto always had his back) And lets not forget the John Wayne flicks...

And then a Deputy Sheriff ... no boots.

Gal gone?

They were never automatic, her visits. Sometimes often, sometimes infrequent, but always upon appearance came a respected welcome; four-legged royalty who seemed to set aside the “wild” part and dare proximity for a snack. Her swaying and circling, and the occasional paw scratch on the ground showing a bit of anxiety and impatience, seemed more like an attempt at communication. That one could whistle and hold up an arm and then find her racing from some unseen tall grass was, for me, anyway (and I suspect for others as well), a sign that our friendship was still present and quite active. We were the “pets” grazing past her territory and paying the toll with a variety of “tributes.”

It has been a month since “the gal” has visited, responded, or been sighted. Hopefully she is nursing a new brood and is much too busy to collect our infatuated faces and smiles. But she has been longer absent than any other span, and she hasn’t left a note, nor any indication of what is happening with her.

A group of golfers awaits with hopeful curiosity that she’ll show again, take some time to abate the concern, and confirm that it wasn’t something we said …

The epiphany

I had come home from a hard day of golf to find a man at the side of my house. I recognized the PG&E uniform and inquired what he was doing. “I’m turning off your power; you haven’t paid your bill.” I had up until then been deft at defying circumstance and certain realities. I took a step closer and insisted he stop. I told him I had two small daughters who would be coming home from school soon. He paused, clearly considering my dilemma, and then looked at the golf bag still slung over my shoulder, my golf shoes connected with laces over the irons. He examined my face and the cigarette dangling from the side of my mouth and shook his head. “Maybe it’s time you change your priorities.”

Change. No greater resistance could have had residence in this man’s body than the resistance to “change” or even to alter. I checked the lights for some miracle, still in disbelief—no miracle. No cooking— electric stove. I recall making up a story about the electricity and how I would fix the problem, that homework and dinner would be by candle light. I didn’t have to make it exciting—children, I would discover, find such challenges fun, new, exciting. I announced that we would be picnicking on the dining room floor, on a blanket with candles, the fare to be peanut butter and jelly sandwiches. Two small smiles grew into large ones and my oldest fell right into step, setting the blanket with paper plates, napkins, cups for juice. I lit candles in the bathroom, the hall, my room, and four more, carefully placed on the dark brown shag rug surrounding the blanket.  Looking back, I realize, among too many other recognitions, how children automatically make the best of awkward or fresh circumstances; later, as adults, we preface our responses with complaint, blame, and a measure of self-pity, before acting on the inevitable child in us.

Watching those two bright and crumbed faces, smiles flickering in the candle light, my shame was so complete I couldn’t talk, lest I fall into tears of apologies that would need an explanation I knew I would be instantly forgiven for—forgiveness being another quality children are specially known for. “Dinner” done, “dishes” thrown away, two small nightgowns made their way down to their bedroom, giggling, hands attached. Kisses delivered and “Goodnight, sweet dreams, I love you’s” said, I was left on the blanket, but it might as well have been another planet, certainly another world. Somewhere inside, rarely visited, began an emotion that brought a racking and sobbing in my body, attached to a pall of shame and guilt I had never known I owned the deed to. It went on for what seemed like hours, and when I thought I was done, it insisted, apparently knowing how resistant I was to reality and discomfort. When finally I could walk, hours later, I made it to my bed where two small bodies inevitably made their way during the night, not always together, but somehow by morning attached to Dad. Sweaty heads and soapy smells launched every morning. This morning I would hold them like never before, appreciating cotton flannel-covered arms and bodies, tiny hoarse voices in protest over waking.

That next morning I sold my golf clubs, my stereo, my coin collection, and anything else of value, and I got in line, a line where I was no longer first—proud and happy to be third, and only just threatening to be a real parent.

Uh-oh...

What if we told Michael Rennie, an alien is an alien. We don't care how far you've come, you can't be here!"  And no one knew how to say, "Gort, klaatu barada nitko"?

Sometimes you're just Rapunzel with a crew cut..

Quail with Engima

O'Doul's! .5 alcohol and he looks wasted!

For cause?

The only thing that truly frightens me is irony...

g

Zacha

The wooden walks of Mendocino echo Zacha for me. 

He always asked me if I wanted a cup of tea. His large chiseled face and basso voice thundering throughout his studio, he accepted my refusal with a delicate toasting of his giant hand and small cup.  Not a handsome man I thought, features too large even for his massive face and head. Yet there was promise in his eyes and a delicate edge to his smile. When I asked about Toshi Yoshida, his head tilted and he explained wood-block prints to me and his friendship with Toshi.  He was so proud of Toshi’s work, always modest of his own. He introduced me to a world I would forever want to sip.

The wooden walks of Mendocino echo Zacha for me.  

Whale Tales…

The higher picks of Klugh and his nylon-strung guitar threaten Deja vu as the redwood hallway approaches. The sun filters through the giants in angled beams and splashes the road making long shadows and lighting the ferns afire.  Ancient aromas, scorched yesterdays, and long fallen allies are the “garden” here on 128. 

The river becomes ocean and a fresh salt of air steams through my nose and weds my eyes to a blue expanse- a pause, a look at a welcoming spout with a vigilance that knows the reward I search for -Kenny offers a falsetto ballad through the tides and into whatever mood my lover, the ocean, shows me…

Mendocino Magic awaits, and for a time nothing holds me; even my shoelaces are nervous...

IT

3 Generations!

Side show...

The right swing from the "wrong" side... 11/16

Moon set from my window...

looking up to the flowers...

Click on the first image

The Terror Outside My Pancakes

Growing up I can site two clear incidents that gave me pause and defined the word Terror in a way that absorbed my imagination so completely it gave me goose bumps and eluded any landing in a familiar or safe place in my head.  Try as I might nothing seemed to be able to distract me from the pure horror behind my eyes:
1. The day John F. Kennedy was assassinated.  The world stopped. We all looked to what we trusted- the news. The live murder of Oswald, the instant justice we all felt, the comfort of revenge falling far short of quenching what we all searched for.  The Why.
2. My Thirteenth October and my mother sitting me down to explain how the world might soon be ending because of missiles and man named Castro.
It was a time when censorship had clearer lines when it came to horror and terror, when the idea of censorship, (seemed anyway) to be a responsibility. Graphic or horrific scenes were rarely shown on the television or newspapers.    
How did all that change? When did sensational usurp reasonable?  No child back then was subject a barrage of headlines rife with threats, horrors and intimidation. It is now ubiquitous among nearly all the media forms. The excuses being “we need to be accurate” “the public should know the whole truth” and of course- “ if we don’t publish it, someone else will.”
In all my collective years in law enforcement, all the live horror, the fear and the loathing, the graphic realities of man’s inhumane treatments to each other, I grew my own personal cocoon around what I saw,  what we saw as we investigated and dove into procedure to help distract. In a few years of these scenes we bragged immunity to the next horror- that was necessary to survive in an atmosphere that often times bred terror and fear and very interesting nightmares.
It was during my second fork of pancakes as I read through the “news” and the litany of horror after horror the terror after... when I thought: where is the value in this!?
Aren't we creating a scar tissue that can only distances ourselves from compassion when every day is filled with what is delivered as “normal”?  Where does a 10 year-old who constantly hears about a bomb attached to a human that blew up innocent people go? Does he or she eventually  treat it like a commercial? There is no time between these published events for perspective, no place to land near solutions when the staccato pulse of horror uses up all chances to take a breath.  
This is an abuse of the 1st amendment in my opinion- and you can site all the excuses and reasons your lawyers can find to defend yourself, but you’re defending yourself against the very people who used to trust you to be responsible Mr. Media.  In my opinion you’ve done more to undermine that document the 1st amendment is attached to than any enemy in the past 200 years.

Soft mornings

A thin fog drifts across the meadow below me. It moves like a knowing smoke and reminds me of the mist above my dearest ocean perch. There is a peace that awaits these mornings, soft mornings, its pure silence is loud behind my eyes and again reminds me that my next breath is above all, fortunate. Whatever the tasks that wait, the duels unseen and the weather prepared to corrupt my mood, in these soft mornings I know I am moored to an idea that elevates my view and sings to me of now, not when, nor if- I dare not try to collect all of these at once, lest I timid become in the traffic of circumstance and forget the silent message before me; tomorrow waits, yesterday can’t, only now can make them both!

…only ones given to dreams can ever hope to awake in one...

Beyond the sea...

On the street where you live...

"How about you"?

October 30th... Last day at Sierra Meadows...

Nina at 13!

My boy with his boy....

Erik and Kai...

Another one of those skies...

While taking the pics I look down and there is this giant owl, staring at me... 

Nina Marin Recollections...

Albino Hummer....!

The growl... hiding a smile

Observation...

The homestead is threatened and the dream is a freefall to a nightmare… no sale pending and the price of staying on the lowering ship has found most off to lifeboats elsewhere.  I think wishing has been replaced with preparation- the 11th hour of interest seems to have slayed any interested party- whether it’s the County or the Owner or Rod Serling, the place ain’t selling.  The same faces grace the fairways and the occasional tournament bringing back a nostalgic view when things were busy and the pro shop rife with choices and sales.  One can’t help but hope, it’s a beautiful venue… it’s incredible no one has stepped up.  No way should the geese out numbers the golfers… I bought into an idea, not knowing it would only be a dream…  I practice moving on but I resist anything that smacks of coercion, a Bronx ethic I suspect. October looms in my head; like Sonny on the Causeway…

g

A Bit of "Americana"

Frank Sinatra considered Kate Smith the best singer of her time, and said that when he and a million other guys first heard her sing "God Bless America" on the radio, they all pretended to have dust in their eyes as they wiped away a tear or two.

Here are the facts... The link at the bottom will take you to a video showing the very first public singing of "GOD BLESS AMERICA". But before you watch it, you should also know the story behind the first public showing of the song.

The time was 1940. America was still in a terrible economic depression. Hitler was taking over Europe and Americans were afraid we'd have to go to war. It was a time of hardship and worry for most Americans.
This was the era just before TV, when radio shows were HUGE, and American families sat around their radios in the evenings, listening to their favorite entertainers, and no entertainer of that era was bigger than Kate Smith.

Kate was also large; plus size, as we now say, and the popular phrase still used today is in deference to her, "It ain't over till the fat lady sings". Kate Smith might not have made it big in the age of TV, but with her voice coming over the radio, she was the biggest star of her time.

Kate was also patriotic. It hurt her to see Americans so depressed and afraid of what the next day would bring. She had hope for America, and faith in her fellow Americans. She wanted to do something to cheer them up, so she went to the famous American song-writer, Irving Berlin (who also wrote "White Christmas") and asked him to write a song that would make Americans feel good again about their country. When she described what she was looking for, he said he had just the song for her.
He went to his files and found a song that he had written, but never published, 22 years before… way back in 1917. He gave it to her and she worked on it with her studio orchestra. She and Irving Berlin were not sure how the song would be received by the public, but both agreed they would not take any profits from God Bless America. Any profits would go to the Boy Scouts of America. Over the years, the Boy Scouts have received millions of dollars in royalties from this song.

This video starts out with Kate Smith coming into the radio studio with the orchestra and an audience. She introduces the new song for the very first time, and starts singing. After the first couple verses, with her voice in the background still singing, scenes are shown from the 1940 movie, "You're In the Army Now." At the 4:20 mark of the video you see a young actor in the movie, sitting in an office, reading a paper; it's Ronald Reagan.

To this day, God Bless America stirs our patriotic feelings and pride in our country. Back in 1940, when Kate Smith went looking for a song to raise the spirits of her fellow Americans, I doubt whether she realized just how successful the results would be for her fellow Americans during those years of hardship and worry... and for many generations of Americans to follow.
Now that you know the story of the song, I hope you'll enjoy it and treasure it even more.
Many people don't know there's a lead in to the song since it usually starts with "God Bless America."
So here's the entire song as originally sung... ENJOY!

 https://www.youtube.com/embed/TnQDW-NMaRs?rel=0

Quail Lodge...

Wisteria Hysteria

River Creek

Laguna Seca!

learning to share...

The menace to the east...