Flying snakes and blasting caps.

Seems an odd time to tell a story of summer. I don't even know why this memory came into my head, but as it did, I thought I would share. If you follow this blog you are going to hear a lot about the place where my cousins and I spent most of our summers growing up. It was a little piece of heaven, in hindsight anyway. And in some ways it was a bit Norman Rockwell-esque, especially if I purposely forget the Tim Burtonian (did you see Corpse Bride?) dysfunctional moments from which every family suffers, at least occasionally.

Fall River Mills is a bucolic agricultural town in northeast California that has achieved some prominence in certain circles for its particularly good fly fishing. My grandparents bought their property as a result of my grandfather no longer being able to spend summers in the altitude of the high Sierras. He and my grandmother found this parcel; 2.3 acres of river front property, with a square house located on the up-river half. The place belonged to Bing Crosby's mother-in-law and was, in its time, probably a nice house. By 1971, however, it had become dingy and dated. The property, though, was amazing, It was located in a small subdivision and was special because it included two parcels, which meant space. The next five years my grandparents (and their daughters and their families) spent the summers fixing up the house, and surrounding land and vacationing.

This place was a kid's dream; deer came in the yard at night to munch on apples off the trees right next to the screen porch where we slept, ospreys hunted the river in front of the house for wild rainbow trout, and huge flocks of swallows built their mud nests on the supports of the bridge that crossed the river adjacent to the property. Fall River itself is a slow-moving, wide, dark green river that shows a sapphire blue when the sun hits it. The wind makes dappling little waves that  try in vain to return to their spring origins twenty or so miles upstream. My grandparents' house was directly across a huge field that was used, variously over the years, for growing alfalfa and wild rice. The beauty of this land was that it fell under what was called the Williamson Act, which required applications for use of the land for anything but agriculture (such as subdivisions) to wait ten years from the application date, after which time the application would be reviewed. The land was thus, for all intents and purposes, safe from development. So, my grandparents' view was always the unobstructed beauty of the valley and  the surrounding mountains.

My grandfather was first generation American, his family having emigrated from Sweden. He was my hero. He worked for the city of Los Angeles and retired in 1976. He and my grandmother, who was originally from Washington state, raised three girls in a suburb of Los Angeles called South Pasadena. By the time I came around they had moved into a large house that sat across the street from the junior high school (now called middle school? whatever) field. That house deserves a post of its own but suffice for this reading to say that if I had endless resources, I would buy it, for whatever the owners wanted; it still holds so many memories for me. But back to Fall River. My grandfather moved my (not so thrilled to be leaving Los Angeles) grandmother up to the country full time in 1977.

Fall River - facing upstream -Mt. Shasta in the background. - Fall River Chamber of Commerce photo.

 My cousins (two out of five in this case) are one year older than me, and two years younger; both "boys." They are my Mom's elder sister's sons. We were raised more like siblings than cousins and spent almost every summer vacationing together at my grandparents'. Like most kids we went through various stages of liking and loathing each other; at one moment sharing a common purpose while another going at each other like wildcats. We rough-housed, took sides, laughed at each other, worked hard together, and generally enjoyed (though we might not admit it then) each other's company. One thing we all shared, though, was a love, admiration and endless affection for our grandfather. A brief word now about my grandmother. She was strong, smart, independent and managed a household of three daughters and a husband on one salary. I have no doubt that she was largely responsible for them being able to retire where and when they did. At the same time, she and I did not get along very well when I was young. She always seemed rather "harsh" from my perspective. My preference for working with "the boys" disappointed her as we all would go outside after breakfast and not return until lunch. I had no interest in the "domestic arts" and would typically only see her if she came out to work in the garden or give my grandfather direction. After my grandfather and then my mother died, she lost much of the self-consciousness that I had grown up knowing. Maybe they called it dementia, but in the end she was the sweetest, kindest and purest of souls. I cried more than I expected when she passed away.

We worked with my grandparents  as they remodeled the small box house. They enlarged the kitchen, added a music room (for a player piano, a baby grand and tons of plants), added a second story that was intended to be the master suite, and built a giant garage/shop complete with enough room for three cars, tons of storage, a pot-bellied stove and all my grandfathers tools (in a word, ginormous). The property had, decades before, been part of a dairy farm and the out-buildings that remained were the remnants of the bunkhouses for the workers. My "grampa" moved one of these buildings next to the river, put down a new vinyl floor, placed some bunk beds and a twin and it became, once again, a bunkhouse. Yes, it was as good as it sounds. The downstream half of the property was the location of the orchard. My grandparents planted fruit and nut trees. Peach, plum, pie cherry, quince and almond all ended up producing. Next to the fence line on the property they planted raspberries (one year my grandfather weighed each of our every-other-day harvests and by the end of summer we had picked 55 pounds!). My grandparents expected us to pitch in, so the rule was that we worked until noon and the remainder of the day was our own. This work could include tearing off the old roof, pulling the endlessly long hose to each sapling and hand-watering, or splitting and stacking wood. We helped dig the trenches and lay the pvc pipe for the irrigation system (no more hose!), mowed the lawn (we loved it when they had a little riding mower), and helped build a new swimming dock. Certainly, we were invested in this place; it was a part of us and we loved it.

In addition to the night visits by deer, this place had an abundance of snakes, frogs, waterfowl (ducks, greebs, loons, geese and, yes, pelicans-don't ask), raccoon, muskrats, pack rats (who decorated their massive nests on the hill behind the house with stolen pink and orange survey flags),owls, hawks and even bald eagles. This story, though, finally, is about a bullfrog and a snake whose destinies we changed (if only for a day) one lazy summer afternoon when I was, I think, about twelve.

After the morning's work, my younger cousin and I were doing goodness knows what down by the water on the far end of the property. We had long ago proven to my grandparents that we could safely play in or around the river when we could swim from the lower doc to the upper (maybe 75 ft?) while carrying a milk jug full of water (arbitrary, sure, but it certainly showed determination and strength). Anyway, along the river we heard the unmistakable sound of a bullfrog. They made this loud ROOOONK sound and we would hear them mostly at night. On this day we followed that sound and sneaked up to the tall grass along the water's edge. Then we saw it; a large, light green amphibian sitting on a rock on the shallow shelf of the shore (say THAT five times fast). We stared at it quietly for a moment and then one of us had the bright idea to try and catch it (frogs were no big deal after we brought pockets-full of little garter snakes to my aunt and uncle's house in Rainier, OR). He and I went to the cellar and brought up the long-handled fishing net. We went back to the space hoping the frog would still be there.

Now, of course just because we stopped working at noon, didn't mean that my grandfather did too (unless it was very hot out). At that time he had a handyman/helper named Pete. Pete was one of two Pete's who worked occasionally with Grampa and this one we called "Pete-Pete" (we were kids!). Pete-Pete was a small, wiry old man (he was probably only in his fifties, but it's not the years, it's the mileage) who had spent his life in the valley. As a young man, he had lost one finger on his right hand and two and a half on his left while working with blasting caps as a logger for one of the local companies. His loss of digits didn't seem to hinder him and he always had great stories about the area in its earlier days. He was scruffy and wore thick glasses. He worked hard and had a quick smile and was very patient with us and our significantly lower skill level at...well, just about everything. He and Grampa were working on something at the front side of the house when we caught the frog.

Being the older cousin, I held the net when we crept up to the frog. We slowly moved the tall grass out of the way and I swung the net down over the amphibian. We were thrilled! We got him! Then we noticed something; he didn't move. We had tried to catch frogs before (with varying degrees of success) and every single time, they jumped, whether into the net or out to freedom. This fellow (assumption) just sat there. I reached in under the net to grab him. I gently wrapped my hand around his body and raised him up. he was really heavy. Wait, what? Heavy? He was heavy, and as I raised him up to bring him through the grass and onto land, I saw why; attached to his right leg, up to his body, was a HUGE GARTER SNAKE. My cousin yelled, "SHIT!" and I nearly fell over. We had no idea what to do. We had interrupted this reptile's lunch! Do we put it back and let nature take its course? Oh hell no. We moved as quickly as possible, me holding the garter-frog (bull-snake? no, that's not it) as far from my body as I could, all the while screaming, "Graaaaaaaampa!" We caused so much commotion that my older cousin came to see what was up and my grandmother came out wondering (rightfully) what we had done this time. Grampa and Pete-Pete came around the house and I heard, "Oh for Heaven's sake," and then we asked what to do. Pete-Pete didn't hesitate. He took the frog-snake from me, put one of his shortened fingers between the mouth of the snake and its intended victim's leg and said, "Now, you don't wanna eat that ol' frog now do ya?" and proceeded to pry the snake from the frog's leg. We watched in horrified fascination. Then all sorts of things seemed to happen at once. My grandmother yelled not to release the snake near the house. Pete-Pete got the snake off the frog. The snake bit Pete-Pete's already abused digit. Pete-Pete reflexively flung the snake away from him. Towards the house. The snake went flying towards my grandmother. My grandmother started screaming and we went off to try and steer the snake towards the river, all the while trying to contain the laughter that was bursting out of our bellies.

We herded that poor harried snake towards the river while my grandfather calmed "the room". Pete-Pete suffered no permanent damage and we let the frog go, up-river. We put him on a log that rested against some water-level willow branches. Over the next few hours we would go down to the river to see if the frog had gone or was perhaps back in the snake's mouth. Finally, during one of these visits, the frog made a huge jump and disappeared in the now darkening water.

I used to wonder what the poor snake was thinking during all this ruckus. It was easy to guess what the frog was thinking, "I am being eaten. So much for my bucket list...Hey! Those big pink animals! Maybe they will eat the snake; it would serve him right... Ohmygodohmygodohmygod, I am not dead...I'm hungry." But the snake had a lot more drama that day if you think about it: "Mmm, that is a big frog. I won't have to eat for a month if I snag that bad boy...Gotcha. Now just relax, we are both going to be here a while...Oh wait, this isn't right, what the hell? I don't suppose you would put your other leg next to the one in my mouth?...No?... Fine, spoilsport. How am I going to do this...What the flip?!? Aliens! We are being abducted by aliens!..We are rising into the sky and...oh jeez, one of those things again!...Does she not know how hard it is to hold on to one leg against gravity, much less with her bouncing along?!...Now what are you doing?...Oh no. I am NOT letting go of this meal, you can't make me! Fine, take THAT!... oh crap... Wow, I have had this dream, but I always wake up when I land...Oh yeah, and now you are chasing me?! Freak show! Get me out of here..." Or something like that. He probably gave up frogs.

By the time dinner came along we were examining how that incident could have gone better. We decided it couldn't have, it was perfect. Later that night, around the card table by the front sliding screen door, we heard a bullfrog calling somewhere outside. All five of us paused from playing (probably Hearts) and got quiet, then started laughing all over again.

Another night in a child's paradise.

Jacob Marley and Me

Alec Guinnes from the 1970 MUSICAL(!), Scrooge

Personally, I think Jacob Marley got a raw deal. I mean, HE didn't get visited by the ghosts of Christmas past, present and possible future with the idea of saving his soul; why the inequitable treatment by the ethereal gatekeepers?  Was he meaner or stingier or more of a "scrooge" than Scrooge was? Have you ever heard someone referred to as being a "Marley"? I'm just sayin'...Ok, so perhaps there wouldn't have been much to Dickens' 1843 novella had Marley actually learned his lesson while still alive. He likely would have been pushed out of the business by Ebeneezer, a la Mark Zuckerberg, and gone off to run a non-profit. Hell, he might have later been one of those men that Scrooge so rudely reminds of the usefulness of workhouses and prisons! I really don't have a point here, except that I found myself on this tangent the other day whilst thinking that I feel a large sense of "BAH! HUMBUG!" this year.

I admit that my work has been all-consuming of my physical energy, my tolerance for stress and ambiguity, and my sense of humor.. But still, IT'S CHRISTMAS! (As any one of a number of egregiously sappy characters would not hesitate to remind me). Add to that I have a seven year-old daughter who (rightfully) believes in Santa Claus and I have the possible makings of a faith-shattering, cynic-building holiday season. Frankly, I am not quite ready to see my child give up on magic, elves and the possibility that someday she might be able to "go to the North pole and HELP Santa!"

So, my self-querying begins: How to regain a spirit of joy and celebration of the season. I suppose this is where I should cue Linus Van Pelt to tell me about the real meaning of Christmas, but since I am a bit of a Buddhist/pagan/Christian-in-a-love-is-everything-do-unto-others-rather-than-literal-Bible-as-THE-word-of-God-kind-of-way, I would probably just spend time listening to Linus' adorably lispy little kid voice and humming Hark The Herald Angels Sing in the background. I know what Christmas has always meant to me before this year, but I am thinking that this year it might require a bit of a shift if I am to embrace the season and all its "accoutrements". 

First off let's get the materialism bit out of the way. Christmas is not about the gifts, although I love seeing my daughter and husband opening their presents on The Day. My daughter gets things all year because we are ridiculously blessed in our lives and because her Dad and I are softies. Besides, when asked what she wanted from Santa this year, she responded, "I don't know, I don't really need anything." I have yet to get a more than stocking-stuffer response from that question. Also, having been single for most of my adult life, I am used to getting what I need or want on my own. If I see something I like, I typically get it (realize, of course, my tastes are fairly simple, if good :), especially shoes (which, I admit is my one big consumer sickness and Zappos is my enabler-someday I will seek help). And my husband, well materially he is happy with his hobby and whatever is around him. So the put-ourselves-in-endless-debt-getting-presents is NOT what this season is about for me.

Ok, we got them home...

This year I seem to feel the need to surround myself with the lights and decorations and smells of the holidays. I came home from the store today with I don't know how many boxes of lights for outside and enough almonds, butter and confectioners sugar to feed almond cookies to a small country. So maybe it is not so much about material gifts, but trying to light my spirit from the outside in? I may be on to something here, but to that end we have two trees this year (a very small one and an eight-footer). We decided (and when I say we, I mean I) that we certainly have plenty of ornaments and lights and this way I could be near a tree whether in the front room or the living room. I know lots of people who put up multiple trees. It seems like such a great idea, but I have no idea why I never participated before. Additionally, by tomorrow night our front yard will rival the Griswold's (and our neighbors) for superfluous electrical resource usage in a single month. Today I took down the "fall" mantle decorations (seriously? yep-blown glass pumpkins, mercury glass gourds, fake leaves; which cracks me up considering we haven't even raked the real leaves up yet) to make way for the Christmas ensemble. At this point,however, that tableau consists of one glass tree, a votive holder, some twinkle lights and a greeting card advent calendar; deck the halls...

Hey, it's a start.

The thing is, and it is not a complaint, it is an observation (because, my goodness, I am so NOT alone in feeling this way); I am tired. I am lucky enough to have a job that pays my bills and a bit extra, but the cost of that so-called security is stress levels and exhaustion that are off the charts. When does the cost-benefit ratio shift so that the golden handcuffs are no longer worth it? And how does one  balance work commitments to maintain some sort of personal equilibrium while also taking care of family and all that goes with it? Sometimes I think I suffer from an over-developed sense of responsibility, but then I look at my shoe closet. So, my mantle may take a few days to get done because yet this weekend I still need to do laundry and house chores, get my daughter to a friend's Birthday party and then get blood sugar up in everyone so we can brave the (finally) cold evening to experience the local Winterfest. Tomorrow I will get up extra early so I can go in to work to finish some things that the work week won't allow time for and then come home for the end of the weekend which will include baking and yet more decorating.

It could be, I suppose, a matter of energy distribution. Seems to me if I can allot every night and a weekend for a week to make my daughter's Angry Birds Birthday cake, that I should be able to muster the wherewithal to lighten up and enjoy the season!

If I can do this, I should be able to do Christmas, for cryin' out loud.

And yet, I feel I can most relate to this poor guy...

Or, I could just embrace my new-found antipathy while trying to maintain an air of HO-HO-HO for my daughter's sake. Yo! Jacob M, teach me how to rattle them chains, bro! Ahem...Yup-tired.

Will our heroine pull herself out of her self-described (and likely self-induced) funk in time to make merry, wrap the packages, send the cards, bake the gingerbread and mull (?) the cider? Stay tuned....Oh wait just one second. Have you ever read such a load of TRIPE in your life? You know you are in trouble when you don't believe your own writing!

Yes, I am overwhelmed at work (who isn't?) and feel like I am not "ready" for Christmas, but this time of year is my favorite! Fall into winter, when things are still colorful, the bitter cold and doldrums of winter have not yet set in, and when you are practically told you must drink hot chocolate and eat cookies more often than usual; I love Christmas. And actually, if I think about it hard enough, I realize that I have it especially good because, since giving up TV, we are not bombarded with a constant stream of advertisements for crap we don't need or have room to keep.

You know that scene in "Merry Christmas, Charlie Brown," when Charlie Brown and Linus go looking for a tree and they are surrounded by pink and blue aluminum? I have never experienced enough commercialism during the season to push me out of the spirit. Yes, it annoys the stuffing out of me that stores bring in the Christmas gear on Nov. 1, and yes, I do put too much pressure on myself to get "just the right thing" or make the perfect meal, but hey, I do that all year long! Christmas to me is about warmth and being together and being reminded (whether you are Christian-based or not) that there is something bigger than us that we should celebrate. Whether it is the story of the star and the baby Jesus, or a celebration of the winter solstice and the evergreen that survives through winter, or remembering the miracle of one day's worth of oil lasting eight; this season is one for me to enjoy and try to let go of some of my more worldly (and transient) cares. Christmas is a time to relive old and precious memories that are saved in the myriad ornaments and decorations that are packed away gently each year. The macaroni and yarn ornament that you made in kindergarten, the glass unicorn you got on your first trip to California, the "Baby's 1st Christmas" jingle bell you bump on purpose just to hear that perfect sound; all of these are part of the season. Does your family make iced cookies, turkey or ham, latkes or boyos, as part of holiday meals? Do you eat pie for breakfast? Do you put up lights, candles in the windows, evergreen boughs in the doorways?

There are some things that make me a little wistful; I miss my Mom and my Grandparents and the glue they provided for bringing my family together. I long to spend a little quality time with my new niece and nephew (and their parents, of course!). I hate that my step-mom lives so far away. I hate that my brother likes Cool-Whip (to eat!). I wish I could decide on what to make for Christmas dinner. I wish I could get the dog to stop eating my books. I wish I could figure out what I want to do when I grow up...

But I am not far from home, deployed to a hostile country. I am not on the streets, required to be creative just to keep warm. I am not without love in my life. I am not worried for the health of my child. I am not hungry. All in all, I am joyful this season and looking forward to celebrating with my family and looking forward to 2013. My wish for you and yours is peace, health and joy this season and always.

Cheers.

number 2 (why not?) :)

That's better ;)

The Ginger goes hunting

I have a dear friend who is smart, funny, well-read, beautiful and, to top it all off, she is an animal lover. Not a  fanatic, mind you, but she loves birds, dogs, squirrels, horses, and badgers, to name a few. She and I agree that there are times when we prefer the company of animals to people. She is also, completely in love with, and happily married to...wait for it... a hunter. Not just any hunter, but a hunter who hunts, butchers and taxidermies (not a word?) his own kill. Recently, with her supply of red vines, freshly done fingernails and a willingness to try almost anything, The Ginger embraced an activity her husband loves and learned a little about herself at the same time.

Heere elky, elky...
Photo by E. Gorman-used with permission

I am not a hunter. I always joke that I can stalk the meat aisle with the best and skin the plastic off a steak in 2.3 seconds. I would never be able to kill another mammal unless I was REALLY hungry, and there were no fish, shellfish, crustaceans, mollusks, poultry or edible plants nearby. In fact, I remember reading a kids' story when I was, well, a kid, about a boy who gave all the area deer orange vests and caps so the hunters wouldn't shoot them-my kind of story then and now. Things, however, are not as clear cut or black and white as when I was a child (or even a teenager who knew EVERYTHING). Thus, my views on hunting have evolved as did my understanding of the predator-prey relationships and how man has screwed it up in many places by habitat destruction and predator eradication programs. Hunting done right has become an important wildlife management tool. Is it so bad to hunt elk when the alternative is that part of the herd will starve because there are not enough predators remaining to cull the weak or lame and not enough resources to sustain entire herds? I still have significantly firm beliefs about hunting predators, hunting only for sport, and hunting when you can't make a kill-shot, but really, this isn't my story. This story is about trying to embrace what a partner loves, challenging one's self, trying something new, and hiking the crap out of a mountain in New Mexico. It is the story of The Ginger's first hunt.

On the early-thirty side of the morning of October 12, The Ginger and her husband hooked up the Airstream  (a "Bambi," if you can believe it [look it up!]) and headed south towards Magdalena. The Ginger had a bull elk tag in the "best unit" (17) for bull elk. She is not a killer by nature (except mice but that is another story), but she does appreciate hundreds of pounds of organic, low fat meat. And, being a ginger, she wanted to show up the boys (not that hard, in my opinion, but again, this is her story). Did she have a clue what she was getting herself into? Of course not. Do any of us when we decide to travel uncharted territory and try something new? The Ginger's husband, a basically sweet guy when you consider his hobby is to stuff dead animals in the basement (no, not a sociopath-a taxidermist!), has lived off wild meat for over 20 years. Wild meat, unless you are in a radioactive area (oops?) or someplace laden with mercury, is the most healthful way to eat meat. Have any of us really fooled ourselves into believing that animals fed god only knows what, kept in conditions where they can barely move, where they breathe the dust of each others' waste and are shot up with antibiotics, is actually a good way to eat? Now people want free-range. Well, wild is about as free-range as it gets.

Somewhere in the distance is the shot she didn't take...
It's a hunter thing.
Photo used with permission

So, The Ginger and her husband set up their Airstream at a friend's in Magdalena. While small, the trailer was perfectly cozy for two. Then her husband gave The Ginger the bad news; she would be rising at 3 (in the MORNING) to go hunting. After her cold morning shower, she, her man, and a friend were off UP the mountainside to stalk elk. By 4:30 a.m. they were in position, but at dawn two trucks of interlopers came through and ruined it all; the boorish men shot and missed "The Ginger's" bull and then scattered the herd for good measure.Unfazed, the trio spent the next six hours stalking a giant herd of elk. Finally, they set up in a position they thought would be between the elk and the water, and waited. At dusk the herd walked right through the slot the hunters had anticipated. At least 50 elk wandered through The Ginger's  cross-hairs at 135 yards, with about a dozen legal sized bulls in the group. The Ginger, being an opportunist, wanted to shoot a 5X5 but her husband and friend (being purists) wanted her to hold out for a "big bull". Only later did the trio learn that the herd bull (the Boss; the Big Kahuna; the Don) was separated from the herd earlier by poachers. Thus, the empty-handed trio walked an hour and a half in the dark to get to a road, then caught a ride for another 45 minutes back to the truck. When they finally reached the truck it was about 8:30 p.m. and pitch black. Then, as if mocking them, they heard two bull elk bugling in very close proximity ...as if to say "F*** You! Neener neener neener!"

The next morning, after a well-earned breaky of biscuits and gravy (one of the perks of hiking one's ass off is the guilt-free eating-only a woman would think like that right?), it was up the mountain again to sit in 41F degrees for three hours before sunrise (nobody said they weren't dedicated). It was a long day, but finally, at 6:45 p.m The Ginger sighted a bull that would be a good cull from the herd; he had a third antler, basically a slow-growing bullet that would eventually kill him. The Ginger, shot him one inch below the heart (remind me never to piss her off). The creature died within minutes but he made one last death run that would prove to be The Ginger's final test of the grueling three day adventure. They searched for the elk for over four hours that night and again at dawn the next morning before finding him at the bottom of a hill. 

She always looks amazing, but if you know her, you can see she is UN-thrilled.
Photo used with permission

Most of the time they searched, The Ginger cried and swore she would never do this particular activity again. She cursed her husband and his friend, cursed the gun, the idea of a hunt and her decision to do it. When they finally found the elk, she threw herself across the carcass in tears. Her husband, who held the majority of "presence of mind" at that point convinced The Ginger take a photo with her kill. To add insult to injury, he also made her hold the gun! She was tired and she was conflicted. 

I said before I couldn't hunt. I have posited that I would see an elk's big brown eyes and start waving orange vests in the air, subsequently dying in the stampede I started. But what The Ginger did was more than cull an elk that was doomed anyway; more than supplement her family's stores with meat for the winter. She had tested herself; she had accepted a challenge in the name of partnership and inherent curiosity and she met that challenge with grace and, of course, style (who's hair looks that good after tromping through the mountains all day?!). She used skill and determination to meet a goal when others (me, at least) might likely have given up. Cold showers, cold days, long hikes and conflicting emotions are a tough way to spend a weekend.

The Ginger and her husband are home now, the animal has been put up in the freezer, the head no doubt taxidermied (yes, making up words again) by her husband, and the trauma of the climactic end has subsided. Though animated while telling the details it is interesting to note that when asked would she ever do it again? Her answer: "Meh, maybe." 

Just make sure there are plenty of red vines... and bring tissue.

A little shocky perhaps, but maybe settling in to her achievement with the help of her wonderful other half.
Photo used with permission

Vermin...or Gus Gus?

We have a guest in our house. His name is Rupert. He is  a  Mus musculus of the phylum Chordata and class Mammalia; in other words, a house mouse. Now, how I have a mouse, given that I have four dogs who pride themselves on jumping to every odd sound, every odor that I can or cannot smell and every movement from me walking down the hall to the wind blowing outside is beyond me, but there you have it. He (I am just running with it being male here, mostly as wishful thinking, given the reproductive possibilities) is a new addition to the household, only a few days, but he has managed to stir my husband and I up to disconcerting levels. The idea of a mouse is about as appealing as a cockroach. I miss my cats. Don't get me wrong, I rationally know that a clean home can be invaded by pests (some of my best friends in Hawaii had B-52-sized roaches and they were intimidatingly clean in their housekeeping habits), but the idea of a rodent wandering my baseboards and looking for nibbles in goodness only knows where makes us crazy. So, the morning after I saw Rupert, we were on the job...Oh, first, let me tell you how we found out about him.

Pretty cute for a disease-bearing vermin.

On a Saturday we were packing up some boxes on the dining table to send off to relatives when I noticed little black spots on the TABLE. Upon further inspection they were unmistakable. Teeny little black mouse poops. Ok... GROSS. David and I started looking for more and dammit we found some. We found where the little stinky bastardo has been perusing the dining room, part of the kitchen and the fireplace (it gets cold ya know). So, since we live in Hanta Virus land, we sprayed bleach water on everything and cleaned up. That night we were trying to relax by the fire and watch a movie when, out of the corner of my eye, I see movement and THERE HE WAS, blatantly walking on my fireplace hearth, like he paid the mortgage. "Mouse!" I yelled and the chase was on. Of course he got away and one of my dogs slept right through it, not ten feet from where the mouse was cruising. The next morning-we bought six humane traps and baited them each with a piece of saltine cracker spread with peanut butter and sprinkled with bird seed; a feast! We will see if he takes the bait. I miss my cats.

Today I spoke with some good friends about the mouse. Turns out I am far from alone in my battle; one friend lives in the mountains and deals with them all the time, another gets "slammed" by them every fall. Apparently the crafty little boogers like to come inside for the winter (of course they do). Did I say I miss my cats? One of my friends, a major animal lover, told me quite frankly that she is the trap queen; the snap-trap queen...ewww. 

I know that many reading this will say that the line is drawn when it comes to "vermin" invading the house. Out come the poisons, the snap-traps, the sticky-die-there-or-rip-your-feet-off-trying-to-get-away traps, the guns, the bazookas, etc. I even found instructions for homemade traps on the internet that drowned them for you! OMG. I am sorry, but I can't get past seeing the little critters and imagining them wearing little shirts and scarves, singing "Cinderelly, Cinderelly!" Or, remembering when my cousins had pet mice (and rats) and loving being able to hold them, put them down each other's shirts, etc. Or, the time I rescued a field mouse from my grandparents' cat and brought it in to "show" my grandmother -yes, I had an evil streak (after the screeching and slight cursing subsided, my grandfather pulled me aside and told me that field mice do not make appropriate pets). So I had, in good conscience, to give the humane traps a try. To appease my husband's sensibilities  however, I conceded that if they didn't work, we would discuss snap-traps (oy).

Now, I also know that these adorable little mammals carry disease, poop and pee everywhere, can get through holes the size of an eraser (!), eat 15-20 times a day (granted, they have tiny stomachs), and breed like, well, rodents. New Mexico is familiar with Hanta Virus, Bubonic plague and Rabies and it can be all too easy to become complacent when one thinks they are in control when in reality there may be a hundred mice in your garage plotting a coup d'etat for control of your living quarters. Again, I say, ewww. We never had to deal with this issue because for the ten years we have lived here, we had CATS. Not just cats, but big, "hunterly" (I know it's not a word, but I like it anyway) cats who liked nothing much better than a bird appetizer. What mouse is going to invade with three cats in the house? The kamikaze mice, that's who. We lost two of our cats to coyotes last year (another story) and the third is 19 (yes, nineteen) years old and her hunting days are pretty much over. A mouse (and its relatives) could probably crawl into her bed with her and she likely would either not notice or not care.

Well, I decided that this new little adventure in home ownership was something I needed to document, so below please find a record of how this mouse thing is proceeding. I have no idea how long it will continue (hoping not very long), but consider yourself invited to join me.

It looks pissed, doesn't it?

Day 1 - Rupert is a pretty savvy mouse, it seems. He entered one of the traps, grabbed the feast I laid out for him and backed out of the trap. Tonight-we stick the peanut butter side down in the trap so he has to work for it.

Day 2- Nothing in the morning but by 1p David was calling me to say we caught a mouse! I am not sure we really thought those little "humane" gray boxes would actually work, but lo and behold, when I arrived home there was a tiny, but chubby (babies?), little mouse trying desperately to be unseen in the corner of the little gray box. Of course, Blue had the trap and was trying to gnaw it open (a little late, dog!), but David grabbed it and knew from the weight that a mouse was our prisoner! We drove to a park nearby and let it go in the desert. Fast as lightning that little critter zoomed away-no wonder we never caught it that other night. Oh, and note to all:: Rupert's name was officially changed to Rufina. We watched her zoom away, went home, and rebaited the traps (even in Cinderella there were significantly more than one).

Day 2 -pm. No more when I got home, but bait is set and we shall see what happens tomorrow. I know it is a dream to think Rufina was the only invader, but it is a good dream...UPDATE: Day 8 - No mice or sign thereof since the first mouse was caught. The traps remain untouched and there is no unsanitary evidence of occupation. I cannot believe we were lucky enough to have only ONE mouse. A scout perhaps; one who was sent out to find refuge from the cold and upon never returning the clan moved elsewhere? Somehow, I doubt it, so we remain ever vigilant with the saltines, peanut butter and gray boxes at the ready. I guess I won't worry until I see I tiny little laundry basket...

Angels in the room

My Mom's last day in her physical body here on Earth. Sounds better than, the day she died, right? I suppose it is all in how you look at things. It has been ten years since my Mom left her shell and I have faith, partly because she did, that she is in a better place. She should be, she deserved to be. In terms of her "last day" it is vivid in my mind in so many ways. It was really warm, it was sunny, she was lucid for a long time, we were able to actually have a few giggles. Mostly I remember her; how she looked, the feel of her hand in mine, the touch of her little bald head as I stroked it occasionally during the day, the sound of her breathing and how it changed as the day wore on. Perhaps most important, though, I remember what she said.

My mom had been ill again, when the oncologist said the cancer had returned, since about May. She had since made her decision to stop treatment and die at home, family by her side. Since May she gained a son-in-law who she adored and listened to me as I talked about the life David and I had started to build. But on this last day, a warm day in early August, I didn't do much talking. Not many of us did. What do you say? How do you say goodbye to a life who has been with you since the beginning? How do you tie everything up in a neat little package and store it in your heart as if it was just another day? My Mom actually helped us with this process; whether she knew she was doing so or not.

At one point during the day my aunt put on some lovely classical music and it played for a while and then when it seemed my mum was napping, it was turned off. Later when she woke up again, they asked if she liked the music. "Oh yes, it is lovely, I am enjoying it so much." So my aunt went to turn on the music again when my mom said, "Oh no, not that music." Moment number one. My aunt is not religious at all. In fact she is nearly anti-religious when it comes to her own beliefs. My grandmother, however, was deeply religious in a Presbyterian sort of way for her entire life. But when my mom said what she did, they both stopped and just looked at each other in amazement. I smiled to myself and held back the tears.

At this point I expect the science-or-nothing peeps out there to tell me how the brain reacts when the body is dying and how random electrical impulses can produce seemingly meaningful statements, gestures, etc., that in fact mean nothing except that the brain is in free-fall. Well, this is where the faith part of this situation comes in to play. I am not someone who subscribes to "organized" religion (which, now that I write it down, doesn't make a whole lot of sense to me anyway). In short, let me say that I am devout, but I do not believe one must go to "church" to demonstrate and experience faith. Rather, I look around and see the presence of God, Allah, the Goddess, a Higher Power, the Great Mystery, every single day. Whether I see that presence in the bloom of a flower coming up from asphalt, or the kindness of a man who pays for someone's groceries in front of him in line, or the incredible force of a storm like Hurricane Sandy, I see that presence everywhere, and in most everyone. I don't recognize a hierarchy of religious beliefs where one is somehow less than another. I see many "religions" as equally violent and also capable of facilitating great mercy. So of course on that terrible, awful and yet beautiful day when I said goodbye to my Mom, I truly believe the things she said were not random and even if her body was dying, her spirit was wholly alive.

My mom was also spiritually devout and leaned toward her upbringing as a Presbyterian. In South Pasadena she attended Calgary Pres. sporadically but religiously (sorry, the pun was there, I had to use it) at Christmas and Easter. She was also extremely open-minded and when I started questioning some of the basic tenets laid out in the bible at an early age, she supported me. Actually, I just asked "Why?" so much that I was encouraged not to return to Sunday school until I had a firmer foundation of faith (yup, I was kicked out of Sunday school before Kindergarten).

Anyway, as the day progressed, people came by, some to say goodbye to her and others to check on the family. Some couldn't bring themselves to even see her during the last few weeks of her life. At first I was hurt and angered by this apparent abandonment. As time went by, however, I decided that we all have our critical mass of pain. For some it is seeing death in the room, but for others it is seeing death in the corner of the eye. Each of us must decide how much we can take and how best to remember those we love when they die.

At one point mom asked my aunt and grandmother to recite Psalm 23, The Psalm of David. The two ladies gamely tried to do it from memory (remember my aunt's views on religion?), "The Lord is my shepherd.I shall not want." OK, good start. "He maketh me lie down in green pastures, he has me drink from still waters, He cleanses/restores? my soul." Umm, losing it here..."Even though I walk in the shadow of the...the valley of the shadow of...." and then, all tears broke loose. My mom took a deep breath and said "Close enough." I just laughed and held both women for a moment when Gramma broke away, went and got the bible and they then read it through to my mom. I honestly think she appreciated their first attempt better, because it came  from their hearts. Moment number two.

Very shortly after composure was regained, mom asked that she be allowed to speak with me in private.My grandmother, who, we would learn later, was succumbing to both fatigue and grief, left the room and my aunt followed. My mom then pointed straight up to the ceiling above her and said quite firmly and clearly, "You too!". She then waited a moment, and turned to talk to me. Moment number three. Her discussion with me remains private, but suffice it to say that even then, she was worried about me. Mostly, we just hugged.

One of the last things my mom said to me was that she wasn't afraid, that she "could see" her dad and grandparents and they were waiting for her. Moment number four.Then she said she loved me. One of the last things I said to her, was that it was "OK", that I was going to be fine and she didn't need to worry about me; that if she was ready, she should let go. Then I told her I loved her and she lightly squeezed my hand. She was, however, no longer verbally responsive and within two hours she was gone. IT was, in so many ways the most horrible of days. On the other hand, I felt deeply blessed that I could be with her after she had been there for me my entire life. How lucky I was to be able to say goodbye.

Was it her brain executing random electrical signals that made her see angels in her room? Could be, but I rather like the idea of her being greeted by those she loved (including every pet she ever had).

Besides, it also means that, if all goes well, she will be there to greet me when the time comes.

uncredited photo

Sea Stories: Flotsam and Jetsam

In Maritime Law, flotsam and jetsam have specific, legal meanings. To the lay sailor, however, those terms are generic for "stuff" (potential treasures) floating in the sea or washed up onshore. A day or so after our Cuban adventure, Ariel's screw started smoking and then stopped. Mac decided to take us in shallow and anchor off one of the little coral islets that was poking up out of the water. Under sail and with me as bow watch, we navigated through some reefs and dropped the hook. Mac suggested we check on the screw, then swim to the land mass and look for possible treasures brought ashore by Gilbert.

Mac and I dove off the swim platform at Ariel's stern to look at the screw. Apparently, when we left the Cuban ship we took some of her cheap plastic line with us and it wound itself around the screw shaft and hub. The longer the screw turned while motoring, the more friction built up and eventually melted the line and stopped the screw turning. The fix was simple enough; we would take turns swimming under and cutting at the plastic blob attached to the screw. Of course, nothing is as easy as you think it will be when it comes to a boat and being at sea. When we first jumped in the water we both came out saying "What the hell!?, Ouch, Dammit!" When I put my face mask half-way in the water I could see the forest. We had landed in what appeared to be a jelly bloom and were surrounded by thousands of tiny, almost clear, mildly stinging jellies (or some gelatinous critter). They were not dangerous, only annoying and, well, they were just, there. Trying to push the water away only brought others towards us. These little ones (juveniles?) were drifting on the current and we would just have to work around them. So, one at a time, Mac and I went into the water, got as low as we could to avoid the bloom and cut on the melted line. It took only a few tries for each of us and then Ariel's screw was free.

Now it was time to play. Mac and I started to don our snorkeling gear when Dean flat out said he wasn't going. When I said I didn't think anyone really needed to guard the boat, Mac just started laughing and said that Dean really didn't like getting in the water. Excuse me? You have worked as a merchant seaman most of your life and you don't like the water? Did I miss something? Dean patiently explained that he usually worked very large ships and that he had gone days without even seeing the ocean if he chose to do so; getting in it wasn't so much a priority. Ahh, but we were prepared for (most) eventuality and it turned out that the man who had traded Ariel to Dad left her with a...well...for lack of a better term...giant, inflatable banana. I guess this thing was meant to tow people behind a motor boat, sort of a kinder, gentler, jet ski? Anyway, we inflated it, threw it overboard, Dean climbed on top of it, Mac gave him a paddle and he was off. Unfortunately Dean didn't seem to quite be able to tame the ungainly thing and he kept drifting away from Ariel and the islet. Mac (between chortles) kept telling him to get it together and Dean answered him with creative curses. Finally, Mac decided that Dean just couldn't wrangle that giant, mutant floating banana so he decided to swim after him.

Great Barracuda-uncredited photo

As Mac was donning his face mask and fins we noticed a visitor lurking just off the end of the swim platform. The Great Barracuda is the largest of 20+ species in the world and can get up to six feet in length. While sometimes seen in groups, we only saw them on that trip as solitary visitors. Barracuda are bold and inquisitive and they can be unnerving in that they often follow divers and snorkelers. While they have a snaggle-toothed and fierce expression, they are mostly non-aggressive to humans, unless they are harassed. Well, harassment is in the eye of the beholder, so Mac asked me to put on my yellow-tipped swim fin, put my foot in the water near the 'cuda and distract him while Mac entered the water. For good measure, Mac took his Hawaiian sling spear with him just in case the 'cuda got too nosy. Mac then started swimming towards Dean.

The Caribbean is a strange place. So often, things are not as they seem and that being my first trip, it constantly surprised me. When I put my swim fin in the water and wiggled it a bit, the barracuda backed off and almost as suddenly a small bird landed on my shoulder (I can't make this stuff up). I don't know if it was because being so far away from people it didn't know any better or because being so far from anywhere it was taking what rest it could get, but this little thing landed on me and completely took my attention as it wandered around my arms, down to my hand and up again.

Something, however brought me back from my reverie. I looked down and the curious 'cuda was right at the tip of my flipper and when I looked out I could see Dean continue to drift out to sea. His banana was no longer giant, from my perspective. The question was, where the hell was Mac?! I jumped up and started to scan the water when I saw, in the completely opposite direction from Dean, Ariel and the islet, something desperately disturbing the water. It was Mac and I stood there for a moment not believing what I thought I was seeing. My father was a strong swimmer and very savvy of the sea. Could he be drowning? He went under and that was my answer. The current had proven to be much more then either men had thought. We hadn't noticed it while dealing with the screw because we held on to the boat the entire time.

Now, in an attempt to be really honest with myself and the reader, I will tell you that I hesitated. I have said before that my relationship with my father had darkness to it. Well, I thought for a nanosecond that I could probably get the boat back to Florida on my own. That thought, however, was immediately overpowered by my own voice saying, not in whisper, "Oh no you don't! You son-of-a-bitch, I just found you  and you are not leaving me again-not like this!" And then action took over. Remember how I mentioned earlier that Mac didn't show me how to deal with Ariel and all her idiosyncrasies and challenges? Well, I watched and listened anyway, so I knew that the electrical system was crap and so I needed to get down below and start the generator before I tried to start her engine or use the anchor windlass. I knew how to start the generator because I learned from my grandfather. I knew how to operate the anchor windlass because I had watched Mac and Dean do it (all I had ever used were not motorized) and I knew how to maneuver her because I have a cousin who sails often, I'd sailed the coast of Baja in winter and because-yup-I had watched Mac.

So, I pulled off the flipper, put the bird on a stanchion, went below, kicked on the gen, came back up, started the engine and the anchor windlass (I honestly don't remember if the windlass control was above deck or below). There was no finesse in how I raised her anchor. Mac had set her well in the coral but instead of easing Ariel and jimmying the hook loose, I just raised her up and moved Ariel forward. As soon as the hook cleared the water I swung the 52 ft boat around and went after Mac. By now I could barely see him; only the water he was trying to fight and his flailing arms. I went recklessly through the reefs (I heard some grinding a couple of times and hoped that was me damaging the coral instead of vice-versa) and came up beside Mac down current of him so he would drift right into the boat. I put the engine in neutral and went to the swim platform. Mac was under the water. He had dropped his spear early in his fight with the current. I knelt down, reached in and grabbed his arm. I pulled him up onto the platform and asked if he was ok. He couldn't answer as we was too busy throwing up seawater. I told him to stay put and I went to get Dean who had by now fallen (jumped?) off the banana and was frantically trying to swim to the boat. I missed moving Ariel down current of him so I put the engine in neutral, grabbed my one fin and a line and jumped over the side after him. He grabbed the line, said "I'm OK, I'm OK" so I grabbed the banana. We climbed aboard and found Mac had made his way to the deck and was still emptying the seawater from his lungs. We dropped the hook right there and I powered down Ariel. Both men needed some time to themselves. Dean went to the bow and Mac was towards the stern so I went down below and got Mac some fresh water to help ease the burning in his throat and then I made spaghetti. Hey! The adrenaline was pumping at this point! I thought about diving in to check on Ariel's hull but didn't think going in the water would go over well with the others at this point. I had to do something and it had originally been my dinner night anyway.

After the incident-birdie comes to dinner (see, the spaghetti?).

Mac hoarsely called me up to the cockpit before dinner was ready. He looked like himself again, if somewhat exhausted. He looked me dead in the eye and said "Thanks, Kid."  I know it sounds trite now, but it was pretty amazing for me. Then he said he thought he was a goner especially because I didn't know how to run the boat (ahem). I assured him that I had paid attention and that from now on I would like to be crew, not just passenger, on the trip. He readily agreed. I went down and brought up the pot of spaghetti. Dean came back and didn't say a word for the longest time. I just looked at Mac and started to dish up pasta when Dean finally said, "Thank you." Dean confessed that he had been up at the bow crying; he was sure he was lost that day too. The silence was suddenly very awkward. Thank goodness my little avian friend showed up and joined us for dinner! We decided to stay in that spot for the night and head out again the next morning.

The rest of the trip to the USVI was relatively uneventful. We had some interesting moments, for sure: stopped in Great Inaugua (Bahamanian island known for salt production and flamingos) for engine repairs,  and raced a hurricane past Puerto Rico. We had some moments in the USVI as well (did you know that the anchor will ONLY let go in the middle of the night when it is windy as hell and your only 100 yards from shore, that sea urchins will chase you and that giant cockroaches can swim?) but nothing would be as dramatic or affecting as that day near that tiny coral island.

We never did go to the islet looking for flotsam and jetsam. I figured I had brought my own on board anyway ;)

Post Script: I never knew my father to be at all sentimental and I was never sure he had really ever told this story to anyone. Last year, though, my brother told me that Mac had told the story over the years and had seemed outwardly proud whenever he did. That knowledge makes me happy.

Sea Stories: Come here, big buoy.

When we tell stories we like to show our clever, level-headed side. Nobody wants to look silly in our own stories! So typically, don't we choose to tell those stories that put us in our best light? Sometimes, though, the  best stories happen when the author is not the hero or savior of the moment. We all have moments where we make mistakes, misunderstand situations or make the wrong call; welcome to humanity. People are human, and even the best make mistakes. Mistakes allow us to learn, gain experience and, hopefully move forward knowing that we will do better next time. Besides, the ability to laugh at our foibles keeps us grounded, and if that is the case I am one of the most grounded people I know ;)

For example, on the trip with my father heading to the U.S Virgin Islands, I was on the first night watch (8p-12a) and Mac and Dean were down below sleeping. Looking out at the blanket of stars that covered the sky down to the horizon,  I saw in the distance a flickering orange light. Even with binoculars I couldn't tell what it was and I started to get quite nervous. Was there an oil rig this far south? Was there a ship afire? The light got bigger and I was a moment away from getting on the radio and waking the men below when the light suddenly started to take the familiar shape of the crescent moon. The tip rising "out of the sea" was so bright that I had mistaken it for fire. Within a few minutes the entire moon rose above the horizon line, the orange turned to a yellow-white and I, quite frankly, felt sheepish. Can you imagine if I had awakened Mac and called the Coast Guard? There would have been no living with him and I would have lost all radio privileges. He would have mocking rights for life!

I mentioned that I wondered if the light was coming from an oil rig. That question arose because while in the Gulf of Mexico we had sailed through cities of floating production system rigs. At this point (25 years ago) these rigs were connected to a stabilizing anchor. In the daytime, navigating through them was fairly straightforward, but at night perspective changes at sea just as it does on land; maybe more so  The lights from the rigs seem to be eerily floating above the water in which they drill. If your only vision of one of those monsters is from TV or photos, let me tell you they are quite the sight in person, especially when there are several within sight of each other, like alien ships hovering over the sea. These platforms are also guarded. There is a LOT of money tied up in these rigs (and their product) so the people running them are naturally suspicious and territorial when it comes to "visitors." On one particular night I was at the helm when I learned a couple of lessons about knowing one's environment and the importance of being a "good neighbor".

These rigs were anchored to the bottom of the sea, not by the towers themselves, but by impossibly huge cables that ran from the rigs out at an angle into the sea and down to the floor. The cables were marked by Volkswagon Beetle-sized buoys so that ships and sailors knew where they were and could avoid them. Riiiiiiight. Well, Mac went down to the galley to get some coffee and I sailed merrily along. The sea was pleasantly rolling, not glassy enough to mirror the stars but not a difficult sail, by any stretch of the imagination. When I saw the buoy I decided to stay well clear of it so I steered Ariel to port of the giant float, toward the massive oil platform. This course gave me a pretty good view of the rig; it's hundreds of lights and the giant structure against the night sky. I kept going and when I came to the next buoy, I did the same thing-steered to its port side, between it and the oil rig. Then two things happened at almost the same time: 1. Mac came up from below and took a look around and, 2. a motor boat came screaming (ok, moving fast but not screaming-it was the men on board who were screaming) up towards us. Things happened pretty quickly from then on. Mac looked around and got his bearings and then almost dropped his coffee cup. The men kept yelling, flashing their lights, blaring their horns and waving at us, and Mac told me to steer Ariel to starboard and get as close to the buoy as was safe. Turns out, on the rig-side of those buoys the cable gets more and more shallow until it comes out of the water and runs up to the rig. The buoys were there to let us know that anything inside their border was not safe for ships or boats because the cable could tear off the keel of a boat or damage the screws (propellers) of a ship and possibly, if the ship was big enough, snap the cable all together.

Yeah, well, when I screw up I do it all the way.

After I got Ariel to the outside of the buoy line, I heard some residual yelling from the crew of the motor boat as it moved to return to the rig and then I looked at my father, not knowing what to expect (I learned later that he could have quite a temper when he wanted). In this case, he just looked at me and did this under the breath laugh and said that he must not have told me about those-huh? Uhh, no Mac, you didn't. He also said I clearly inherited his luck and then proceeded to tell me more about the buoys, the rigs, how they work, who works on them, etc. Apparently the men in the boat could have detained us and called the Coast Guard to come and get us if we had been any more trouble --oops. More significantly, the cable could have damaged Ariel to the point that she would sink, thereby destroying my family's future home--ahem. I stored that info away in my head as I did everything I learned while on Ariel.

My father, though he initially invited me on as "crew" was really hoping that I would just be able to have fun on this trip and not worry about working. He wanted a chance for us to reconnect and he didn't want me to feel any pressure to do anything other than relax and enjoy the journey. What he had yet to learn was that working as crew was fun for me. Instead, during much of the early part of the trip he didn't "bother" me with the details of how Ariel functioned; her idiosyncrasies and her challenges.

That decision, to not show me, would prove to be a very serious mistake on his part later on in the voyage; one he would learn from and remember for a long time...

Sea Stories: Galveston to Fidel

I have said this before, I didn't know my Dad well. He and my Mom split before I was two and I rarely saw him. What I did know came partly from what others told me; my grandmother, my uncle, people who all had definite opinions about him. As for me, I have memories that are relatively few but quite clear (to me, at least). Once, when I was very young, he showed up at our house and I answered the door (door chain still in place) and this man asked to see my mother. I asked who he was and he said, "I'm your Dad." I closed the door and went in and told my Mom that some man who said he was my Dad was outside. I also remember spending a weekend on a boat he stayed on (co-owned?) with a doctor named Phil (how do we remember such stuff?). Mostly I imagined him based on the little I knew of his work at sea and a wooden frame he made for me with a fuzzy, black and white photo of Mac on the bridge of some giant ship on which he was, at that time I believe, a Bosun's Mate. Don't get me wrong, it was not all dolphins and sparkles. Some of my memories are benign and some are quite dark. My father was not a simple man.

One memory stands out in my mind, though, as TERRIFIC. It was something I completely expected (maybe even hoped for on some level) while being with my Dad; something adventurous, implausible, reckless and, well, fun. It was one of those cases where my description of him to friends seemed accurate: My Dad was a walking Jimmy Buffet song.

This is NOT Ariel, but an Irwin 52 that reminds me of her
 -uncredited photo

For context I will try and keep it short. In late summer of 1988, when I was 23, my father called and asked if I wanted to sail from Galveston, TX to the U.S virgin Islands. It turned out that he had traded his house in Maine for a 52 foot sailboat. Yes, yes he did. My stepmother and half-brother were already down in Charlotte-Amalie and were waiting for my Dad to bring Ariel, their new home, down to the warm waters of the Caribbean.

WELL OF COURSE I SAID YES and I met my father and his quirky friends in Texas. This bunch included one of his shipmates from his Merchant Marine days, Dean, and a "crewman" he brought on because the guy was an electrician and wanted a ride to the USVI. I was to learn not much later that he had never sailed and thus spent much of the first five days locked in his cabin with debilitating seasickness-which wasn't eased by the fact that his cabin was in direct line of the diesel fumes emanating from the engine...And yes, we all told him, to no avail, that he would feel better with some fresh air.

The one time the electrician did venture out was the day we left Galveston and we were still in the huge bay. Mac put him at the helm to get the guy used to it and it ended up a near-disaster. I was down below, unpacking, when I heard Dean and Mac yelling at this poor guy. I poked my head out of the hatch above my forward v-berth to see a huge black mass engulfing my view. Electrician man had sailed us into the path of an oncoming freight ship (you know, those really big ones that carry lots of those big containers that carry things like cars). I still have no idea why he thought IT would move for US-it probably didn't even know we were there. Mac heaved Ariel to starboard and we got out of the giant ship's way, but we took a beating from the wake the massive thing created as it went by. I didn't see much of the electrician after that, until we reached the Florida Keys and he left the boat, for good.

September, 1988 saw a massive hurricane hit the western Caribbean and Gulf of Mexico. Gilbert killed hundreds of people during its trek across the sea, first making landfall on the Yucatan peninsula, then back into the Gulf before making its final landfall on mainland Mexico. At one point the monster storm was a Cat 5 and wreaked havoc on everything in its path and within hundreds of miles in every direction from its eye. We sailed after Gilbert had come and gone, but its destructive force would shape my father's decision making and add some definite spice to the trip.

After we bid adieu to the electrician and stocked upon provisions in Key West the sail was somewhat uneventful, in a gorgeous-I-can't-believe-I-am-here sort of way. Every morning we were greeted by dolphins playing in our bow wake, flying fish landing on the deck (and yes, the bunny hugger in me went and slipped them back into the water whenever they were alive), and huge manta rays leaping completely out of the water. We had left the deep azure blue of the Gulf behind and had entered the pale turquoise of the Caribbean with no fuss or muss.

In charting our course to the USVI, my father made the decision to go down the "back side" or west side of the Bahamas between them and Cuba. The sea in this region is quite shallow across the huge shoal that is the Great Bahama Bank and Gilbert's recent run had played with sea levels such that Mac was not so trusting of his charts. There are countless cays and islets in this area; small, uncharted masses that are not much more than old exposed coral heads surrounded by submerged, jagged reef structures that could rip through Ariel's hull. Thus, Mac made the decision to make the down run closer to Cuba than to the Bahamas. This was no big deal as long as we stayed at least the 12 nautical miles offshore that made up the international water border. The thing about sailing in the Caribbean is that between the sun, the animals, the drift and the beer, it is easy to let attention lapse. Suffice it to say that we got closer to Cuba than we should have; closer than they wanted us to be and they were about to let us know it.

One night, as I was reading in my bunk, I heard what sounded like a fairly large boat coming near us. This seemed odd as we hadn't seen any other boats since we had left the Keys; only far off freighters making their way north. I wandered back to the companionway and came out on deck. Not only was it a big boat, it was a small ship. It looked like some old, rejected Soviet gunship; something you'd see in a propaganda film from the 1950s. This ship, however, was shining its spotlight on us and moving ever closer, readying itself to come along side.  It was moving faster than we were and suddenly I figured I had better run up to the bow and throw a fender over the side so the damn metal boat wouldn't smash into our port side. The ship's deck was significantly higher than ours and any collision would have pitted our gunwales against a metal hull. Just as I threw the fender I was met with something I had never, ever seen before...From above Ariel I saw something jump over the side of the gunship and onto our deck. I was flabbergasted and my first thought was whether this guy was ok. I ran up to him and asked if he was fine at which time he raised himself up, pointed an automatic weapon at me and started speaking fiercely fast in Spanish.

Our "captor" was terrified. He was my age if not younger. I imagine he drew the short straw for who was going to jump from their ship to our boat. He was lucky he didn't break a limb, especially in his leather-soled shoes on a wet deck in the dark on a pitching sea. I had never had a gun pointed at me before and I put my hands up, asked him to please speak "mas despacio, por favor" (more slowly, please), and gathered from the gesturing with his weapon that we should move towards the cockpit where my Dad sat, slightly dumbfounded in an amused sort of way, and Dean was positively doe-eyed (no doubt thinking of stories he'd read of people getting thrown into Cuban  jails never to be seen again). At the sound of my Spanish, the "jumper" (I don't remember his name) relaxed a little and told us to follow the Cuban ship into the harbor.

Once inside the small protected bay, we tied up alongside the Cuban ship and then the Comandante and a couple of his officers came on board. They searched Ariel from bow to stern but not in any kind of destructive or invasive way. On the contrary, they were quite respectful and asked us to move things like seat cushions and to open drawers and cabinets. They confiscated our passports, our charts and then tried to take the radio mic, but it was not removable without breaking so the Comandante simply asked us not to use it (Ok!). As the only one who spoke a modicum of Spanish I was named translator and when they asked questions I would do my best to translate using my high school Spanish and lots of hand gestures. You can probably guess that this was a long and tedious process. Mac had thoughtfully dumped his stash of (for you innocents out there) "tobacco" when the Cubans first started moving closer to us, but he didn't throw his guns overboard. Early in the trip I asked why he had guns and he said that the Caribbean still had pirates but these drove cigarette boats, smuggled drugs and favored stealing sailboats (and killing the owners) as cover for their operations. When the Cubans asked about their purpose, I simply said the only word in Spanish that I remembered for "bird" and that was "paloma" (high school Spanish, remember!). The answer satisfied them as they all seemed to understand the need for hunting (whatever). I assume by now you are getting afraid for us, as these folks have clearly savage intentions for our little crew - not.  The men left the boat and got on their radio with someone further inland; a higher up, we presumed. It was obvious from our eavesdropping that someone wanted to know more about us and was making the Comandante go through the entire formal procedure. So, he and his officers came back on board and started asking us questions. The Comandante was a small, quiet, older man who Mac was convinced was given this gig as a reward for supporting El Jefe during the Revolucion. Could be, but he seemed kind and fatigued and not really that interested in keeping us or filling out the mountain of forms they brought with them.

Late into the night, after telling them every specification of the boat, everywhere we had been on this trip, where we were going and might stop on the way. After copying down passport info, serial numbers from every piece of technical equipment we carried. After looking at the engine, the anchor, the sails, the cabins and everything in between, the Cubans thought they finally had enough info to take back to their superiors. Frankly I was surprised at that point that they didn't know my shoe size, how many fillings I had and my 6th grade teacher's name. But that bit being done, now we just waited. We were tired. My Dad was nervous and I couldn't figure out why. Surely he had seen more nerve wracking situations than this in his decades at sea? I finally asked what was bugging him and he shook his head a couple of times and finally blurted out, "Your Mother is going to KILL ME."

As the night (morning) wore on we relaxed because it made no sense to do otherwise. I wandered to the bow and looked out over what little I could see of the bay. There were a few lights on the pier where the ship was tied and a light somewhere under the water that cast an eerily beautiful glow. I must have zoned out a little staring at the water when suddenly a shadow swam gracefully through the light. The unmistakable shape of a hammerhead shark slipped through the water and brought me back to my senses. Two crewman across from me on the ship saw the same sight and laughingly asked if I wanted to go swimming. That interaction started other crew members chatting with me and soon it seemed the entire crew was topside flirting with the Americana. They were all so young, like soldiers everywhere I suppose and the truth is, they were just like me. We clearly had much more in common than we had differences, even down to the music we listened to ("You like Tina Turner-so do we!"). After a while, Mac suggested I ask them for a newspaper to take as a souvenir. When I asked them, they suddenly got a bit suspicious, as if taking one day's worth of news would somehow shift the balance of power between Cuba and America...But when I explained that without something to show back home, NOBODY would believe this happened, they understood and one of the sailors got an idea, ran below and came back with a book that he presented to me as a gift. The book's title was "Fidel y la Religion" and was comprised of many interviews with the Cuban Leader by a Cuban academic. Frankly, it was fantastic! Where else could I find such a book? I thanked him and asked if he would sign his name, and they did one better, they listed the entire crew on the inside cover. It was, in a word, awesome.

Finally, at about 3am the Comandante asked to come aboard (as if he had to ask?). He told us we were free to go and he returned our belongings. He also said we were welcome to stay if we wanted to until daylight. Mac asked me to ask which would be better for them and he politely said it would be better if we left as soon as we could. It was a very anticlimactic ending to what should have been an international incident! Instead, we shook hands, wished them all well, hoped for a time we could visit legally, untied Ariel and raised the fenders. We motored out of the bay and I went to bed.

The next morning we were greeted by the same gunship coming up to us, but this time it was blaring its horn and the crew was waving enthusiastically in one last goodbye. In our own little way we felt we did wonders for Cuban-American relations that night. And we felt extremely privileged and special. We learned later that before us, the New Zealand, a challenger for the America's Cup that year was being carried by a ship that was intercepted by a gunboat and detained for a short time in the small Cuban port of Punto Cayo Malo. Coincidence? I think not.

My Father, Malcom, Arthur Bedell (Mac to everyone) would have turned 70 today. And although he and I didn't share many adventures together, we shared some really good ones (more on those later). Happy Birthday Mac. With love, always. oxo

Unfortunately, the only pic I have with Mac-1988, somewhere in the Caribbean

Tell me a story...

I have been wanting to blog; to write something, but I kept coming back to the season in which we find ourselves. No, not fall or Halloween, but ELECTION. Oh my, and this is an intense one, but I promised myself I would not go political because, let's face it, there is plenty of that to find on the web right now.

So, while talking to a friend today it occurred to me to simply start writing down stories. Not fiction, but memories of things that remain, for whatever reason, in my heart and mind. Not that they are in any way special or overly fascinating, but they are mine; some shared with others still around to read them  (and discount them :) and others in which I am the only player still alive to recount. That sole survivor thinking is why I am writing these memories down.

Stories shape us. Family stories provide links to the past  that help define who we are and how we perceive the world. My family used to tell a story every Thanksgiving about a relative who was returning to the States from Sweden with her young daughter but missed her connecting ship in Southampton because of a coal strike. That was in 1912 and the ship was the Titanic. We always got quiet (no matter how many times we had heard it before) because of the implied consequences had our great-grandmother (who was still four years from giving birth to my grandfather) actually made her passage. She was not wealthy and so would have ridden, at best, 3rd class and we all know what happened to most of them. Now, it should be said that I have looked over oodles of records for the doomed ocean liner and was unable to find any note of my great-grandmother being booked, so it is likely that it was another ship, with a much less dramatic fate, that she actually missed. Whether it was "factual" or not, over time, became moot. Instead, it was what that story represented; strong women traveling without their husbands (in 1912!), knowledge of our origins, gratitude for the life we have, a spirit of adventure -I am sure it meant different things to each of us, but it was still important to our family or it wouldn't have been repeated so often.

Personal stories also help us develop our bank of wisdom and experience. Stories define who we are as a society; what is of import to us and what we revile. So, I write these down hoping, at the very least, that my only child will one day find them interesting and useful to understanding who her mother was and is as an individual above and beyond being "Mom".

When I was really young, and I don't know exactly how young because little kids have an envious relationship with time; they don't really get it. Nora gets so frustrated because in her mind she has no real sense of what 6 weeks feels like yet. Time is unimportant to little kids, except when they wants something. Anyway, when I was quite young we lived in a town in California named Altadena. This city sits in Los Angeles County in the foothills of the San Gabriel mountains. We lived near what was, at the time, the end of the road; to get higher, you hiked. I remember our house pretty well but it was in itself unremarkable. As the only child of a single mother, I had my own small room and we had a dog (Butterscotch) and a cat and a yard. My Mom worked a lot and she was not a "garden goddess" at all. In fact, she claimed she could kill ivy if she tried to nurture it. We also had neighbors.

Mr. and Mrs. Williams lived to the north(?) and though I remember them as nice, it was our neighbors to the south I will never forget. Howard and Ginger lived in another unremarkable house except that it was the stereotypical hippie pad of the late 1960s, early 1970s. There were beads hanging in the doorways, colorful rugs and posters and bright pillows and fringe. They had two enormous (remember, I was little) malamute/husky-type dogs named Dharma and Zeno. Ginger can only be described now as looking like Cher (during the "I Got You Babe" days), with long dark hair and bangs. Howard sits in my memory reminding me of Ringo Starr; scruffy hair, mustache and soul patch (in his Sgt.Pepper days). And, close your eyes kids of you wilt easily, they smoked a lot of pot. Additionally, they grew their own. The thing is, if the cops were to come down the street looking for the ganja growers, H&G would be their first stop; they just fit the image, especially to the police in those days.

Meanwhile, my poor mother had tried and failed miserably to grow a small vegetable garden in our backyard. Nothing extravagant; just some tomatoes, carrots and lettuce. Whether too much water or too little, crappy soil or too many pine needles from the tree behind us, or too much or too little sun, those plants didn't even come up and if they did, they suffered a wilty and sad death. My Mom was so disappointed. Her sister could grow hibiscus from a rock, her thumb was so green. One day, though, Mom went into the back yard and saw little plants coming up in the rows she had planted. Encouraged and assuming they were just late risers, she carefully put little fences around them to discourage wildlife (squirrels? rats? rabbits? peacocks?) and tended the plants faithfully.

TOMATO plant

You can see where this is heading, can't you?

Sure enough, one day a knock on the door found two policeman informing my Mom that there had been a report of someone in the neighborhood cultivating marijuana and would she mind if they had a look in our back yard. My Mom obligingly let them in figuring she had nothing to hide. What those officers found was a neat little pot garden complete with protective fencing and a hose sitting close by for easy watering. As the officers looked at her with skepticism, my mother nearly fainted away, she was so mortified. She desperately explained her situation and her heretofore inability to grow plants. The police just started to laugh. My mother was the least suspicious-looking person on the block (except the Williams'). Rather than hauling my Mom off to jail on drug charges (can you imagine the call to my grandparents?!), they pulled up the plants and suggested she learn what plants look like before she decided to help them grow.

NOT a tomato plant

Later that evening Howard and Ginger came to the back gate as Mom was cleaning up the last remnants of her garden. They were abjectly apologetic for getting her in any possible trouble. They figured (not all together incorrectly) that nobody would ever suspect my Mom of growing weed, so they used her as a "surrogate" to allow their small crop to thrive. They also assumed that their plants would blend in with Mom's veggies and it would be relatively danger-free. They didn't know about my Mom's destructive garden inabilities.

Years later we ran into Ginger. We had all long since left the neighborhood and she and Howard had divorced and gone their separate ways. She was a "respectable" career woman living on her own in Pasadena. However, we all laughed as she and my Mom recalled the short period when my Mom was a pot farmer.


My Mother died in 2002 of Inflammatory Breast Cancer. She could always laugh at herself and would be pleased to see I remember these "little moments" in our lives. XOX Love you Mom.

Mumsy 1961 HS Senior pic