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Thanks for patience while I work to complete my MA degree ~ perhaps I can find a way to blog and complete my thesis at the same time. Ooo. Inspiration…
While home for the holidays, dad and I ventured through some ol’ family photos as we consumed copious amounts of cinnamon-topped coffee. Here’s a fun photo of me & mom ~ as the reigning crown-winners (not kidding!) and title-holders (yes!) of California State Miss La Petite and California State Mrs (the only mother/daughter duo to have done so ~ big time!), we were asked to come back and perform the next year. What glamorous number did we perform?
Well, leave it to mom and I and how seriously we took the whole pageant thing, we performed “We’re A Couple Of Swells.” One of my favorite performances ever. I *heart* my mom.
And here’s the number as performed by Fred Astaire and Judy Garland to give you an idea of the actual song.
Previously I’ve mentioned that there is allegedly a dog in my hometown that plays an accordion. And allegedly this dog plays to a crowd on Saturday nights.
And last weekend… I saw him.
And it was fantastic.
Went to dinner at Sierra Sky Ranch which is rustic, notoriously haunted, features the head of a moose mounted on the wall which over-sees the dining room, and where we spotted a Real Cowboy dressed in black cowboy gear complete with spurs. SPURS, people. Spurs at dinner. (Pretty sure this was a real person rather than a ghost of some sort but one never knows…) (Do ghosts wear spurs?) (I was sort of expecting a wild west sort of shoot-out but unfortunately for my imagination that didn’t happen.)
Anyway, this is also where a band plays every weekend and features… a dog who plays the accordion.
At first he didn’t cooperate. See the cowboy (of the non-spur wearing variety) trying to get the little guy going? (I couldn’t resist capturing this on my camera-phone.)
Then he got into it (the dog…well, the cowboy too). He basically takes the rope that is connected to the accordion and pulls the rope with his teeth. Then the band plays with the beat set by the dog.
No joke. See?
So there we have it. Reason number 4,542,392 of why I love my hometown.
In honor of September 11th, my stepfather, a retired Marine, was asked to address my small hometown in Cali and speak at a remembrance ceremony. And across the country, I paid my respects here in NYC.
Having lived here (but just visiting on business at the moment), I always find it interesting how quiet this city can become when thoughts of 9/11 settle in, as if the collective consciousness becomes calmly introspective. Even the local news stations allow for silence on the air, followed by the lonely and haunting sounds of bagpipes which seem to play every year on the anniversary of that day.
It is hard to fathom, really. I suppose only a potent silence or a singular tune could really express what that day must have been like for so many.
But the respect people seem to have carried through is still expressed in small moments– as I was walking down the street, a firetruck was rounding the city block and a group of people, 4 or 5 grown men and women began clapping and one of them yelled out “Thank you!” in sort of a choked burst of emotion.
The honor here is palpable.
Now I wouldn’t consider myself a heavily religious person, but I have great fondness for the St. Paul Church near what is considered Ground Zero. This church was built in the 1760′s and has a history spanning from hosting George Washington’s inauguration to surviving the American Revolutionary War to surviving the attacks on September 11th. While buildings around it were destroyed in the collapse of the World Trade Center, this little church that could survived and became a place of refuge for rescuers and those rescued — while everything around it became chaotic debris, the church did not even have a broken window.
(photo by wallyg)
Inside of the chapel now stands a display of honor for those who’s lives ended or were altered forever by that day:
A chalice made from World Trade Center debris.
The boot of a rescue worker who gave his life.
Across this country, whether in a small town, uptown, or downtown, we come together in honoring all who were effected, all who are effected, and all who continue to serve our country and humanity on a whole.
Thank you.
I have big shoes to fill. My mom’s shoes that is. And while she is still wearing her (closet full of cute) shoes, she has decided to kick off her high heels and trade them in for fun shoes. My mother who has worked a strong and steady career since she graduated college, has retired.
Mom opening her Stiletto Martini Glass gift.
One of my mom’s best friends since college recently recounted the story of the day my mom chose her career. Apparently my mom burst in the door to the sorority house and said, “I know what I’m going to do with my life!”
Now, I don’t know about you people, but this sort of career purpose clarity seems pretty darn amazing.
And my mom has done exactly what she set out to do. She was a teacher at a school for severely handicapped children, she then became the principal, then a school superintendent (the only female school superintendent at that time!), then Director of Curriculum for nine schools (I think it was nine…). My mom has given so much of her life to helping to educate children. She has always, all ways, acted in the best interest of the students and cared with all of her heart.
She continued her own education and received her Doctorate degree, ran Special Olympics events, championed fine arts programs, kept ahead of technological advances to make sure her schools were provided available learning tools, etc., etc.
I would go on and on… but my mom doesn’t actually talk about herself all that much.
(Unlike me who has a blog to share stories.) (Well, to be fair she has a blog too but she’s not really one to talk about achievements.) (Neither am I for that matter, I suppose.) (Apple doesn’t fall far from the tree.) (Sorry– please continue…)
Without further self-chatter interruption, I just want to say that I have an amazing mother and I aspire to give as she has given (and will continue to give… though not through a 9-5 capacity).
Cheers to “Freedom!” (We decided “retirement” seemed like an antiquated term.) Congrats, Mama Bella. I love you beyond measure.
xo
Moi
Commutes in cities can be rather ridiculous at times. When I lived in Atlanta, my commute was about 10 miles and it took 45 mins. Each way.
When I lived in New York, I’d zip up the puffy North Face jacket and walk to work through well below freezing temperatures just to avoid squeezing into a subway car with other people and their puffy jackets, dripping umbrellas, and scowling faces. Of course one time I decided to take the subway and was completely smooshed in (and it was one of those that packed-so-tightly-that-no-one-needs-to-actually-hold-on-as-we-zoom-through-the-underground-tunnels-because-we’re-so-close-to-our-”neighbors,”-we-hold-one-another-upright sort of packed) and the guy I was pressed into turned around.
Then he looked down at me.
Then he said: Oh…hi…
I laughed and said hi back to my suited-up colleague from the office.
Now keep in mind that our faces were about three inches apart. He looked….horrified. Which made it even funnier to me. And, how does one make small talk with a work acquaintance while their bodies are unnaturally pressed into one another by the surrounding people and their puffy jackets (because silence is even more awkward)?
Well, for our 10 minute ride into the Time Warner Center he talked all about his wife. He told me about where she was raised, her job, her likes, dislikes, how they met, etc., etc. Then we got to our stop, squeezed and ‘scuse me’d our way out of the subway and said a brief “see-ya” when we arrived on the 21st floor and went about our days. (Me with heaping doses of new-found factoids about his wife. I guess it’s nice to know that while uncomfortably pressed up against a female colleague, he speaks at a very constant sort of pace about his wife.)
(My office was in that set of towers… the one on the left. Image by New Yorkled.)
(Another interesting image of the Time Warner Center by Tony Shi, NY-NJ)
Anyway, back to my point (I’m pretty sure I had one). I say all this to say: commutes can be just… odd. My current commute in San Francisco takes me through Chinatown. And, while it’s definitely not comparable to packing one’s self into the subway in NY, it has it’s packed-into-a-bus-with-pink-market-bags-that-smell-like-fish sort of thing going for it. Which is not really all that enjoyable.
Photo by ifotog
Yesterday I stood from my seat on the bus and let an elderly Asian woman sit down. And apparently this small act garnered me a temporary membership card into the seemingly tight-knit, tightly packed community of sorts. When another seat opened up, she tapped me on my leg and tried to scurry me with her hand to the seat before anyone else could take it. And it was not only her doing this, an older Asian man and another Asian woman were also pointing at the seat, telling me to take it in an excited, hurried, half Chinese/half English language.
And I couldn’t not take the seat at this point because I might lose my membership card.
So I sat. And after settling my bag on my lap, I looked up and all three of these people, in different locations on the bus, were smiling at me. Like they’d accomplished helping one of their (temporary) own. They looked almost proud.
And it made me proud. (I’m not sure if this is a sign that I’m a good person or that I’ve reached a point of work-exhaustion/delirium. Could be either.)
So while city commutes can be fairly un-fun (puffy jacket/subway), sometimes we’re lucky enough to have little small town moments that make one smile. Well, at least they make me smile. (Even if it is a delirious/exhausted one.)
Or so a friend of mine says…
Last weekend I hopped into the Jeep and headed to Tahoe to stay with my Aunt (well, one of my mom’s BFF’s) and her family in a fabulous 6 BR spread in Incline Village (complete with The Kinky Room…more on this later).
All I did was pull up in the driveway and I was met with hugs, an over-flowing glass of wine, a cheese plate, an entire salad, guacamole, hummus, thick slices of french bread, cherry tomatoes, fresh-from-the garden zucchini, stories, and laughter.
I must say, if you’re going to travel, this is the way to arrive.
Saturday morning was met with cups of coffee on the deck (with an amazing view of Lake Tahoe!), fresh blueberry pancakes for all (warm and delicious with melty butter and maple syrup), and a shower. A shower with a view of Lake Tahoe.
Then we packed ourselves into the car and headed out for a hike. And my Aunt (who I should mention here is quite crazy, quite amazing, and quite fun) took us on a winding path, up hills, down hills, over streams, etc., and lead us straight to…
A nude beach.
Where we saw a Nude Guy on a rock throne.
(And no, we did not get naked.)
Later that evening the Auntie and I ventured back to the beach (not the nude one this time) for wine and stories by the campfire.
And more wine. And more stories. And more campfire.
Then she got a text message from her daughter asking where we were and if we were coming for dinner. Dinner! Oh right! Only, Auntie’s phone is something of an antique and so she hands it to me to manipulate the thing to send a reply text.
“Tell her we’re drunk and we’re on our way!”
So I text (in caps because for some reason this is the only mode the thing will let one type in): DRUNK AND ON OUR WAY!
Then we laugh at ourselves…because that’s what we do.
We show up just in time to fling ourselves toward the spread of snacks (that we were scolded for going after…apparently they were being put away to make way for dinner) then find our seats at the long table on the deck filled with the growing number of family members. More wine, laughter, delicious food (thanks to B!), fun conversation, champagne, etc., etc., until we all found our way to our various rooms, making sure to not accidentally stumble into The Kinky Room.
So, The Kinky Room: The bottom floor (naturally) of the three story home featured a room that had glass you can see out but not in, a hidden bathroom (it matches the wall…sneaky style), and chairs all arranged around, for optimal viewing of course, ready?…
The shower.
There is no TV in The Kinky Room. Because, duh, people don’t watch TV in there. They watch the shower.
Anyway, to bring us back to a “G” Rating, we woke the next morning to light rain that made the air smell amazing, coffee that was warm and comforting, and avocado slices on french bread for breakfast.
And sighs… (on my part)… because I had to return to the city and prepare for a long work week.
But, regardless ~ any weekend spent laughing, eating, drinking, and exploring with friends/family is a good weekend. Ta-Hoe us is to love us!
I just received a note from a dear family friend in the hometown that is, quite truly, one of the best emails I’ve ever received (and I’m not just saying that because it’s complimentary to me! Or wait…maybe I am…). Anyway, this note is WHY I am writing this blog ~ to inspire in myself (and hopefully in others!?) an appreciation for adventure, exploration and those simple moments that make life worth living and laughing about.
With permission by the writer of this note, here it is:
Hi… I so enjoyed reading your comments about your trip. It is such a beautiful place to visit. I’ve never been to Nice, but Avignon is also in the south of France, and it was amazingly beautiful. You were very brave to go all alone, but you younger women have grown up in such a different world.
When I was your age, my “big adventure” when I separated from my husband was to go, by myself, to Monterey and check into a motel. In my whole life, I had only stayed in motels selected by my parents or my husband. My hand shook as I registered! The really funny thing was that, the next morning, there was a big earthquake centered in that area. Do you think God was displeased with me? Somehow I don’t think so, but the thought definitely crossed my mind as I held on tight to the bathroom sink! My second big adventure was to drive the “Bloody Bayshore” from Milpitas to near the SFO airport, with no mishaps! Now I want to take either a cruise by myself or maybe go to Seattle by myself. You are a model for me to emulate!
Continue to be you… we can all learn from you and live vicariously through your exciting experiences. Love, AD
Here’s to inspiring each other through our exciting experiences!
xo
Uptown Small Town
All of my grandparents passed while I was a child so, as I got older, I sort of just “adopted” new family members. Two people in particular, Jack and Jane (yes, those are their real names!), became my grandparents ~ not by blood, but by love.
Grandma Jane was a fairly prominent artist ~ she was the Artist in Residence in Yosemite, she was featured on The Today Show, etc., and when she died, Grandpa Jack invited my mom and I over to go through her paintings and pick one out. (!!!)
It was… one of those experiences I will never forget. It was like opening a book to someone’s visions and dreams, sitting on the floor with complete awe and wonderment propelling me through painting after painting after painting. Though I’d known Jane since I was a small child, I knew her better that day. And I loved her all over again.
The painting I chose is actually unfinished. She died before finishing it… but to me, it’s perfect.
It hangs in my bedroom and every night before falling asleep and every morning when the sun starts to stream in through my windows, I peek at it. And dream in it.
(Please forgive the picture of a painting!)
It’s no small wonder that I would choose the French Riviera to visit for vacation ~ I was craving what the painting was providing. Color and contrast and texture and light and shadow and history and calm confidence.
And on my first full day in France, I made it my mission to get absorbed into the feelings and rhythms ~ to find the color and contrast and texture and light and shadow and history and calm confidence of the Mediterranean city.
And find it, I did.
Though I’m not really a “leave something unfinished” sort of person (generally speaking…that’s not to say I don’t have ten books started and discarded for another day), I find beauty every day in what Grandma Jane left unfinished ~ it’s a painterly sort of unfinished. And her gift could never have been more complete.
*Disclaimer: Apologies in advance for the following post. Not my usual sort of story but fairly amusing nonetheless. Se distraire! (To amuse oneself)
A while back when I was living in NY, a friend of mine and I were at brunch and over eggs and bloody marys, she told me about her new cat.
Me: What’s her name?
Her: Well, I didn’t really know what to call her so I looked online and decided to call her Minou.
Me: That sounds cute, what does it mean?
Her: Well, that’s the thing. A friend of mine from France was over and he laughed when I told him her name. Apparently, not only is it the french word for “cat,” it also means “pussy.” So basically, I’ve named my cat after female anatomy.
Me: Hahaha.
So, now, cut to me at breakfast in France on Day 2 of my trip ~ Sitting at a lovely little garden cafe, devouring crusty bread, a delectable buttery croissant, and traditionally rich coffee with steamed milk. The adorable older French woman brought a glass of orange juice for me (she had asked if I wanted something but I couldn’t quite understand her so I just said “oui!” out of reflex as it sounds much better than “non!” so…apparently she had offered me orange juice. Thank goodness she hadn’t offered me a snail omelette or something tragic…) and while she was setting the juice on my table all of a sudden she yells out “Minou! Minou! Minou!”
And while I may wear pearls, I also seem to have a completely elementary/gutter-worthy sense of humor so I of course laughed. And assuming that I was not entirely understanding her properly (as with the orange juice), she pointed to the little black cat that had meandered into the garden, presumably looking for a handout of French pastry (smart cat), and repeated “Minou! Minou! Minou!” She smiled. “Jardin de Minou!”
First breakfast in France and I find myself in the Garden of Pussy. Terrific.
