The Puddle

It has not rained in San Francisco yet. It has been three months and nary a drop in sight. the hillsides are golden...completely golden. No trace of life.

There is a puddle though...early in the morning around the corner...thanks to a sprinkler system.

A little boy I know tried to jump his bike over it this morning on his way to school. He didn't quite make it, but as the water splashed a grin brightened his entire face. He doesn't know that yesterday morning I watched him ride through it and that enchanting smiled appeared again.

A boy and a mud puddle. Both are fleeting.

"I miss Switzerland," she finally admitted.

"Really?" The surprise is undisguised.

Uncomfortably she shifts her weight, as her eyes avoid his gaze. Gradually, she breathes deeply.

Then even more quietly continues, "All my friends and family are there."

"Aren't you meeting people here?" came the nonchalant response.

The big beautiful eyes rapidly blink. The long blonde hair hangs down her back. Her daughter clings to her mother's leg and tightly clutches two favorite books in her other hand. The titles are in German. Her brown hair gently curls around her delicate little face. When the barrage of the foreign world becomes too much she buries her face in her mother's skirt. On cue her mother's hand gently strokes her hair.

Craving the language of home...

"Do you have 3 A's?"

My mind scrambles to decipher the language. As a teacher at heart, I immediately think of grades, but I am no longer a student, so it shouldn't be referring to grades. Apples, avocados, Artichokes. Probably not. What else could it be?

Seeing my blank look, she continues, "3 A's auto services?"

Aaahhh...Triple A...in my language. (AAA)

English is a crazy language and while many folk around here do in fact speak another language. English is an equally different language in different places. It isn't right or wrong. Just different.

It is like the grocery store, I wander the isles trying to figure out how the items are organized while scanning for familiar labels. The process is grueling. Melodramatic? Perhaps, but honestly it takes hours to navigate a grocery store with proficiency.

It different parts of the country the pattern of stores varies vastly. People organize and categorize information to help navigate the world. It helps us predict and anticipate thus aiding proficiency (and reducing stress). However, all my carefully organized information from every move is useless, as my brain desperately tries to determine the pattern, so I am reprogramming as I circle the store for the third time frustrated that I can't figure out where to find the lime juice.

I spend a lot of time these days watching and listening for clues. The valuable clues that will enable me to navigate this strange world a bit more proficiently.

Sometimes, I see a familiar label and buy it just because I crave the comfort of a recognizable pattern.

And the lady who lives on the neighboring block always stops to visit if she sees me because she craves a familiar conversation. She was born and raised in Pittsburgh, so she loves to chat about "home" with someone who knows the country. Even after 20+ years in California, she wants to talk about the Steelers, autumn, and the city in the context only locals understand.

The language of "home" is powerful.

Indian Summer

Recently, I have heard murmuring among the natives about Indian Summer.

I never imaged it would be so wonderful. The warm California sun climbs through the sky and as evening falls the warmth of the day is shrouded in darkness.

For the first time all season I am still warm at nightfall. Last night we were at Yogurtouie, and as we sat on the bench at the corner of B Street and 2nd enjoying our tasty treats, Kade entertained us with his new moves--the Sponge Bob dance. No jackets needed (a first).

On our ride home, as we curved around the overpass, Nikela inhaled sharply, "Look at the moon!"

The brilliant orange orb was rising and a few sparse clouds were drifting by. The clear blue sky was rapidly darkening, but it was tinted pink by the setting sun.



Once at home, I enthusiastically grabbed my camera for a feeble attempt at capturing the majestic night sky of California. As I approached the lagoon near the bay, the moon's reflection in the water took my breathe away. As Kade stood beside me, we listened to the calling of the birds in the stillness...a rare moment of solitude in the city.



Picture perfect, but ironically I was unable to capture the perfection of the moment as my camera was irritated by my insistence to shot in the dark. Eventually, I gave up and just enjoyed the moment.

September 22

Joan Jett. Andrea Bocelli. Anna Karina. Tommy Lasorda.

1499--Switzerland became an independent state.
1888--First issue of National Geographic
1910--Duke of York's picture house opens in Brighton
1954--Fiddler on the Roof opened at Imperial Theatre in Manhattan
1991--Dead Sea scrolls are made available to the public
1997--Tribute to Diana is released--"Candle in the Wind"

While all of these birthdays and details in history are interesting, I did not know any of them until now. What I did know was that today in my history is my sister Kristi's birthday. Thus it is a special day to me.

On August 19, I was chatting with my uncle, he commented that it was my mother's birthday. A few years have passed since her arrival in the world, but her brother still remembered.

As I have grown older, I realize that events and people will come and go...but my sister will always be there. I can call her and tell her that Kade is good enough to play in-house hockey already, and she will share my enthusiasm. I can call her when I am worried about my oldest daughter, as she adjusts to yet another school and she will care...deeply. I can share life's joys and laughter and disappointments and tears, and she will embrace them all with me. I can tell her I kinda want to write, and she will push me to blog (well, shove actually...) because she knows what I need. I can make her mad, and she will forgive me.

Sisterly love. Knowing when to listening. Knowing when to gently pick you up. Knowing when to laugh. This unconditional relationship is a very special gift.

One I try not to take for granted.

In six weeks, I should see my sister's smiling face when I get off the plane in Indiana. I can't hardly wait. In my anticipation, I feel like a girl again...scrambling off the school bus and running to the house watching for that familiar curly head to bob around the corner, and then I would know she was ready with a squeeze and sweet smile...and my heart would sing.

It will be our last visit before she begins her motherhood journey. I will have a suitcase filled with little things and favorite recipes. The warmth of the kitchen will beckon as she sits and chats with me, as I make myself at home. Kevin will good-naturedly endure. Hopefully there will be leftovers that I can freeze, and later when she reheats them the smell will waif from the stove and remind her of our days together.

I love her back deck, and I can't wait to sit there in the morning with my tea and bask in the sunshine and vibrant autumn colors...it is my favorite time of year and it simply is not the same here in California. I cannot wait.

In the meantime, Happy Birthday, Kristi!

Hey Lady!

With trepidation, I turned to acknowledge the voice.

"You really know how to park that rig (Yukon XL)."

Relieved, I listened, as he continued.

"I couldn't believe it when I watched you pull into that parking spot. I can't do that, so I just park my big truck way down there," he said, as he pointed to the far end of the parking lot.

Embarrassed, I laughed, "Well, my dad taught me to drive on the farm..."

"Well, you are a heck of a driver."

And he was gone.

Not in Kansas...

Like Dorothy, Kiahra had a feeling she was not in Pittsburgh anymore during her live Monday night football experience.

MIA...the tailgating...the unique presentations of black and gold...the Troy Palumalu hair...spirited fans...deafening roar of the crowd...

It simply wasn't the same. She will forever love the Steelers because there she was swept into the passionate Steeler world that is not duplicated anywhere in her world :)

New to me...

2003 Honda Accord.

Kiahra was enamored, "Are we really going to buy a car? I don't remember ever owning a CAR!"

Nikela was nearby making sure it was acceptable to drive to school.

Kade was checking out the sunroof.

Chayse was playing with the neighbor boy.

The couple with their children grown nurtured their "baby" and were thorough in the farewell details.

It is a little four cylinder with a five speed transmission.

I took it for my first cruise to the library. Kiahra was with me. After we took off...

She said, "You do know how to drive this don't you? Please tell me you do."

Unspoken, was PLEASE don't embarrass me in the passenger seat.

Admittedly we haven't owned a five speed for a few years.

She needn't have worried though, any five speed is manageable within a few minutes if one ever drove my dad's old tilt cab. I was fine. More than fine. I even took my first u-turn on a dime. Soo excited!

Shared my excitement with a friend in the neighborhood, and when we left to go home my husband thought I should have the lights on. Really? I have to turn them on? I have had automatic headlights for over 10 years...well, I did find them. If it is my greatest disappointment I suspect I will survive.

Did I mention the only other flaw is the sound system? The gentleman upgraded (significantly) the speakers which will make it a bit too cool for a teenager to eventually be driving. However, in the meantime, I suppose it is my job just try to wear the speakers out!

Oh, and I parallel parked today...totally rocked. I can park anywhere!

The ultimate in exciting is the carefully documented city gas mileage. Ready? 23 mpg.

Kade crawled into the car with me yesterday and promptly opened the sunroof, rolled down the windows, and turned the music up.

Fed Ex

The package arrived yesterday afternoon. It was greatly anticipated. I carefully took out the cell phone and plugged it in so the initial charge would begin before the new owner arrived home. I didn't even check out the phone.

Off I went to pick up my oldest daughter from school. Thinking about the new cell phone. It is the fifth phone to join the family. It is official. Everyone except the kindergartener has a phone. Exactly what I did not want. Until recently we had one floating phone--that the kids shared according to need.

Then we arrived in California. A state without school bus transportation. Three different schools miles apart. Four children. Physically impossible to deliver everyone on time...so triage began. Seven miles to the high school Nikela attends and bus service wrought with challenges. I leave the house with her daily at 6:35 AM for our daily commute. I return just in time to wrap up the details with the rest of the gang. Then Chayse, Kade and I strap on our helmets and at 7:40 AM ride our bikes 1.4 miles to the elementary school while Kiahra gets on her bike and joins a couple neighborhood kids as they cruise onto the bike path in the opposite direction for the 2.25 mile ride.

Then the pick-up process begins at 12:30 PM when kindergarten ends. I ride my bike again because parking is very problematic at all schools. The schools were designed for the bus service that was eliminated a couple years ago due to budget cuts.

Then some days Nikela is out at 1:30 PM...other days it is 2:21 PM. Kade is out at 2:45 PM. Kiahra at 3:00 PM. Unless it is Wednesday. Then it is 12:30 PM and 1:30 PM respectively.

Obviously, they begin their treks home on their bikes without me. As I worry about obstacles on their courses, I now can reach each child and he/she me. Thanks to our household full of cell phones.



Kiahra was utterly delighted with her new phone. It didn't stop buzzing all night. It sports a bright pink cover. It was not the model she wanted, as I didn't not consent to all the bells and whistles; however, it still has a qwerty keyboard. She was showing her dad her new phone and told him her keyboard was better than his. The cell phone wars began.

"Perhaps it is," he conceded. Then he picked up his phone spoke into it and a few seconds later Kiahra received the text message with her name misspelled.

"Hhummph. It doesn't spell my name correctly."

The company switched Ron's phone on Monday, except he was not nearly as excited as Kiahra at the opportunity of learning all the ins and outs of the Droid as his Blackberry retired.

I too am learning to utilize more the of the options on my phone. The calendar is now fully programmed. The after school schedule has tripped me up a few times in the last couple weeks. Most recently I dropped Kiahra off at dance an hour early and sent Ron to pick her up an hour early. I was not too popular. Did I mention that I was having lunch on Thursday and my phone began buzzing because Nikela needed to be picked up? I had forgotten she was out earlier on Thursdays. Anyway, hockey, piano, and ballet are permanently scheduled and anything else also goes on that calendar, so I have my 15 minute warning system in place.

Sometimes amidst all the craziness, I must use the GPS, as I find new routes from one place to the next...and then my precocious little partner, Chayse, who studies the electronic map on the GPS, can predict when I will make a wrong turn, so now she warms me in advance..."Mommy you are going to have to turn left..." She knows that sometimes the GPS doesn't give me enough warning to navigate all the lanes of traffic. Smart cookie.

Weary mommy.

Art

The artwork that adorns my walls has evolved through the years. It has become a collection of the places we have been and people we have met. My first framed piece of artwork is my sister's. That little stippled tree frog has followed me everywhere. Then a friend and colleague of Ron's shared his work. Thus began my humble, eclectic collection so many years ago, but each piece has a story.

Our latest piece which just arrived a couple days ago is dear to our hearts...it is Montana from the eyes of a local artist and friend. The mine Ron worked at is tucked behind this mountain.

Montana is beginning to look a bit like this as fall nips the air. And we feel that familiar tug on our hearts as we gaze at the view of the Boulder. The kids pause, and I can see that faraway look in their eyes. A bit of heart still resides in Montana.

Vaccine

In the past two weeks, I have received multiple notices from each of my childrens' school about whooping cough/pertussis boosters--and for the record multiple notices times four definitely elicits attention at my house. Then last night at the elementary open house every teacher mentioned it and informed us that if a child has a cough they are not welcome at school.

Why the big concern with whooping cough? The answer? I just googled it. The ninth infant just died of whooping cough in California yesterday...it is an epidemic here--likely the worst in 50 years.

I called the local pediatrician immediately to inquire about boosters for my kids since I chose to vaccinate my kids, and I knew that they were immunized at one time; however, I also know that in relocating to other parts of the country my kids are highly susceptible to local illnesses because they have not established immunity. Anyway, the very friendly and helpful receptionist explained that all my kids are current and that Ron and I are the only ones who may need a booster.

She, too, was evasive about the need, so I went back to google to read the articles. California makes vaccination optional for kids to attend school in their highly concentration classrooms.

AND the highest rate of infections correlates to the lowest number of immunizations across the state.

One of the kindergarten mothers is expecting a baby. Babies cannot be vaccinated thus the high fatality rate for infants. How terrifying.

I am all for freedom of choice...but admittedly today I am rethinking the risks.

The helpful receptionist did tell me anyone(I) was welcome to receive a free whooping cough booster at the local health clinic on Friday. FREE?? In California??? This must be serious.

Misnomer

Freeway. Freeway implies an unimpeded way--a road that will allow one to travel by motor vehicle quickly.

Here a freeway is generally at least five lanes which may lead one to believe that despite the high concentration of people, one could drive freely. Could is the key word because it implies...in theory.

As one who is familiar with metropolitan traffic, rush hour is always wrought with challenges; however, the time of day is not a good indicator of traffic flow in the San Francisco area. It is impossible to gauge the best time to plan my freeway usage which leaves me irritated.

I do like the metered accesses to the freeway, or the bottleneck would be a complete nightmare.

Highway 101 is one of my local freeways. I travel 101 at 6:30 AM every morning. Thus far, that proves to be the best time to travel if one is seeking a freeway, but one must be awake to merge and navigate the busy five lanes at 70 mph.

Any other time, it can be unpredictable. Thus local folks reference it as the 101 Parking Lot. As you can imagine, the parking lot tries Ron's patience on his daily commute home.

With the current budget crisis, I am assured that I will not be able to propose a new label for this road; however, the government managed to become sidetracked by a proposal to outlaw plastic bags in the state of California rather than focus on what I percieved would be more key issues. Thus I am sitting here thinking of a new label for the freeway...any suggestions?

Ya know mom...

that guy we (her dad and her) met at the Caltrain station the other night on the way to the 49ers game? Well, he was on the news last night.

What guy?

Didn't I tell you about that guy we ended up riding next to on the train...he was interesting...

Interesting?

Ya know that song, "God is great, beer is good, people are crazy"...he was like that.

Son: Why do I have to dress like this?

Father: You have the same problem I do. Your mother dresses me funny too.

*********

I am feelin' the love here...

THEN my son brings me this photo.



Why is it cooler to wear a praying mantis?

Cousins

As a child, the children of my aunts and uncles were very special. When cousins visited, parents were distracted and we were free to roam and explore to our hearts' content. I remember hide and seek. I remember elaborate games of make-believe. I remember late night conversations. And laughter. And love.

Of course, this was long, long ago according to my children. They love their cousins very much and anticipate those special visits as much as I did as a kid; however, they have never even met some of my cousins because the river of life sometimes takes us in different directions. Recently, when the current carried me West, I discovered I would be "relatively" near one of my cousins.

Together we drifted down memory lane during lunch...though the scenery was a bit different this time as the seven children clamored around us thirteen years later. Luckily the kids knew their parents were distracted and the bonding began. Xander and Chayse were sharing high fives. The giggles of Nikela and Anya drifted down table. The details of these interactions were lost on the adults.

But the familiar face of childhood was not lost on me. There is something special about family...how you can sit down together and feel the comfort of familiarity despite the hiatus.

Second cousins...exhibit the energy of youth!





First cousins...young at heart!

On the road again...

William B. Ide Adobe Home State Historic Park, Red Bluff, CA.




While the park only memorializes William Ide as the president of the short-lived California Bear Republic, it represents the life of early pioneers in the valley.



A way of life I would prefer to remain in history...everywhere I looked in the cabin I saw work from the spinning wheel to pots and pans to the bed which required keeping the rope tight and straw fresh.


As we bade the forest ranger farewell, he gifted the kids with a puzzle referred to playfully as the oxen yoke. The goal was to get both beads on the same side without untying the string ;) The next few miles were unbelievably quiet!

Of course on a road trip interesting discoveries are made...



When Ron deciphered our license plate as six Montanans (though the 251 eludes me), the kids were delighted.

Our next stop was Olive City (aka Corning, CA). Here Bell-Carter Foods is the largest producer of table olives in the United States and second largest in the world. Lunch at the Olive Pit was fun, but not near as fun as browsing the endless selectoon of olives and oils AND selecting a special variety of olives for Uncle Kevin to enjoy. He loves olives, so Kade was very fastidious in the selection process. The package is en route, as were we were to home.

However, I suggested a "quick" jog over to Highway 1. As we meandered down the mountain road enjoying the scenery and pace of life, it eventually became apparent that we had taken the "long" way home. We cruised along the edge of Clear Lake and through the little towns along its shores when Ron noticed a plume of smoke on the southern side of the lake (ever a fireman...) and Kade was next to express concern. Shortly helicopters responded.

In the meantime, we paused to explore a winery, Ceago (shee-ye-ho). We merely selected it by convenience and curiosity. The vineyards were intriguing and beckoned us from the road with signs.

The vineyard was beautiful...



as was the villa...(in sharp contrast to the earlier adobe home)





...and the waterfront.


The winery was buzzing with activity, as people enjoyed their holiday weekend, so we enjoyed our quick look and moseyed down the road where we found fresh peach sorbet bars at a local orchard fruit stand. Yummy in the hot California sun!

As we wound up the mountain road, the kids tried our fresh almonds.

Finally, we reached Mendocino. The Pacific ocean crashed against the rocky cliffs, and I cannot help but recall the the song that Willie Nelson and Le Ann Womack sing..."Mendocino County Line." The quaint town was overflowing with visitors with its enticing charm.

Though as dinner hour was eminent, we were soon distracted by our search for food. As we cruised further down the coast, we found a restaurant in Albion with a view of the ocean and a table for six. We dined as the sun went down and the piano played.

Before we departed for home, a lady volunteered to capture a photo with the entire family as the sun set across the Pacific.



Hours later we crawled into our beds at 616 Cornwallis.

Road Trip

Saturday morning we left the city...it took an hour to get out of the traffic.

As we headed north, the sun was hot. The golden hillsides attested to that.

Orchards and crops lined the roads. Strange crops that I had not see before. The brilliant yellow fields were too bright for the grains I know. Eventually, I learned it was rice. Rice. Admittedly, I thought rice only grew in wet places which California is not! I learned that now only does rice grow in here, California is the second top producer of rice in the United States.

Orchards filled with nuts, olives, and fruit also abounded, but figuring out what was growing on the trees was tricky.

Red Bluff, California was our destination.



In 1958 my father looked out over this valley. His aunt and her family had just built their home on the hill.

Now his cousin lives here. He welcomed us warmly though we had never met him. I just had his name when I called a year ago as I was trying to uncover family history. He answered and confirmed he was my grandfather's nephew.

He shared stores and memories.

Ice skates. He still has his mother's ice skates. I loved this story. Grandpa loved to ice skate. He grew up skating on Owl Creek (which meanders through the family homestead) with his sisters. His oldest sister never parted with her ice skates although she lived in California where the water never freezes. I suspect fond childhood memories kept the skates in a special place all these years and now the next generation honors that place too wondering what story those skates could tell...but without words they merely tantalize the imagination of a mother's Dakota prairie childhood.

More local family members trickled in to meet us and share glimpses of their lives. It is time for a family reunion...to bring us all together...and bring the stories together...

New Color

As the scissors snapped shut, I heard, "I was betrothed to my cousin." I saw her nose unconsciously wrinkled in disdain. In the mirror, I watched a hardness seep into her eyes as her gaze drifted far away. Unconsciously, she combed my hair.

A blink. Gradually she began cutting again. Her voice returned. "I was so grateful my grandmother brought me here."

Her grandmother legally immigrated into the United States to join her sister. She left everything she knew after 50 years of living in her homeland.

Now a granddaughter will remain eternally thankful she did not have to fulfill the role of women in her homeland. The relief in her voice is audible.

"I am so grateful my grandmother hired an attorney to help me. It was hard. I am not political, but she recommended that I request political asylum."

When I arrived my grandmother told me, "I brought you here, now you must help bring your brothers."

"As the oldest, for twenty years I worked to help my brothers. I never gave up. It was very hard. The paperwork was complicated as relations between the countries deteriorated. I just kept trying. Now two of my brothers are here. They are so gratful for the opportunities that exist here for anyone. My third brother does not know if he wants to come now that he has lived for so many years in his town."

Tehran. It is very different than here.

Have you read Reading Lolita in Tehran? I ask. Stories and books are my automatic connection to people.

"Yes," she answered, then paused, "Well, actually I am listening to it on audio...I just started it. Funny you would ask."

As I listen to her cautiously sharing how difficult the lives of women are in her homeland, I feel drawn back to the book that I had picked up years ago but struggled to complete.

Her mother is back in Tehran caring for her father who suffered a stroke a couple years ago after she had secured her immigration papers and was living with her daughter in America. Her husband wasn't sure he wanted to move. Now her daughter worries about her mother as the country is so unstable. She offered to come home to help. Her mother adamantly refuses, as she does not want her daughter to risk the life she has in America.

"It is bad here." That is all the mother will say. "Do not come here. Do not leave."

"You know the government is listening and reading everything," she sighs.

Her daughter reads between the lines and again her eyes belie the internal struggle she feels.

As the story unfolds it becomes clear to me that the grandmother came to pave the way for her granddaughter. Her mother let her go at 19 for a dream of a better life for her daughter. The power of the courage of these women to let go in hope rather than succumb to fear floods my body as I watch her work in the mirror. She has soft waves in her short hair and a perfect curl rests on her cheekbone.

Those hands that clip and shape also gave her the means to to shape the future of her family.

My cut was finished. As her fingers measured the accuracy of the cut around my face, her chin rests on my head. As I study our reflection, she was lost in her work and thought. Two women who were raised worlds apart sharing the morning together and memories of grandmothers.

As she ushered me off to finish my color, I held the image.

My grandmother homesteaded on the prairie. The harsh prairie where the winds of winter froze life. The summer prairie where the sun baked the land into lifeless cracks of silence. She raised her daughters and sent them to normal school during the great depression in an era when the education of women was unusual.

She tells me she trained as a stylist in San Jose. Then hesitating, she continues to share her love of art, a passion that led her to a BA in Art History. Art is a visual history of the world she is enchanted by.

Recently she has started taking art classes. She reveals she thinks she would like art therapy, so she can help others. Particularly women. She is passionate about her desire to help women around the world despite her quiet demeanor.

Her artistry emerges, as does my hair color. She smiles faintly as she studies her work. She is pleased.

She walks me out into the the hot California sun blazing in the clear pale blue sky.

An unforgettable haircut.

September 1, 2010

With a little help from daddy, we even had time to smell the flowers this morning! Chayse didn't need any help finishing her pancake with strawberry syrup, though! She loves pancakes, so she ordered them special for her first day of school!



My motley trio was almost ready to face the day...some a bit more enthusiastic than others!



Chayse loved poising for me this morning. I love the morning sun peeking though the shadows on the fence.



Kade keeps growing. I wonder if I stop feeding him, if he will slow down a bit?



After a crazy morning schedule, Chayse, Kiahra, and I stopped for lunch at The Olive which is a small Mediterranean restaurant down the street from us. It has outdoor seating on the deck over the lagoon in Foster City. The seagulls played in the placid water as we peeked over our sandwiches beneath the umbrella, enjoying our afternoon together. The homemade lemonade was a hit...down to the last drop. This authentic shot had sisters racing for the last drop!