Where Do Your Cousins Live?

Okay, so now it's official. I am in the Writing Resolutions workshop with Molly Fisk. We were asked to introduce ourselves to the others thusly: Where do your cousins live? What's your favorite food? Who is your favorite writer? When I listed the places my cousins live I was struck by a couple of things. One, I am the only female on my mother's side, a fact I was always proud of but it probably didn't really get me anything. "We moved to Iowa before I could speak." This is a line borrowed and adapted from a poem I just read by Kathleen Lynch of Sacramento. I found her poem in a newspaper I picked up outside the hospital in Auburn where we went to visit Ginny, who had just had surgery after breaking her hip at a friend's party. There were four nurses at the party we were told so she got excellent attention while waiting for the ambulance. She never made it to the party; fell on the way up the stairs. Ginny and Bob have been married over sixty years. They grieved mightily last year when their parrot died. He had been with them for many years of that long marriage. Now Bob is trying to keep Ginny from pulling tubes out because she is so impatient to go home.
The other thing I was struck by when listing my cousin's homes was that I am not close to any of them, with the exception of an older cousin who lives in Santa Barbara and is a little in awe of how many places I've lived. He has had two homes I know of since he got married 40 years ago. I say in awe of but maybe it's really aghast over. I'm not sure. He and his two sisters and one brother grew up in Laredo, Texas, where my Uncle Mac moved when he was a young man. My uncle was the oldest of seven children and he was my father's hero, even though he left home for MIT when my father was a young boy. In the 30s I think, he was business manager for the Cranbrook Academy of Art in Bloomfield, Michigan, then called the Cranbrook School for Boys. The community was founded by George Gough Booth, a Detroit newspaper baron and philanthropist, and Eliel Saarinen, the Finnish architect who occupies a major position in the history of modern American design and architecture. Both were inspired by the vision of the Arts and Crafts movement, which began in England in the mid-nineteenth century and soon spread to the United States.
I don't know why my uncle left his job there but I have heard the stories of his arriving in Laredo in the late 30s and being attracted to the sound of music floating out of cantinas (I may be making this part up) and he stayed, marrying a woman whose family helped found the town. He eventually bought a ranch called the Double G, one of the Gs being for my name, Gault, where my cousins had a goat as a pet. I was so jealous, My father never went to work without wearing a suit and tie and he couldn't stand animals. He was the guy who every cat and dog gravitated to immediately at a party, however. They seem to know.
Uncle Mac's youngest son was named Arturo after his grandfather and I visited their home one time when I was living in San Angelo with my first husband, who was in the army. We had huevos rancheros for breakfast and drove across the border to have cabrito at a famous restaurant, my first authentic Mexican meal. I remember one time my uncle drove into the small Iowa town where we had moved to from New Jersey (he and my father the only two siblings to have left their East Coast homes and never quite forgiven for that by the family). He was driving a sporty Thunderbird convertible and all the neighbors came running when they saw him pull into our driveway. He also raced Jaguars and had a sailboat in Corpus Christi named after his grandmother, Ida. He hunted in Jackson Hole, Wyoming and had dated movie stars (Joan Crawford's name was mentioned) and, well, you get the picture.
Even though my uncle and my father had not spent much time together once he left for college, my cousin and I were both amazed at how similar some of their traits were. Even though they had chosen very different lifestyles, they moved in the same fluid way and smiled with clear blue eyes that pierced you when they noticed you. When my father was suffering from dementia near the end of his life, he told me he had seen Mac on a street corner in San Francisco. "He didn't speak to me," he said sadly. Mac had been dead for five years. I told him, "He just didn't see you."
"Yes," he said, comforted. "That's what I was thinking."

Invitation to Writing More in 2010

Wendy on Facebook said: "Here we go." And I replied something like "Fear of heights won't stop me now." Then I got an invitation to join an online writing group for January. Had to decide. Decided. To go for it. Wrote a haiku this morning in response to a haiku written by a former teacher at Sophia. Mine was: Gray morning quiet/Furnace sighing its warm tune/I am arising. I notice how much better I feel after I create something. Anything. I am going to create one page in my art journal today. Today I say. I have been watching youtube tutorials and I get so inspired when I see how people create these beautiful pages. I am ready to move from observer to doer. I need to still, or turn the volume down anyway, on the inner critic ... that growly, crusty critter that comes to life when I put pen to paper or fingers to keyboard. Down, boy. It's okay. I know you are trying to protect me from the unkempt hobo of my Iowa summer childhood. But I saw his eyes. We have more in common than not. I want my freedom. I want blue skies. He wants a soft bed. A deep connection to another human being. I'm going to visit a friend in the hospital today. A beautiful woman who has been married to her partner for something like 60 years. She fell and broke her hip and he must be devastated. She is probably quietly healing and trying to keep him from worrying. I think after the visit, we'll go to the Flower Farm Coffee Shop with our computers and write. Something we've been meaning to do since we discovered it. Here we go.

Compassionate Communication for an Anniversary Gift

My 30th wedding anniversary is coming up Feb. 15. I know, why not Feb. 14? Well, we had to work that day. We got married in the living room of a dear friend and the snow started coming down as we became man and wife (man and woman?) That didn't stop us from driving to Chicago to a nice hotel for our short honeymoon. We couldn't stop for fear of getting stuck once we got onto the highway. (They weren't freeways in Illinois.) John started a new job the Monday after our wedding so we took a longer honeymoon several months later.
The thirtieth is a big event, especially when we've both been married before. So today I read about a five-day retreat in the Santa Cruz mountains in nonviolent communication (also called compassionate communication) which just happens to take place on our anniversary so I took it as a sign. John was enthusiastic about it, so we will spend that big day in a rustic cabin in the mountains, refining our communication skills so our next 20 or so years will be as much fun as the first 30.
It was challenging that we dropped the car off today for a tuneup and learned that we need four new tires and a new battery. But the car is paid for and it's important to keep it in good shape and safe too.
Because we just have one car, a friend agreed to meet us at the car dealer's and we went to the mall to walk for 45 minutes. We were challenged by John to stay on task and not be distracted by shiny things. He was actually the first to be drawn from the path; he just had to check the price on those spiky, strappy heels at Macy's that I told him were all the rage. $110. And I told Linda I was grateful we never had to wear those things. We marched past the Pottery Barn and the Crate and Barrel and were not even lured in by the Border's. We finished the walk with a healthy lunch at Pluto's where you get a gigantic salad with seven toppings for under $7. I'm looking for inexpensive entertainment this year and that was a good outing. Saturday we brought a few sacks full of books to a used bookstore in Sacramento called Beers and were offered $39 in credit or $30 cash. We also took a walk around that neighborhood for something different to look at. So I have stuck to my resolution to walk 45 minutes a day and I have blogged twice. Now if I can just get myself to unwrap the yoga DVD.

A New Decade

Here it is 2010 and I haven't written since April of last year. But it's a new decade. Woke up a little blue. What do I have planned for the new year? Nothing. But then I watched a youtube tutorial on art journaling and got my spirit back. Yesterday was filled with food (delicious: artichoke dip, horseradishy dip, tamale pie, Cowgirl Creamery cheese from Pt. Reyes, chocolate haystacks, lemon bars, potato chips, pita chips, triscuits, banana bread pudding...) and football: Rose Bowl & some of the Sugar Bowl, when I remembered that I left the sugar out of the banana bread pudding. Probably a good thing. Now I sit with a bowl of oatmeal and raisins and vow to eat nothing bad for me this day. I also vow to want what I have, do what I can and be who I am. Wise words of Forrest Church who died last year. He was a UU minister at All Souls Church in NYC. I first heard of him when Bill Moyers interviewed him 20 years ago, before I learned I was a UU. (Took a quiz on belief.net and scored 100% on UU and 97% liberal Quaker.) Luckily, when we moved to Roseville I stumbled upon the Sierra Foothills UU church in Auburn and have been driving up the hill ever since. Today I will do two pages in my journal, take a 45 minute walk and ponder all the ways I have been given just what I need.

Taking Off

Taking off again. We found a short sale condo, made an offer and it was accepted. So after a year in our new apartment, we're taking off again. This time, we'll only be moving 15 minutes away and our furniture will fit, because the new place is very much like the old place, only now we'll own it. Because we've been renters for several years, we'll be getting a tax credit and our monthly payment will be less than our present rent. Still, it's scary to be buying in this current economic environment.

The thing I'll miss about this place is how close it is to a wonderful walking trail. The trail is public so we can come back, but it will mean getting into the car instead of just walking out the door. We'll try to find the closest trails to our new home. I'm using the opportunity to get rid of even more clutter. We dropped four bags of clothes and books at the Goodwill yesterday and I don't miss them a bit.

Something I've noticed about living in Roseville is how many birds hang out here. It sounds like a Walt Disney movie. We have a pair of mourning doves outside our window and they flutter up from the ground and perch on the stone wall every time we walk by. I'm sure they must have a nest nearby. On our drive to the Placer Nature Center last week for a meeting, I spotted a beautiful peacock in a field. We're used to seeing flocks of wild turkeys but this was the first peacock spotting. I also saw a white seagull flying low over a field in Lincoln, a long way from the sea.

At the Farmers Market in Auburn Saturday, I saw an emu named Winston. Its owner raised it from a baby and he said the bird doesn't know she's a bird. He walks her on a leash. Her ears are towards the back of her head and they look like eyes, which protects it from predators.

So it's time for me to feather a new nest. Taking off again.

Catching Up With My Writing

It's been too long since I blogged and so much has happened. I've been coaxing my creativity in other ways and have made some big steps. I decided to volunteer at the High Hand Gallery in Loomis because it would help a friend whose husband exhibits there and because it would put me in contact with the work of 25 artists who belong to the co-op. I'm on a quest to get to know my new home, which is also an old home. We lived in Roseville 25 years ago when John was editor of the Press Tribune and I was lifestyles editor. We've been back about six months but it's a brand new city, having grown from 25,000 to 100,000 while we were away. So I have the surreal experience of sitting in a little cafe I used to go to but not knowing a single person.

The High Hand Gallery is located at the nursery of the same name in an old fruit-packing warehouse. It's high tin roof is open and on cold wintry days, it's warmer outside than in. The gallery has a space heater that we huddle around and I dress in many layers of clothing, including long underwear, when I volunteer. It will be warmer next winter because the owner is adding a new roof. One day I volunteered with an artist named Charlotte Cooper who works in copper and does encaustic painting. This involves painting with tinted beeswax that has been melted. Charlotte was offering a one-day workshop at the local learning exchange and I signed up.

The experience turned out to be a good way to meet some people and learn a new art. And we each walked away with a completed 12 x 12-inch painting, mine in shades of blue and red and looking like a cyclone swirling up from an ocean to a science fiction sky. I was thrilled with it.

On the way home, I had to stop by the blueline gallery in Roseville, which we had joined recently. I saw people carrying in paintings and sculptures. I discovered that they were bringing their works for the Member's Show called The Long and the Short of It. I asked about the deadline and learned I had one hour to get my piece in. I rushed home and filled out the form, named my painting "Life is Short" and wrote a pithy artist's statement.

I raced back with my entry fee and dropped off my painting with a mixture of fear and excitement. The next week we attended the opening reception and there was my offering on the wall with other members' interpretations on the theme. Who knows? Maybe one day I'll be exhibiting at the High Hand Gallery.

Thoughts on Poverty

I was inspired to write this morning when I learned from a friend that people have been asked to blog today about poverty. What a great idea. With the current economic situation, many of us are looking at our finances with some concern, but most of us are probably not in danger of living in poverty. We most likely will have to make some changes, some sacrifices, some choices. Postponing or canceling vacations, putting off big purchases, eating out less. But in some countries, poverty means the people don't take vacations, buy a new washing machine or eat out at all. On the news last night, I saw a shocking picture of a store in Africa with empty shelves; there was no food to be bought.

On our walk yesterday, John and I were talking about one of the sweetest moments of our lives. It happened when we were visiting our daughter in the Peace Corps in Namibia (formerly Southwest Africa). She was a teacher and lived in a cement block home on a family compound located in an area called Ovamboland, just south of Angola. In fact, she and her friends went to an outdoor cafe on the border. She didn't tell me before we got there how close she was to Angola, where a civil war was going on and Unita rebels often crossed the border. There was also the threat of leftover land mines and diseases like elephantiasis, but we slept under mosquito netting and felt safe with her African family.

One night, after eating the goat prepared in our honor (the goat was slaughtered and butchered hanging from a tree outside Kara's house; I couldn't look) we sat around the fire that had been built under the incredible starry sky. This was a custom and took the place of watching television. During the daytime, the family sat under the spreading marula tree to try to catch a breeze. On this particular night, we chatted and often sat in silence, overwhelmed by the size and depth of the night sky, stars burning more brightly in the absence of electricity. We were all looking up when I noticed a star that seemed to be blinking and then I could see it was moving slowly across the vastness. The father said in a solemn voice, "The plane to Luanda." That was our moment. The one we took home from Africa. Such a simple statement and one we would never hear anywhere else.

That family might be considered to be living in poverty. But they had a well on their property which they shared with the neighborhood (a far-reaching neighborhood) and they had family around the fire on dark nights. They had the marula tree for their living room and the children played joyfully with old tires, sticks and toys made from coke cans. Being welcomed by them, because my daughter was their daughter, taught me a valuable lesson about money that I will never forget. Being rich is having children, grandchildren, good friends. Making a difference. Happiness is the plane to Luanda.