A Belated Mother's Day

I awoke to rain on the mountain this morning. A fire of ancient gray oak branches burns in the fireplace—a gift from the forest.

And speaking of gifts….

Thirty-three years ago, a teenager from a troubled home made the decision to relinquish her unborn baby for adoption. She told the caseworker at Children’s Home Society that she believed abortion was wrong, that she wanted to do the right thing for her baby, even though the circumstances of his conception had been partly due to the dysfunction in her family. The boy that was born and “given up” (though I believe the vast majority of birth mothers never “give up” on their children) in 1977 was my beloved son. And what would I do without him? He is my friend, my confidante, my advisor. (Had he not nagged me into it, I would never have attempted to become a homeowner again after my divorce—but what a wise and fortuitous decision it finally was.) The flowers and gifts he gave me for Mother’s Day last week are still displayed on my kitchen table. I am intensely proud of him….

And I know his first mother—the woman who named him “Kevin”—would be proud as well, proud of the man he is, proud of his accomplishments in life… if she only knew.

So I spent some time on Mother’s Day creating a Facebook page with some of this information, then I asked my friends to re-post a link to the page. I figure somewhere in Southern California, there has to be someone who knows something about this woman. My son is bi-racial. His birth mother is white with red hair (or it once was; she’d be 52 now). We believe her maiden name was Parker….

Here is a link to the page:
http://www.facebook.com/home.php#!/pages/Finding-Kevin-Parkers-Birth-Mother/208443199189095

Easter blessings

Today’s walk took me across the highway and along a rarely used and nearly obscured trail that winds behind the Mt. Baldy Zen Center, up to a flat area with few trees and much buckthorn. Without a tree canopy, it’s a great vantage point—on most days—to see down to the valley below (and on clear days, to see all of Catalina Island). Today, however, with the heavy marine layer, I could see only huge cloud chunks flying up San Antonio Canyon, heading straight toward me… which is why I chose this hike, as I love to watch the huge swaths of cloud billow up the slopes and through the trees.


I always take the iPod when I head up there, primarily because it’s a lonely hike; I’ve never seen anyone else on that trail. But also because I know that Leonard Cohen, at one time a resident of the Zen Center, occasionally returns for a visit, and I like to fantasize that one day I will arrive at the flat to find him standing quietly, looking down to the valley below, contemplative as always, perhaps composing some song lyrics in his head. I am determined not to intrude upon his reverie if this ever happens. However, should he deign to speak to me, I’ll have the iPod for a conversation starter. I imagine it will go something like this:

LC: What are you listening to on that damned thing?

Me: At the moment, Loreena McKennett… but to be honest, Mr. Cohen, I have far more of your stuff on here than hers. And I gotta tell ya, I think Rufus Wainwright did the best cover of “Hallelujah.” It’s brilliant.

OK, you’re right, sounds too much like starry-eyed chatter. If I ever see him, I shouldn’t even acknowledge that I recognize him, just nod, eat my snacks quietly, and head back down.

I practiced that today—eating my snacks quietly, I mean, while I scanned the upper slopes for deer. Well, except for a few brief moments while I sang along with Bob Dylan on “Love Minus Zero/No Limit.” Then I started back down, the clouds having nearly filled the canyon with fog. And there they were, two does leaping away, thirty feet below me. I watched their tails bob in retreat, and found myself softly singing “Hallelujah” as I walked back home through the misty forest.

Giddiness Prevails!

Bear with me for a moment while I take deep breaths…. I’ve spent the weekend celebrating my daughter’s acceptance into a Master of Fine Arts program… and also celebrating 70-degree temps for the first time since October… and bringing the bench swing back up to the porch from the garage…. Oh—and Chicken Soup for the Soul: My Cat’s Life released this week, with my story, “The Legacy of Boo Radley.” And my Author’s Page went up on Amazon (which is indescribably encouraging, because I can see that Tainted Legacy is still selling all around the country). What else? Oh! The Grandson is here for the weekend (which is how I got the swing back up the stairs to the porch—and several other chores accomplished).

I’m excited about the weather warming for many reasons. A few are:

I’m out of firewood. (Could buy another half cord for $150, but I’d rather spend that money on something that doesn’t go up in smoke.)

“Scruffy,” the cat abandoned in the forest by some idiots, has a better chance of survival. He/she is responding to food and affection, looking healthier every day.

The wildflowers are beginning to bloom. 

I can spend more hours working on the dog book. Some of you know that my cabin in winter gets so cold that I can’t stay at the keyboard for long before my fingers are so stiff from the cold I have to stop typing. As the weather has warmed (except for last Saturday, at 20 degrees), I’ve been able to work on that memoir. I want to be close to finishing by summer.

I’m grateful this week to several people who have been especially supportive of my work, particularly Laura Hoopes, who helped me get the Amazon Author’s Page going. Her memoir will release on May 2, and I’ll be talking about it here.

I’m also grateful for the readers who have checked out my blog from afar. This week, I had two pageviews from Germany, two from France, two from Russia, two from Slovenia and one from Iran. Who are you, my exotic readers? Thanks for stopping by!

One more note that I’ve been meaning to tell you about: Some weeks ago, Gary Sutton sent me a copy of his new novel, Oskaloosa Moon. Gary is a savvy businessman who usually writes about that field. However, to pay dubious respects to his roots, he wrote Moon. I have to admit, I was skeptical at first; can a businessman write an engrossing novel? But I have to tell you, I fell in love with this book from the preface. If you are a reader of novels, I promise you will love this book. I have provided a link to Amazon here—if you buy it and don’t love it, let me know; I’ll buy it back from you!  (Just click on the book.  I know; it's way too easy....)

Being here

I baked bread yesterday--a swirl of whole wheat wrapped in white, the wheat sweetened with molasses, the white with honey. I was writing in the afternoon--and watching a new storm come in. When I was finished writing, snow was falling heavily, but I donned waterproof gear and headed out the door, a loaf of bread tucked into my jacket. There is a trail cut in the snow that we've all been using to traverse the road, wide enough for one person. As I walked down the road, I encountered Neighbor Teresa and her two girls, with Neighbor Rob behind them, so I stepped off into the deep snow to let the girls pass. Rob, Teresa and I stood in heavy snowfall, chatting. Teresa was holding a bag of groceries in one hand, a bouquet of roses in the other (because she loves having fresh flowers in her cabin). As the three of us talked and laughed in the frosty air, the world was white around us, still covered in snow from the three feet that came down on Sunday. When Teresa headed on up to her cabin, Rob volunteered to continue my journey with me--down to the Walkers to deliver the bread. We chatted with Bob for awhile about the road, how much snow we’d get, whether anyone needed anything—things diverse neighbors talk about to avoid subjects like the situation in Libya or the potential for radiation in the falling snow (since I kept sticking my tongue out for tastes). Jean Walker called later to thank me profusely for the bread--it's what they ate for dinner, with jam. I love them and all my neighbors on the mountain.

Earlier in the day I’d gone out to bring in firewood, standing between my cabin and Eric’s, listening to the silence of a mountain covered in soft snow. After lunch, I headed up our road that winds along the edge of the deep canyon; the only sound was the stream below, wildly alive with the run-off from the waterfall.

I needed that walk, as I needed the moments of morning silence, the physical exertion of bringing in the wood, the visit with neighbors in the afternoon (including Rob’s gentle teasing: “If I don’t get my truck out and get down the mountain for groceries soon, I’m gonna be at your kitchen table saying, ‘Where’s the meat?!?’”).

I’ve been working on the dog book—the book I thought would be so easy to write. Pffttt. I loved those dogs! All I have to do is write their stories! Easy-peasy! I was so cavalier….

Writing the book has taken me back to a very dark time in my life. The first section of the book is about Rufus, a hero of a dog who saved my life physically… and emotionally. But in order to write about him, I’ve had to write about my wicked step-father. I’m sharing things in the book that are intensely private, things I’ve never shared with anyone before. And I’ve been wholly unprepared for how difficult it has been to re-visit those memories.

So….

I am thankful that I am still here, still on the mountain, still able to walk out the door (well, after donning waterproof pants, snow boots, jacket and gloves) and be in the forest—to lean on a tree or stand and watch a junco or chickadee or jay head for the feeder in the backyard, to see the water tumbling over the rocks, shouting as it goes, to look for coonie prints in the snow. I need those moments of life and joy and innocence to balance the grief which—after forty years—still wells up, fresh as the tears that fall from my eyes.

Snow daze

A week ago Friday, knowing another storm was coming in, my goal was to reach home ahead of it. When I stopped at the post office to collect my mail, I spoke with Maria (our beloved and efficient postmistress who ships off my books with great patience and good nature) about the inclement weather. It was raining as we discussed the beauty of quiet snowfall, and the comfort of living in a community with neighbors who will help out if there’s a problem.

“Oh,” she said happily, “it’s starting to snow.”

That was my cue.

I made it up our winding, steep road, unloaded groceries from the truck, drove back down and parked close to the highway, then walked back up in a light snowfall. Later that evening, Neighbor Rob came down to borrow a can of black beans. We stood on my porch and watched TJ, his golden retriever, dash around in the falling snow, expressing the giddiness we all felt in anticipation of deep drifts of soft powder.

I woke to a two-foot blanket outside, which looked beautiful even in the darkness of 4:00a.m. When it was light, I donned my snowshoes—yes, snowshoes—to trek around outside for awhile, tamping down a path around the cabins. I intended to relax when I came in, but Rob called and said he was going to walk down to the highway to head up to the ski lifts, and that Eric, who had been staying down the mountain due to illness, would be coming up. So I clipped back into the snowshoes and stomped down to the highway, creating the semblance of a path so that my neighbors wouldn’t have to ‘post hole’ it up and down the road. And, because Eric has rescued me on numerous occasions, restoring hot water, repairing my security light both times the raccoons broke it, etc., etc., I shoveled a path to his cabin door so he wouldn’t have that as his first chore upon arriving home.

In the late afternoon, the storm had blown out, leaving mostly clear skies. My phone rang just as the sun was setting. Rob and Neighbor Glen were walking up to the falls and wanted to know if I cared to join them. I felt honored… and tried to keep up… but slogging through deep snow is hard enough on a flat surface; on a steep incline it’s almost more than this aging asthmatic can do. But the guys were in great spirits, waiting for me from time to time, remarking on the sound of the stream or the beauty of the snow-covered trees. We walked all the way to the falls. It was misty and semi-dark, frosty and quiet. We found a snow angel, poorly executed, which prompted me to fall backward in the snow and flap my arms. When the guys hauled me up, the impression left behind was that of a pristine snow angel.

On Sunday, I woke to no water. My pipes had frozen in the night. I emailed David Siriani, president of our water board, who called Eric, who called me to let me know it had gotten down to 9 degrees the night before. Who knew? I’d been snug in my loft, sound asleep. Eric—in yet another rescue, albeit this one by phone—suggested I get some heat going in my garage where the water main is. I threw some damp towels in the dryer down there, turned it on, and twenty minutes later I had running water again. Those of us who are here a lot—ahem—keep large containers of bottled water in storage just in case, so I was content with water for tea and washing my hands. But I really do look forward to that daily soak in my spa tub, so I was glad to have tap water again.

After the sun came up over the eastern ridge, the snow was dazzling. I waited until things had sufficiently warmed to walk down and begin the task of uncovering my snow-bound vehicle. Neighbor Jimmy, I found, had already cleared much of the snow off the truck for me. I began to shovel out the wheels and clear a path so that I’d be able to drive out easily in the morning to get to work. As I did, Eric and his fiancé, Brenda, showed up, and Brenda grabbed a shovel, digging in to help clear my truck. Moments later, Teresa and Glen showed up, then Neighbor Rich. Brenda and I handed off our shovels to the guys as they dug out a place for Eric to park, then a spot for Teresa. As we worked, we talked and laughed, while the sun made tiny crystals of the snowmelt on the trees. In a short time, five vehicles had been settled in safe spots just off the highway, ready for all of us to hit the road the next day.

Coming home on Monday, I thought I had it made; I would just drive fifty feet up our road and settle back into my spot from the night before. The road, of course, was still covered with snow and ice. Sliding out downhill in the morning had been a breeze. Finding purchase in the wet snow to get up and into my spot was challenging. On my first attempt, I got stuck sideways. When I began to shovel myself out, Rob showed up and helped get me out. On the second attempt, I found myself mired again. This time, Chris Walker and Richard Wingate—who live miles away in the village and beyond—suddenly showed up out of nowhere and started helping Rob as he shoveled the snow from around the truck.

“Don’t bother getting out,” they told me, and I suddenly felt like I had my own pit crew as they worked quickly to get me out. Free at last, I backed up across the highway, put the emergency flashers on, and walked back to ask for advice. That’s when Rich showed up. Rich works for the Forest Service and is one of our favorite neighbors. He loves the mountain and was instrumental in finding a safe haven for “Boo Boo,” the little black bear that became too friendly last summer.

“You can make it up,” Rich encouraged me. “You just need speed.”

“I think I need testosterone,” I confessed. “I’m not gutsy enough to get going that fast.”

“I’ll drive it in for you!” he offered. And so it was that a moment later my little truck was speeding up the road, snow flying in all directions. Just to be kind, I suspect, Rich bogged down right where I did the first time, but the guys had him out in seconds. He made a second run, landing it exactly where it needed to be.

“That was fun!” he grinned as he unfolded his large frame from my little truck. His dancing eyes took me back to memories of my brother when we were kids. Kevin could always find some slightly dangerous but thrilling activity to engage in while I stood by wringing my hands, hoping for the best.

With the truck nestled in, I grabbed my backpack and headed home.

Yes, the snow requires us to work harder than usual, but the joy it brings with its fresh beauty far outweighs the inconvenience.

Iron Grip

There were so many things I wanted to write about today… about the mountain and the blessing of snow and indescribable scenes of moonlight on fresh powder….


But I just have to write about the book I finished reading today.

Willma Willis Gore is a dear, dear friend who has mentored me for the past ten years. She has been writing and publishing for decades, always in her great journalistic style. (Author, speaker and writing teacher William Zinsser gives the advice, “Write tight,” a skill which Willma perfected long ago.) Willma’s most recent memoir is the story of life with her husband after he lost both hands in an explosion. The two were newlyweds at the time of the accident, and they were faced with challenges that would test the strength of even a long-held matrimonial bond. Yet somehow, they find ways to work as a team, and their young love blossoms under the penetrating rays of adversity. Her husband’s story in and of itself is inspiring. As a young soldier in 1945, he faces his changed life with amazing courage and fortitude. But what makes the memoir truly compelling is Willma’s amazing response—with grace and profound inner strength—to all that transpires, both early on and much later in the marriage.

I loved this book, and would have loved it even if the author wasn’t a beloved friend. After having been turned down by quite a few traditional publishing houses, Willma decided to go forward with a print-on-demand publishing house. Hooray for that choice. Long ago I fell out of love with these fools who are interested only in the money to be gained, not literature to be presented. The book is reasonably priced, and I’ve included a link here if you want to order it on Amazon. This memoir will speak to veterans, amputees and their families, and those of us who just love a great true story.

Hodgepodge

In the weeks since my last post, it has been warm then freezing then warm then freezing. This morning, the wind rumbling through the tops of the tall trees lured me out to wander in the forest for just a short while; I’ve been recovering from a cold, and I don’t want to push it.

There has been much to think about in my wanderings. Last weekend I was so blue that only the music of Brendan James offered any consolation. (More on his music at a later date; I’m waiting for his recently released CD to arrive.) If you wonder what contributed to my sadness, you’re a kind person… and I should spare you all the details. But—here is one to encourage your outrage along with mine: Someone dropped off a dog in the campground last weekend. I found it scrounging through the garbage people leave behind after they’ve driven up for the day to play in the snow. I couldn’t get close to him, but it was clear from his behavior that he was a “drop.” Guess his family considered him garbage, too. Finding him set off a post traumatic stress trigger, which sent me plummeting into the vortex for awhile.

Keeping me there (in the vortex, swirling around in the darkness) is the fact that I’ve been working on the dog book, which is a good thing (the work, I mean), but it is difficult to write about the emotional trauma I endured as a teenager. Far too many memories have been surfacing, and they are like the mythological Hydra of many vicious heads; no sooner do I think I’ve slain one, another one appears. While I’m working on a writing project, the thing is a living, breathing entity in my head, taking over my thoughts and emotions. I’m not good around people when this is the case, so I tend to isolate myself. Depressive personality + isolation = further isolation + inability to see beauty in all things. This is a potent equation.

One bright spot has been reading my cousin’s son’s blog. Matt Fiocchi has taken a short-term position teaching in an extremely remote region of Alaska. His blog posts are filled with his discoveries about the culture of the indigenous folks up there, plus some cool lessons he’s learning about teaching young folks. It’s great to have yet another teacher in the family, and Matt’s warm depictions of his experiences are fascinating. Here is a link to Matt’s initial explanation of his adventure; if you like it, read the rest of the posts—especially those concerning how the kids play basketball up here:

Matt's blog

One more irritant I’m stewing on (hmm, interesting mixed metaphor there):  I was told yesterday that the fool who owns the old hotel in Morse Mill, Missouri—the one who keeps telling people Bertha Gifford murdered people there and other falsehoods—has recently told someone that the stone placed on Bertha’s grave was purchased by HIM using funds from the creepy tours he gives of the hotel. Oh no he didn’t. Clearly this man knows not with whom he deals. I’m talking about Bertha, of course. Never underestimate the power of a pissed-off entity from the other side. Good thing I won’t be headed to Missouri for another five months; my Irish temper might just calm down by then. Sheesh.