Painted Canyon

I don't always recommend following the advice of one's dentist (because, trust me, I've had some pretty bad ones), but my current guy (Scott Parker in Calimesa) is really good at what he does, and he's also an avid hiker, bicyclist and mountain climber. After we chatted one day about hiking, he whipped out his phone and showed me pictures of Painted Canyon in Mecca, California (south of Indio, for you SoCal locals who are now searching Google Maps for it).

"You have to go," he said.

Well, then. I had to.

So last Saturday I made the trip (I-10 east to CA 86 south, then a couple of turns to finally hit Painted Canyon Road, which is five miles of rutted sand and gravel, so if you're going, be prepared). I kept thinking I would find a parking area with a Jeep or two in it. Not so. When I finally arrived at the trailhead, there were at least twenty cars there already, more when I left two hours later.

Back home, it was 55 degrees and drizzling. At the canyon, it was 71, clear and sunny. I left my jacket in the car, and off I went to wander. The photo above was taken near the mouth of the canyon. It's a broad expanse, steep sandstone on either side. But as you walk further, the canyon narrows. The type of rock changes. Deep holes have been carved simply by the wind swirling small rocks around for decades.

Those caves must be really cool inside, but there's no way to get up there unless you're a rock climber.

As I walked, I went in and out of sun and shadow, too warm one minute, a bit chilly the next. Then I came around a corner and saw this:

It may be hard to make out, but that's an aluminum ladder leading up a rock face... to another aluminum ladder leading up another rock face. Here's a more close-up view to the first:

Intriguing, no? I mean, I couldn't turn back. Look at that, my wanderers, adventurers, and dreamers. Would you turn back? Or climb the ladders? Exactly. But... here's the photo I didn't share on Instagram. (Please don't tell my niece, an ER nurse who was concerned about me climbing the ladder in the first place.)

The ladder has been used so many times, the bottom rungs are broken. Not such a bad thing going up. A bit dicey coming back down for those of us with hip and back issues. Oh well. Up I went. And look at the view from above looking back:

Cool, huh? I walked on. And... I'd love to share many more photos with you, except about 20 minutes later, I did have to turn back. It's hard to tell from the photos, but when you're hiking this trail, it's slightly uphill and in sand. Neither are good if you occasionally fight with sciatica, which I do. When the nerve in my leg started reminding me of my age, I decided to deny my heart's longing (sorry, heart!) and listen to my extremity. I turned around and went back, saving the rest of the hike (which leads into a narrower section of the canyon) for another day. I can't wait to return. When I do, you can be sure I'll post up about it here.

My Last Cat

A year ago, when I adopted Jenny, I wrote a blog post about her (find it here). The last line is: "Because I don't want another cat." Please understand, I've been saying that since 1992. I'm a dog person. I am. I really am. But... cats have been in my life continuously since 1972. No kidding. No break from cleaning litter boxes or being the victim of periodic maulings if I petted incorrectly. Sheesh.

I have to say, though, Jenny has turned out to be quite the sweet little buddy. (In most cases, she is kind enough to retract her claws before batting my hand away because she doesn't like the way I'm touching her. Sheesh! Cats!) She generally hangs out wherever I am working--on the yoga mat if I'm doing yoga (or under it), on the table or my desk if I'm writing, on the bed, diving under the covers if I'm trying to make it. You get the picture. She's just a zany girl.

She is still very kitten-ish in her behavior, zooming around the house with her tail crooked and her fur puffy when she's excited--which is usually about the time I'm getting in bed, so I can hear her galloping around the house, jumping on and off furniture (and sharpening her claws on it--garrrr! Cats! Sheesh!!), and knocking things over.

Her favorite activity, though, is finding a new place to curl up and sleep, one I am wholly unaware of, so that when I realize I haven't seen her in a while, and I start looking, I can't find her. I can remain pretty calm for the first ten minutes as I walk through the house, calling her name. (Of course she never responds when she's hiding. Because she's a cat. Sheesh!) After twenty minutes, I get concerned. After thirty minutes I am worried, backtracking in my mind, wondering how she might have gotten out or whether she somehow climbed in before I started the dishwasher. Panic rises slowly in me, but I do get there eventually. One day I finally found her sitting in the driver's seat of the truck in the garage. I'd left the windows down in it earlier, and somehow she'd climbed in and gone to sleep. Another time, after I'd searched every hidden corner in the house and under all beds and inside every cupboard three times, I happened to walk through the living room and I saw the fringe on a throw blanket move, almost imperceptibly. I lifted it. Yep, sleeping cat underneath. Several nights ago I couldn't find her, so I headed out to the garage to see if she'd climbed into the truck again. Didn't have to look that far. She was asleep on the hood, up on the vent. I'd driven the truck to pick up the mail earlier, and the engine was still warm.

See, this is the difference between a dog and a cat. If you call a dog, he jumps up and runs to you, wagging his tail and lifting his ears and eyebrows because he wants to know

Are there treats?
Are we going for a ride?
Are we going for a walk?
Is it dinner time?
Do you want to pet me??

And he's sincere about all that. He's excited to accommodate his human because he is one hundred percent loving and devoted. That's why we love our dogs so much. Because... so much love is given to us.

Jenny will come when I call her

If she thinks I have treats
If she's not sleeping
If she's not hiding
If she's not mad at me because I refused her some service or petted her incorrectly.

CATS! SHEESH!!

But... she makes me laugh every day. When I talk to her, she talks back, and not in a snotty way. She just likes to make conversation. And when I nap, all I have to do is call through the house, "Jenny! Blankie!" and she will come--eventually. When she's ready. In her own good time. Then she jumps on the bed, marches on the blanket for an inordinate amount of time, curls against my side, and purrs me to sleep.

A year ago, when I brought her home, I crossed my fingers that she and Purrl would get along. I have to say, this little girl is persistent. Purrl hated her. Chased her, growled at her, hissed at her, and scratched her. Jenny just tried to stay out of her way, occasionally checking--"Do you still hate me?"--then jumping away when the Claws of Death were unsheathed. After several months, though, I found them hiding under the bed together when a loud person came to visit. And then, just a few nights ago--a year and a week to the day after Jenny came home--I watched as Jen climbed onto the couch and curled up next to Purrl. Purrl sat up and glared at her, unmoving, for a full five minutes. Jenny ignored her. Purrl gave up and curled around again. And they slept like that for hours.

Cats. Sheesh.

Trash man

I've been working on a post about Jenny Anydots, my $25 cat, to celebrate her one-year mark with my crew. But this happened today, and I want to post my thoughts instead. (So stay tuned, cat lovers; photos and updates on Jenny are in the making.)

But first:

The guy who drives the big truck that picks up recyclable materials on trash day is well-known in our park to be a grumpy, destructive dude. He's big and burly, and he's so rough with the recycle bins that he leaves destruction in his wake as he makes his way down the street. Two weeks after I moved here, I put some plastic poles in the recycle bin that had been left behind in the garage. They were about five feet in length, and stuck out the top of the bin so I couldn't close it. I assumed they'd been used for gardening or something. My garage door was open the day he came by in the truck, and I was in there puttering around, so I heard his truck idling out front. I'd listened long enough to get curious and peeked around the corner just in time to see him pick up all the poles out of the bin in one handful and fling them down in my driveway, then get back in his truck, slamming the door and driving off.

I thought about calling his supervisor that day, but I didn't. Maybe he was having a bad day. Maybe he felt I should know better than to have something sticking out of the bin. Maybe.... Doesn't matter. I didn't tattle on him.

In recent weeks, I've been keeping track of his sins here in the park. Of course he's in a truck that uses a mechanical arm to pick up the bins--it's not the olden days where some guy always had to walk alongside the truck, picking up cans and emptying them. This guy just drives along, operating the arm. So why is he always so grumpy? Why does he release the bins when they're still several feet off the ground, causing them to drop hard on the pavement, cracking wheels or knocking them over so that some elderly person has to bend down and pick the awkward, heavy thing back up? Last week he released a bin so quickly it fell into his truck with the rest of the recycling. He simply drove on, not bothering to remove it. The resident had to order a new recycle bin.

Today was trash day. At 4:00, I put Thomas in the truck for our afternoon drive to pick up mail. While the truck was warming up in the driveway, I dragged in the empty trash bin, and as I did, I saw Recycle Guy coming down the street, so I waited patiently at the end of the driveway, ready to roll the recycle bin back in after he'd dumped it. I watched as my neighbors' bins were flung to the ground, lids flying, their now-empty cavernous plastic shells booming as they hit the pavement. It had been raining all day, so I was bundled up in knit cap and rain jacket with hood, but the fresh air was wonderful, and as Recycle Guy rolled past my driveway to where my bin was sitting in front of the house, I smiled and waved. He looked surprised. Then the corners of his mouth twitched, but he didn't actually smile back.

The arm came out, grabbed my recycle bin in its clutches, lifted it, dumped it, and lowered it--almost to the ground. When it was a foot off the ground, the arm stopped. I thought for a moment there was a mechanical problem. Then I heard the back-up bell ringing. Recycle Guy had put the truck in reverse. Slowly he rolled backward to where I was standing in the driveway. The mechanical arm came down ever so gently and deposited my recycle bin just two feet from where I stood. "Thank you!" I called, smiling again and waving. This time he smiled back. And off he went to finish his route.

Robin Williams spoke such eloquent truth when he said, 

"Everyone you meet is fighting a battle you know nothing about. Be kind. Always."

This incident with Recycle Guy was a great reminder of how much power to comfort there is in simply being kind, even in the smallest ways. I'm going to try to carry that reminder over into tomorrow... and into the days that come, when many people are not at their best because of the holidays. If you see me, please smile and be kind. Chances are, I'm going to need it.

Circles

Last month I spoke about The Tainted Legacy of Bertha Gifford at the Moreno Valley Public Library. It was a last-minute engagement; another speaker had cancelled, and they needed an author to fill in. I didn’t mind. I will do most anything to accommodate librarians.

Because I agreed to speak just a week before the event, there was little time for publicity. Only three people showed up to hear my talk. Two were resident librarians there. The third was on the library commission, and he had just released his own book, so he wanted to see how this sort of thing was done.

Still, it was a wonderful evening. I got to make three new friends, and I got to share Bertha’s story. Ain’t nothin’ bad about that. Well, actually, one thing was bad. In agreeing to speak on that date, I missed the opportunity to see Susan Straight speak about her new memoir, In the Country of Women. I’d been looking forward to it for weeks, because I’d read the book and loved it, and also because I’ve been a fan of Susan Straight’s work since 2002.

Funny story about that:

Back in 2002, I facilitated a small writer’s support group which met bi-monthly at the Barnes & Noble in Rancho Cucamonga. Occasionally, the PR rep for the store would book authors who wanted to promote new books, and our little group would welcome them. When I learned that Susan Straight would come speak to us about her new book, Highwire Moon, I was excited. She taught at my alma mater, and I’d heard good things about her first novel (I Been in Sorrow’s Kitchen and Licked Out All the Pots). But I was also conflicted. Rapper Eminem had a show at the Blockbuster Pavilion on the same night, and I had the chance to get good seats, and yes, I am a fan of that particular poet’s work, however he delivers it. But… as leader of our little contingent of writers, I felt I needed to be present for Susan’s talk.

While I believe I would have thoroughly enjoyed seeing Eminem live, Susan’s visit with us was absolutely memorable, on several levels.

She showed up to speak to us despite having experienced profound personal tragedy. Her brother had passed away that day. We told her she didn’t have to stay, that we would understand if she left and returned at a better time, but she told us she needed to be around writers, which made us feel as if she regarded us as equals.

In her soft, articulate manner, she read a beautiful passage of Highwire Moon, and I fell in love with the book. (It is truly a stellar read, and was nominated for a National Book Award.)

Weeks later, I decided to write about missing my chance to see one troubadour in favor of being in a more intimate setting with another. I sent that piece of writing off to the Los Angeles Times and sold it. It was my first sale with the Times.

Driving home from the Moreno Valley Library talk, I mused on all of this, how all those years ago I missed Em to see Susan, and now I had missed Susan to talk about my own book, and how life is often less linear than it is circular, as we complete the slow but meaningful revolutions in our individual journeys.

Birthday

On this date in 1872, William Poindexter Williams and his wife, Matilda Caroline (Lee) Williams, gave birth to their sixth child, Bertha Alice. When she was 22, Bertha married Henry Graham. They had one child together, a daughter, Lila Clara. Lila would also eventually have one daughter: My mother.

Bertha’s first husband died, and about a year later Bertha married Eugene (Gene) Gifford, thus becoming Bertha Gifford, that name now infamous due to circumstances that occurred so very long ago.

In 2008, one day after what would have been Bertha’s 136^th birthday, the book I wrote about her alleged crimes was released on Amazon.com.

Folks who live in Missouri in and around the town where she lived have claimed that it was said at the time of her death that “her grave should go unmarked for fifty years.”

I was unaware of that local lore when I arranged, in 2009, to have a headstone placed on her grave, but when I heard it, I did the math; her headstone was placed 58 years after her death. What gave me chills, though, was the realization that I had begun the book in 2001—50 years after her death.

The marking of Bertha’s grave is not the only significant event that has occurred since the publication of the book—or because of it.

In researching Bertha—and searching for who else might be searching for her—I connected with Marc Houseman, historian and director of the Washington Historical Society and museum in Washington, Missouri. In the decade since, he has become one of my closest friends. Writing the book also introduced me to a fellow lover-of-ghosts-and-cemeteries, Ginger, who is also now one of my dearest and closest friends in the world.

And oh my goodness, the cousins I’ve met! Starting with Jean Thompson, who has now passed over, but was my first living familial link to Bertha besides my mother. Also: Tim Fiedler, owner of the farmhouse on Bend Road where Bertha lived and where I am now always welcomed when in Missouri. Tim Ogle, the cousin who found me through researching our mutual ancestors and who introduced me to another cousin, Maxine Nevel, who told us recently she was fine to stand while talking but, she said, “When I was ninety-five, I had to stop riding the horses.” She’s ninety-eight. Chris Wilkinson, the cousin who found me through reading the book and was kind enough to reach out to me, showing me pages from an ancient family Bible that listed our mutual ancestors. He and his wife are now dear friends.

The list goes on.

I’ve lost count of the number of talks I’ve given about Bertha at libraries and book clubs and writers groups. Every single event has been a joy, mostly for the kind individuals who have expressed compassion and empathy for my great-grandmother, but also for those who’ve shared a different perspective on her deeds; the fact that they have read the book is always enough to make me happy.

All of these introductions, events, and connections have been invaluable to me, including and especially the book's effect on my mother. For 80 years, she carried the shame of having been the granddaughter of this woman who had been accused of heinous crimes. Reading the book helped her see Bertha from a new perspective. Her shame fell away when she considered her grandmother as simply a fallible human being, not the monster that others and the media had portrayed her to be. Mom was given closure, and for that I am most grateful.

When I wrote that book, I wrote it for my mother. And for my family (because I know that one day, my yet-to-be-born great-grandchildren will be interested). And for the folks in Missouri who still tell the stories about Bertha. I never could have imagined the resulting repercussions it would have. It is one story. Telling it would change my life in profound and wonderful ways.

Thank you, Bertha, for giving me your story. For trusting me with it. And happy, happy birthday. Please hug my mom and Grandma Lila for me.

In MO

Last Thursday, October 10th, I landed in St. Louis at 6:10p.m. I switched my phone off airplane mode as soon as we'd arrived at the terminal--only to find 17 text messages awaiting me. A fire was burning in Calimesa, the city where I live. Friends and family members were calling, texting, emailing and hitting me up on Facebook to check on me.

It only took a few minutes to get a Lyft ride, and from the backseat of my driver's car, I called my next-door neighbor. All was well in my senior complex, but the mobile home park 5 miles away had burned to the ground. The good folks in my town were already rallying to reach out to those who had been displaced.

We drove on in a steady rain to Pacific, Missouri, where Marc and Ginger, my two musketeers, were waiting in the lobby of the hotel to take me to dinner. We talked about the fires burning back home, about my flight, about Marc's health and Ginger's current situation with a bad, bad ex-husband. It was so, so great to see them.

The next day was meant for rambling. I met my new-found cousin, Chris, and his wife Vicki, in the hotel breakfast room the next morning. Chris and I share a distant (several times) great-grandfather, Israel Lee, and the day would be spent looking for Israel's grave. We never found it (though we have a few new leads). But along the way we stopped in Morse Mill so that I could visit the grave of my great-grandmother, Bertha Gifford. Marc pointed out the remains of the old mill, which sat upon the banks of the Big River (not to be confused with the Meramec or the Missouri or the Mississippi rivers), and we strolled across the old bridge that is still there.

Later, we would find another mill along the Big River, one Israel Lee might have been involved in erecting. 

Chris and I ventured inside the 100-plus-year-old building, which is mostly gutted, and the giant millstones are gone, but it was clear where they'd been placed all those years ago, and how the pressure from the flow of the river water passed through to turn the mechanism which turned the stones. The place is for sale, and we had half a mind to call the realtor. But then common sense prevailed.

I'd been invited to Missouri to attend a ceremony to honor my great-great-great-great-grandfather on my mother's paternal side, Landon Williams, who had fought in the War of 1812. The Society of the War of 1812 in the State of Missouri, and the National Society of United States Daughters of 1812 in the State of Missouri were joining together to bestow a medallion in recognition of his service on the grave of Landon Williams. He did not die in the war. He survived--and fathered a son who fathered a son who fathered my great-grandmother. Amazing, no?

The ceremony was presided over by Sumner Hunnewell, president of the Society of the War of 1812 in the State of Missouri--and a true renaissance man. He not only emceed the ceremony, he brought 30 small pies for refreshments. Pies he baked himself. From scratch. And I mean scratch--making his own crust and cooking down the pumpkin for the pumpkin pie (which was not the only kind; he also brought berry, pecan, and mincemeat). 

The 4th Regiment North Carolina Militia turned out for the ceremony as well, posting the colors and, at the end, providing a rifle salute to Landon Williams.

Cool, no? Of course, as soon as they posted the colors, I cried--for our flag, for our country, for men who find the courage to act out of duty to both, and for all the generations of my family that somehow survived hardship and kept reproducing so that I could live this extraordinary life. It was a lot to take in. Plus pie.

All of this hoopla started when my cousin, Tim Ogle, went looking for people in the Williams family he was related to. And he found Landon Williams' grave. And the headstone was broken, so he repaired it. (Good job, Tim!!) In researching Landon, he discovered his service in 1812, eventually enlisting the aid of the two historical societies to honor Landon's service. All I had to do was show up and take a seat in the front row.

The next day, my last full day in Missouri, was spent once again with buds Marc and Ginger, just driving around, visiting cemeteries, laughing over lunch and Marc's puns and cornball jokes. (We love them. We really do.) As we were headed back to the hotel, he casually mentioned, "Oh, we're near my friends' home. They raise bison." And suddenly he was pulling to the side of the road. Yep. That's a buffalo all right.

People often ask me why I go to Missouri every year, and what I do there. Well... I spend a lot of time walking through cemeteries... and hugging friends... and laughing... and relaxing... and seeing things I don't normally see... and being spoiled. I get homesick easily, and I miss my fur babies while I'm gone. But the minute I'm home again, I also miss the friends and cousins I will not see for another year. Oh yeah, I'll be back again next year. We still have to find Israel's grave.

Grief

This is just a brief addendum to my previous post. It is the grateful acknowledgement of another pain I have not had to endure.

You will have to look closely at the photo above to see that those blue balloons are attached to party hats. I took this picture in the cemetery next door. That particular section is reserved for babies and toddlers who have passed over.

On a gloomy, rainy day, I drove into the cemetery to take Sgt. Thomas Tibbs for a walk, but the balloons grabbed my attention, and I pulled over long enough to snap the shot. Then I got out and went to investigate.

Beneath each balloon was a festive party hat, and beneath each hat was a small, sealed envelope, protected from the rain in a clear plastic bag. All the baby graves had a similar envelope, save the grave up front, the one that is frequently decorated with toys. The same one that was piled high with fresh snow one day last winter. (No, it doesn't snow here. At least, not at this elevation. But we're an hour's drive from the mountains. Someone had gone up and brought down enough snow to make a mound three feet tall and nearly as wide.)

The envelopes were addressed to the parents of the deceased: "To the parents of Isaiah" ... "To the parents of Sarah Lynn" ....

I couldn't help it. My curiosity got the best of me. I slipped open one of the ziplock bags, hoping to see what was inside the envelope. But they were all sealed.

You are left to your imagination, as I was.

But the parent 'hosting' the party for departed young souls was clearly reaching out--in grief, in kindness, in empathy--to all the other parents who were experiencing the same loss.

Weird? Amazing? Compassionate? Loving? Yes.

Thank you, Universe, that in this life, I have never shared that experience. All of my children, all of my grandchildren, are well and healthy.

May it be so until I draw my last breath... and join the others for the party.