Monthly Archives: September 2016

Sep10

During the Fire

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I wrote the following poem (as the title says) during the fire which happened near my campground. I wrote it the day after I had an extra day off, thanks to a second fire that was put out quickly.

During the Fire

Three days off and

1, 2, 3, 4–I don’t wanna work now more.

Fire on the mountain

and not one’s up here anyway–

no campers

no hikers

no visitors to scrub toilets for.

I need to find some task to do.

Like the union man in

Darlington County said,

“He (meaning she, meaning me)

don’t work and

he (meaning she, meaning me)

don’t get paid.”

How long will the company

let me sit in the parking lot

with podcast and yarn project

waiting to collect parking fees

from cars that never arrive?

There’s some raking I can do

in the campground.

Best put on the uniform

and get to work

while I can.

I reference two very different songs in this poem: “Fire on the Mountain” as performed by the Grateful Dead and “Darlington County,” which, according to https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Darlington_County_(song),

is a 1984 song written and performed by Bruce Springsteen.

Sep9

Fire on the Mountain

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In the middle of August, a fire started not far from my campground. I heard different reports: fifteen miles–twenty-five miles away. Whatever the actual distance, it was too close for comfort.

The last I heard, the cause was “under investigation,” but my boss said the Forest Service thinks the fire began as an illegal campfire in a dispersed camping area. The folks who started the fire lost control of it, and the fire went wild.

The fire started on a Tuesday afternoon. On Thursday, my boss came to my campground in the morning and told me what was happening. When I got to the parking lot, my coworker said he was leaving work early to pack up his important belongings so he’d be ready if he had to evacuate. The sky was hazy with smoke.

That evening, I climbed in my hammock and zipped up the mosquito netting to avoid the the tiny, annoying flies. Around 7pm, I looked at the sky and saw one part of it was dark. At first I thought a big storm was on its way, but then I realized it was the smoke from the wildfire darkening the sky.

On Friday morning, my boss was back in my campground, this time to tell me my coworkers had evacuated and wouldn’t be at work for the foreseeable future. He also told me that a group with reservations at a campground closed due to the wildfire would be staying at my campground. Those campers pulled in early, before I left for the parking lot.

The trail and the parking lot was much slower than usual for a Friday in August.  Word of the fire must have already spread. People were staying away.

Although parts of the sky were dark, other parts were blue and weirdly bright. Sometimes the sky looked hazy; other times it looked as if a storm were moving in. The sunlight was a strange orange color, unlike anything I’d seen before. It was beautiful and scary too, because I knew it was the result of the too-close fire.

All day ash fell. It fell on the parking lot and continued to fall in the evening when I returned to my campground. When I touched the ash, it was cool, but it was creepy to see it drifting down, knowing it was another sign of the fire’s proximity. I thought about the eruption of Mount St. Helens and the story of how the Grateful Dead played “Fire on the Mountain” in Portland, OR as ash fell on the city.

Mr. Carolina gave me this Stealie, which represents the song "Fire on the Mountain." In addition to the mountain on fire, there's tea for two, a yellow sky, and a sun that's blue.

Mr. Carolina gave me this Stealie, which represents the song “Fire on the Mountain.” In addition to the mountain on fire, there’s tea for two, a yellow sky, and a sun that’s blue.

According to https://volcanism.wordpress.com/2011/07/14/the-daily-volcano-quote-the-rock-band-and-the-volcano/:

Perhaps the most incredible Weather Control story involves the eruption of Mount St. Helens in 1980. The Dead was reportedly playing at Memorial Coliseum in Portland, Oregon. A short way into the second set, the Dead played the song “Fire on the Mountain”. Legend has it that while the band was playing a particularly “hot” version of that song, the volcano erupted. When the show was over, Deadheads emerged to find volcanic ash falling everywhere. Though it was never explicitly said that the Dead “caused” the mountain to erupt, everyone agreed that the intensity of the song and the eruption were somehow connected. In fact, the Dead did not actually play in Portland until June 12, 1980, almost a month after the major May 18 eruption of Mount St. Helens, but they did play “Fire on the Mountain” at that show, probably as a tribute to the volcano…

Revell Carr, ‘Deadhead tales of the supernatural: a folkloristic analysis’, in Robert G. Weiner (ed.), Perspectives on the Grateful Dead (Westport, CT: Greenwood Press, 1999), pp. 209-10…

“Fire on the Mountain” is a fine song, but it took on a whole new significance when there was actually fire on a mountain I love. I don’t want nothing to do with a fire on my mountain!

Around noon, a Forest Service fire patrol truck pulled into the parking lot and the driver asked me if anyone had come to talk to me. I said I hadn’t heard anything about it since morning.

The Forest Service guy told me I might have to evacuate my campground. He said if an evacuation were ordered, I’d probably have about four hours to get ready to leave. Suddenly the fire seemed even closer than before.

I finished my shift at the parking lot, then headed back to my campground. The first thing I did was talk to the campers who’d arrived that morning. I asked them if anyone had come by to tell them about the possible evacuation. They seemed surprised and said no. I explained we’d be given about four hours to pack up and get out. They didn’t act panicked, but within an hour, they drove over to my campsite to tell me they’d broken camp and were leaving. The older woman in the group said she was praying everything would be ok, but it’s better to be safe than sorry, she told me.

After I ate my dinner, I began to prepare to evacuate. I had my privacy tent and a small backpacking tent I’d been using for storage to take down. I had to take down my brand new hammock too. I didn’t think it would take me long to break camp, but what if I got less than four hours notice? What if notice came in the middle of the night? I didn’t want to leave anything behind, and I didn’t want to pack in the dark, so I decided to prepare to leave at a moment’s notice.

Taking down the hammock was easy. It’s intended for backpackers and other travelers, so it goes up and come down easily.

My storage tent, before it was covered with sap. Thanks Auntie M.

My storage tent, before it was covered with sap. Thanks Auntie M.

Taking down the storage tent wasn’t bad either. Most things I had inside (folding chair, cooking box) went right into the van. A few things that I knew I could live without (foil, citronella candle, cardboard box) went into the campground’s storage room. The biggest problem with the tent was that it was covered with sap from the trees overhead. It was sticky when I rolled it up, and I don’t know what will happen when I try to pitch it again. The sap may have made the whole thing a ball of sticky mess.

When I researched privacy tents, I read a lot of reviews that said the tents that pop up easily are really difficult to take down. How hard can it be? I thought. I’ll deal with it when the time comes, I thought.

My privacy tent

My privacy tent

Now the time had come, and folding the tent was as difficult as the reviews had said. I read the instructions repeatedly, but nothing worked. I couldn’t twist the top into much of a circle. If I used my knee to hold down the top, I could get my little Tyrannosaurus arms to reach the middle of the tent where I was supposed to twist the lower half into another circle. I chased that tent all through the dirt of my campground, but in the end, while the tent and I were both filthy, it was not at all folded. It fit (barely) into my storage room, so I decided to leave it there. Maybe the concrete walls would protect it if the fire came. Maybe not. But no way could I live with the dirty thing in the van with me.

My boss showed up in my campground again that evening. I told him the folks on site #3 had left. I told him I had folks with reservations scheduled to come in that day, but I suspected they weren’t going to show. My boss told me if I didn’t want to stay alone in the campground, I could stay at the campground down the road where the other camp hosts would be babysitting their campers. He said it there were an evacuation, the Forest Service might forget to come down my road to tell me about it. This information (which I now think is untrue), made up my mind for me.

By nearly 7pm, the campers with the reservations hadn’t shown up, so I left them a note and drove down the road to pass a very peaceful night.

By Sunday, all but one road on and off the mountain were blocked by California Highway Patrol officers. There was almost no one in the parking lot or on the trail. After my shift in the parking lot ended and I scrubbed the toilets in my campground, I went back to the other campground and took a bath in the plastic livestock trough doing bathtub duty in the back of the other hosts’ bus. From there, I took the only road out to a campground on the other side of the mountain where my boss said I could stay during my time off.

On Tuesday, while in Babylon, I found out where my mail had been evacuated and decided to drive out there to get it after I’d gotten the van’s oil changed and before the employee appreciation pizza party. As my van was going up on the rack, I was returning my boss’s call to learn another fire had started the night before due to lightning strikes. The one road that had been open was closed for part of the day, maybe was still closed. The pizza party was postponed and my boss suggested maybe I wanted to spend another night in town. He said there was no one at the campgrounds, no one at the trail or parking lot. I thought he was telling me to take another day off, so I did, not returning to the mountain until late Wednesday evening when the second fire was out and the road was surely open.

I thought I knew quiet, until I returned to the nearly deserted mountain. Although the quiet was absolutely natural, it felt entirely unnatural and eerie. I spent the night parked near the other camp hosts in their otherwise empty campground.

About that time, people stopped talking about evacuation and instead discussed the ever increasing percentage of containment. By the end of the month, the fire had all but burnt itself out and the firefighters were going home. We had our pizza party and my coworker was able to return to his intact home. No lives were lost, and I put my privacy tent back on my campsite.

I took all of the photos in this post.

 

 

 

 

Sep8

Pigpen Was Born on This Day

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I was reading Grateful Dead lyrics once, and the song was attributed to “Ron McKernan.” Who’s that? I asked. My friends told me that was Pigpen; Ron McKernan was his legal name. Who knew? Obviously not me.

Today is the anniversary of Pigpen’s birth. He would have been 71 today, if he hadn’t died when he was only 27.

According to https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Ron_%22Pigpen%22_McKernan,

He was a founding member of the San Francisco band the Grateful Dead and played in the group from 1965 to 1972.

Dead.net (http://www.dead.net/band/ron-pigpen-mckernan) says,

Starting a rock band was actually Ron McKernan’s idea, and he was its first front man, delivering stinging harmonica, keyboards, and beautiful blues vocals in the early years of the Warlocks/Grateful Dead. Nicknamed “Pigpen” for his funky approach to life and sanitation, he was born into a family that was generally conventional, except for the fact that his (Caucasian) father was an R & B disc jockey. And that sound put Pig’s life on the rails of the blues from the time he was 12. Liquor, Lightnin’ Hopkins, the harmonica and some barbecue – it was an unusual life for a white kid from San Carlos, but it was Pig’s life.

The aforementioned Wikipedia articles continues,

McKernan grew up heavily influenced by African-American music, particularly the blues, and enjoyed listening to his father’s collection of records and taught himself how to play harmonica and piano. He began socializing around the San Francisco Bay Area, becoming friends with Jerry Garcia. After the pair had played in various folk and jug bands, McKernan suggested they form an electric group, which became the Grateful Dead. He was the band’s original frontman as well as playing harmonica and electric organ, but Garcia and bassist Phil Lesh‘s influences on the band became increasingly stronger as they embraced psychedelic rock. McKernan struggled to keep up, causing the group to hire keyboardist Tom Constanten, with McKernan’s contributions essentially limited to vocals, harmonica and percussion from November 1968 to January 1970. He continued to be a frontman in concert for some numbers, including covers of Bobby Bland‘s “Turn On Your Love Light” and the Rascals‘ “Good Lovin’“.

Unlike the other members of the Grateful Dead, McKernan avoided psychedelic drugs, preferring to drink alcohol (namely whiskey and wine). By 1971, his health had been affected by alcoholism and liver damage and doctors advised him to stop touring. Following a four-month hiatus, he resumed touring with the group in December 1971 but was forced to retire from touring altogether in June 1972. McKernan was found dead of a gastrointestinal hemorrhage on March 8, 1973, aged 27 and is buried at Alta Mesa Memorial Park in Palo Alto.

I know Bob Weir is generally considered the Grateful Dead’s pretty boy, but I think Pigpen was the sexiest one in the band. What can I say? I guess I like ’em a little bit dirty.

I never saw Pigpen perform, but I love the songs I’ve heard him sing. He had a charisma that comes through in the live recordings, a presence that’s survived despite the loss of his physical self.

I miss Pigpen!

 

 

Sep7

Zumba

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My friend Lou is athletic and likes to try new things. She has lots of friends just like her. (I’m a friend NOT just like her. While I do like to try new things, I’m not athletic. I can barely walk without falling down. I like inside activities like reading and writing. The sloth is the animal with which I feel the most affinity. Lou and I are different, but we can still be friends.)

The last time I stayed at Lou’s place, one of her other friends suggest a group Zumba excursion.

I’d heard of Zumba. Someone I used to know had been a Zumba instructor. But I’d never been to a class, and I didn’t really know what to expect.

(I learned a few things when I did an internet search on Zumba. According to Wikipedia,

Zumba is a dance fitness program created by Colombian dancer and choreographer Alberto “Beto” Perez during the 1990s…[1]

Zumba involves dance and aerobic movements performed to energetic music. The choreography incorporates hip-hop, soca, samba, salsa, merengue and mambo. Squats and lunges are also included.[3] Zumba Fitness, the owner of the Zumba program, does not charge licensing fees to gyms or fitness centers.[4] Approximately 15 million people take weekly Zumba classes in over 200,000 locations across 180 countries.[5])

Although I didn’t know much about Zumba, Lou invited me, it was the start of a new year, and I was in yes mode. I agreed to go.

The class fee was $6. As I’ve written about that time before, my funds were meager. I thought six bucks was cheap enough for a healthy activity, and I’d get to meet some of Lou’s other friends. How could I go wrong with a healthy social activity?

Although one of my goals was to meet some of Lou’s other friends, I don’t remember any of the other women with whom we attended Zumba class. I don’t remember a name or a face or a personality. While I think at least some of the women met us at Lou’s house before the class, we didn’t spend much time together. People arrived five minutes before it was time to leave, then we all left in multiple cars. (I rode with Lou.) During class, there was no time to talk, and after class, people split. So much for being social.

Another thing I don’t remember is what I wore to Zumba class. I didn’t have much of a wardrobe at the time, and I certainly wasn’t toting around exercise clothes. Maybe I still had the loose fitting pants I’d gotten free from a church clothing give-away in Mt. Shasta, CA? I honestly have no recollection.

We arrived at the location of the Zumba class. We lined up and paid our class fee. I don’t recall if we signed waivers saying we released any and everybody from liability if we dropped dead during the class. (No one dropped dead during the class.)

We went into the main room, the room where the class was held. It was a long, narrow room with mirrors lining one of the long walls. (Ugh! Mirrors!) There were three or maybe four long lines of women (I don’t remember any male students) facing the mirrors. Lou and I and Lou’s other friends stood in the last (or maybe the second to last) row. I tried to line up perfectly behind the woman standing ahead of me so I would not have to see my reflection in the mirror.

The instructor was a man. A young man. A young, effeminate man. I didn’t speak to this man, and I know nothing about his sexuality, but if I were going to slap a label on him (and that’s what I’m about to do), the label I’d give him is flamer. Every vibe I was getting from the young man triggered my gaydar.

I understand it’s also difficult to know anything about a person’s heritage just by looking at her, but I’ll tell you, Lou and I were the only gals I looked at in the class and thought white girl. I wasn’t bothered about being in the minority (I suppose we were all united in fitness, like in the Olympics), but I did notice I was adding a little diversity to the group.

Then the music started, and we were off. No introduction. No preliminaries. The music started, the instructor began instructing, and the students began…Zumba-ing.

Zumba was dance, but akin to the aerobics I did sporadically in the 80s. I guess aerobics was akin to dance too, but with more arm than foot motion.

The women who’d been to the class before definitely had the advantage of knowing the routine. There was no help for the newbies, no hint at what would come next. We were on our own. The instructor announced what to do NOW, but for anyone (me!) who didn’t know how to do what to do NOW, she (me!) was out of luck.

The other friends of Lou seemed to be struggling a bit, but at least they had their natural or (acquired) athleticism and grace to fall back on. Me? I had nothing.

I remember glancing over at Lou for a brief moment. She had a look of intense concentration on her face,but she also looked absolutely graceful, as if this experience was not entirely foreign to her. (She admitted on the way home that she’d been on her high school dance team. What? Dance team? I’d never pegged house-building, roller derby Lou as a dance team kind of gal. It’s amazing what we can still learn about people we’ve known for years.)

I may not have had the dance moves down, but I was totally enjoying the music. Unlike the aerobics we did in 6th grade PE, it wasn’t American Top 40 for this class. I don’t know what tidy category this music fit into, but it was fast and the lyrics were primarily in Spanish. This was the kind of music I wanted at trance dance.

I was trying to keep up, but I was on the wrong foot again. Then, when we spun, I went in the wrong direction. I was clumsy. I was a mess. I started feeling bad about myself. Why can’t I do this? I wondered. Why am I so useless? I longed for the experience to be over.

Then I realized no one there cared if I was on the wrong foot. No one cared if my spin was opposite every else’s. The women there for a workout were concentrating on their breathing and and burning calories and building muscle. Lou (good ol’ Lou!) has been my friend through worse than a clumsy exercise class. Lou’s other friends were not the catty girls from middle school PE, ready to make fun of my every misstep. And certainly the instructor wasn’t looking at me and judging.

So I decided to cut myself some slack and relax a little. I might have had a little bit of fun before the class was over. But I didn’t suggest a group Zumba excursion for the next week.

Sep6

New Hats for Sale

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I’ve been using up small bits of yarn in colors that don’t fit the schemes I have in mind for infinity scarves. In a few days, I made seven hats.

IMG_6735

Esmerelda is modeling a large white hat with a finished edge. In this photo, the finished edge is folded up. This hat features a variety of blues and is topped by a pompom. The hat costs $13, including shipping.

Sometimes I get so excited about making hats, I don’t want to do anything else. Who needs to sleep, cook, eat, clean? Not me! The most important thing in my life is making hats!

In this photo, Esmerelda is modeling a large hat with a finished edge. The edge is folded down in this view. It's a bright hat with lots of shades of oranges and yellow. The hat is topped with a pompom and costs $13, including shipping.

In this photo, Esmerelda is modeling a large hat with a finished edge. The edge is folded down in this view. It’s a bright hat with lots of shades of oranges and yellow. The hat is topped with a pompom and costs $13, including shipping.

In this view of the same hat, the finished edge is folded up.

In this view of the same hat, the finished edge is folded up.

Other times, I don’t even want to think about yarn, much less making a hat.

I can’t pinpoint any reasons for why I feel one way or another. Sometimes that hat benders are brief, and sometimes they last for weeks.

In any case, I’ve been making hats, and they’re all for sale. Each one costs $13, including shipping costs.

I know it’s September, and most folks won’t need a warm hat for a couple of months. But as fans of Game of Thrones are reminded, winter is coming. Now is a good time to prepare. Your head will thank you.

This large hat has a finished edge. In this photo, the edge is folded up. The main color of this had is purple, with some yellow, but the purple variegated yarn has some green in it too, so it won't quite make for the straight up LSU fan.

This large hat has a finished edge. In this photo, the edge is folded up. The main color of this hat is purple, with some yellow, but the purple variegated yarn has some green in it too, so it’s probably not for the straight-up LSU fan. The hat costs $13, including shipping.

 

The large hat Esmerelda is modeling in this photo has an unfinished edge. The color scheme is primarily blue, but it has some orange near the top as well. The cost of this hat is $13, including shipping.

The large hat Esmerelda is modeling in this photo has an unfinished edge. The color scheme is primarily blue, but it has some orange near the top as well. The cost of this hat is $13, including shipping. (This hat is NO LONGER AVAILABLE.)

 

This large hat has an unfinished edge. It is primarily yellow and orange, but there are some blue in it as well. The cost is $13, including shipping.

This large hat has an unfinished edge. It is primarily yellow and orange, but there are some blues in it as well. The cost is $13, including shipping.

 

This large hat features a variety of colors: blue, orange, yellow, purple. It has an unfinished edge and costs $13, including shipping charge.

This large hat features a variety of colors: blue, orange, yellow, green, purple. It has an unfinished edge and costs $13, including shipping charge.

 

This photo shows another large hat with an unfinished edge featuring a variety of colors. The hat is mostly a light blue, but it also includes orange and yellow. The price is $13, including shipping.

This photo shows another large hat with an unfinished edge featuring a variety of colors. The hat is mostly a light blue, but it also includes orange and yellow. The price is $13, including shipping. (This hat is NO LONGER AVAILABLE.)

Sep5

Deadheads Are Everywhere

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I was on a remote road in California.

This was not a road that went from town to town. This was a mountain road with forest all around it. This road went past a couple of isolated campgrounds. This road went past a couple of hiking areas. In other words, this was the type of road one would only be on if one were going to a specific, out-of-the-way place. This was not a highly trafficked road.

I was looking for a waterfall. I never found it. The map I had made me think I’d see the waterfall from the road, but I never did. Upon looking at a more detailed map later, I realized there was a short hike to the waterfall. Apparently, there’s no sign announcing the existence of the waterfall or giving a trail number. Apparently, folks who want to see the waterfall need to already know where it’s located.

I drove up the road, well past where the waterfall was supposed to be. When I didn’t see the waterfall (and assumed it had dried up in the California drought), I drove back down the road.

There weren’t many signs on this road. The mile markers on the side were mostly blank. Had there never been numbers on them, or had they worn off? I had no way of knowing.

As I zoomed past one of the mileposts, my brain registered….What? Was that a Stealie? On a milepost in the middle of nowhere? How? Why? Had I really seen a Stealie? Or had it been some other red, white, and blue design, and my brain had filled in what I wanted to see?

Welcome to milepost Grateful Dead.

Welcome to milepost Grateful Dead.

I pulled over into the next wide space on the side of the road. My camera was already in my pocket, as I’d planned to take photos of the waterfall. I walked on the narrow shoulder, back to the the mile marker sign. (There was no traffic. I was in no danger.)

I really had seen Stealies! On the milepost, someone (who? when? why?) had stuck four Steal Your Face stickers. Deadheads had been here!

It’s so nice when the Universe tells me I am not alone.

According to http://gratefuldead-music.com/article/grateful-dead-symbols-de-coded-part-4-skull-and-lightning-bolt,

Designed in 1969, the logo was the collaborative work of Owsley Stanley and artist Bob Thomas. Owsley was inspired by a freeway sign he happened to pass by—a round shape divided by a bold white line into an orange half and a blue half. The general shape and colors stood out, and Owsley had the notion that a blue and red design with a lightning bolt with make a cool logo. He shared his idea with Bob Thomas, who then drew up plans of the design.

Originally, there was no skull face—the logo was simply a circle divided with the lightning bolt. The skull face was added on a few days later, as a way to symbolize the “Grateful Dead.”

The band first used the logo as an identifying mark on their musical equipment, and later the symbol appeared on the inside album jacket of the self-titled album The Grateful Dead. The logo later appeared on the cover of the album Steal your Face, and has been known as the Steal your Face symbol ever since.

Steal Your Face Right Off Your Head

Steal Your Face Right Off Your Head

I took the photos in this post.

[amazon template=image&asin=B00IVXO41O]

Sep4

The Cows Came Home

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Last season there were cows in the meadow bordering my campground–not just one or two cows, but a lot of cows. How many cows does it take to make a herd? I don’t know, but I think there was probably an entire herd in the meadow.

For most of this season, only a couple of cows spent time in the meadow, and only briefly. That was in June. Both cows were black. One was huge and had a white face. The other was smaller–maybe a teenage cow. They looked at me inquisitively as I walked by on the dirt road leading to the campground. The cows were gone the next day. I have no idea where they went.

Last season, the cows in the meadow chomped down all the grass and either ate or trampled the corn lilies. If any wildflowers began to grow, the cows ate them before they bloomed. Those cows kept the vegetation short. Last summer, the meadow looked as if it had been mowed.

Corn lilies growing in the meadow.

Corn lilies growing in the meadow.

This summer, the lack of cows in the meadow has lead to glorious grassiness. The grass has grown tall (above my knees). The corn lilies are tall too. Also, wildflowers are flourishing in the meadow. There are white flowers I think are  Queen Anne’s Lace. There are orangey-yellow flowers with brown middles–what we called brown-eyed Susies when I was a kid. There are purple flowers too, but I don’t know their name.

IMG_6636

Brown-eyed Susies

I enjoyed having the cows around last summer. They were nice to look at, and it was comforting to hear them going about their bovine business at night. Sometimes I talked to them when I was particularly lonely. However, I’m also enjoying this summer’s beautiful meadow view. (I can almost understand why Californians are so damn fond of their meadows.)

Last year the cows moved in late in June or possibly in July. This season, June came and went, then July did the same and all I’d seen of the cows were the two black ones who seemed to have only spent one night in the meadow. Then one evening during the second week in August, there was another brief bovine visit.

It was dusk. I was sitting on the floor of my van with the side doors open. I was making a hat and listening to a podcast when a noise outside my campsite caught my attention. There was one set of campers in the campground, with a site way on the other side, but the kids had been running around the whole place all evening. I figured it was them I was hearing. But when I looked up, I didn’t see any children.

I saw creatures–big creatures–ambling in my direction. At first I thought the creatures were horses (and I imagined they were being ridden by cowboys), but pretty quickly, I realized I was seeing cows!

There were four of them. Three were all black, but one had the all white face I’d seen earlier in the summer. They were on the road, heading in my direction. They were moving at a steady pace, not running, but moving briskly. I said something like Hello ladies, and they froze. I hadn’t yelled, just spoken in a normal tone of voice. That apparently was enough to stop them in their tracks.

I wanted a photo of them, but I knew it was too dark for the camera on my phone to produce a visible image. I also knew that moving around to find my real camera probably would make these shy, half-wild mountain cows nervous enough to leave. No way would they stick around for another photo once the flash went off. So I sat tight.

The cows regarded me calmly, but with suspicion. I watched them, curious to see what they would do next. Long minutes passed while we looked at each other.

One of the campers must have been in the nearby restroom because a door slammed, and the noise was loud in the quiet of the evening. Three of the cows bolted. Their hooves thundered in the dirt as they ran toward the meadow. It was a very small stampede!

The fourth cow didn’t seem bothered by the noise. It didn’t run at all, but instead followed slowly behind the others.

I don’t know where the cows went, but I didn’t hear them in the meadow later in the night.

The next day when I came back from the parking lot, I saw four cows near the front of the meadow. Where these the cows of the night before? Had they broken off from a larger group to form their own herd?

The cows were gone again the next day. I haven’t seen them since.

Cows in the meadow, summer 2015.

Cows in the meadow, summer 2015.

 

I took all of the photos in this post.

 

Sep3

Dragon Boat

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It was the start of a new year, and I was with my host family.

The Lady of the House asked me if I wanted to go to a dragon boat practice with her. She wasn’t yet part of the dragon boat team, but she was thinking of joining. She’d never been to a practice before, but wanted to check it out. Did I want to go with her?

As I’ve mentioned before, I tend to go into new years ready to say Yes! to trying new activities, so I was primed to agree to dragon boat. I told the Lady ok, even though I’m not really athletic and I’m scared of drowning. (I may be an Aquarius–the water bearer–but I’m not a big fan of being in–or on–the water.)

The Lady and I discussed what we should wear. Living in my van means I can’t maintain an extensive wardrobe. Since I don’t exercise much, I don’t have exercise clothes. I tend to dress in long, flowy skirts, which didn’t seem like the right thing to wear for boating. I settled on the one pair of jeans I owned, my long-sleeved denim shirt (to protect my arms from the sun), my Keen sandals, and a blue cotton hat I’d recently paid $1 or at a small-town thrift store. I don’t remember what the Lady wore.

Practice started at 8am, so we were up early to eat breakfast (protein!) and prepare for our morning of exertion.

The Lady drove us to the marina, and we sat in the car trying to figure out which folks we saw milling around might be part of a dragon boat team. Once we made the connection with the team, we signed release forms and walked over to where the boat was stored.

I was extremely disappointed to see the boat looked nothing like a dragon. Let me repeat: There was no dragon to this boat. I thought we’d be propelling something ornate and fancy through the water. I thought the boat would have a beautiful head and a lovely tail, but no. The boat was only a boat. I guess the head and tail are used only for competitions. I suppose the head and tail would get banged up if they went out every week for practice, so I understand why they’re only attached during races, but still, I was sad to know we’d be in a plain, boring boat.

One team member took all the new people aside to teach us the basics while we were still on dry land. The newbies dutifully carried the paddles we’d been assigned to the grassy patch where our teacher went over the commands we would hear. She also showed us the proper way to hold our paddle, as well as how we would move them through the water. It wouldn’t be like paddling a canoe, she warned us.

The Lady and I laughed and said neither of us had ever paddled a canoe–or anything else–in our lives, so at least we wouldn’t have the problem of trying to break an old habit.

If I remember correctly, we held the paddles across our bodies.  We were told we’d put the blade straight down into the water, then twist our upper bodies to move the paddle. It all seemed so easy on land.

Before we got in the boat, we suited up with life jackets, which made me worry a little less about drowning.

Each new person was paired with a more experienced team member. I knew it wouldn’t have been smart for the Lady and I–neither of whom knew what we were doing–to be paired up, but I did suffer some seperation anxiety when we had to part. I was matched up with the only man at practice that day. He turned out to be a nice guy, but I also suffered some dude anxiety when I was told he’d be my partner.

The group pushed the boat-laden trailer into the water. The boat was then detached from the trailer, but still tethered to the dock.

My man partner and I were to be the last pair in the boat. Only the woman steering sat behind us.

Getting into the boat was treacherous. With my every move, the boat rocked beneath me. However, I managed to get in and sit down without tipping myself or anyone else into the water.

Soon it was time to put our paddles into the lake and propel the boat.

I’m not very coordinated, and I’m particularly bad at timing my movements to stay in sync with a group. Other members of the team had warned me and the Lady that these new movements might feel awkward at first; I don’t think they realized I wasn’t joking when I said I pretty much always feel awkward when I’m making any movements.

The Lady was sitting directly in front of me, and sometimes our paddles crashed when one of us (usually me) was out of sync. Later, the Lady told me she’d made herself laugh thinking about how funny it would be if she purposely crashed her paddle repeatedly into mine. She knew I would have laughed, but she thought the other folks might have frowned on such shenanigans, and she was considering joining the team, after all.

Sometimes the woman steering would call out directions and suggestions to me. I tired to follow her instructions, but I was definitely thinking, I’m never coming back. Why bother? But I did bother because I didn’t want to ruin the practice or reflect poorly on the Lady and her (possible) team aspirations.

A woman at the front of the boat faced us. She directed our actions. She had an accent that made me think of an Eastern European gymnastics coach. She was very serious. When she wanted us to work particularly hard, she would shout, Pow-wa! Pow-wa! Pow-wa! I found this especially hilarious and had to concentrated on not giggling.

(Since that day, when the Lady and I are working together on a task that requires strength or determination, one of us will say to the other, Pow-wa! Pow-wa! Pow-wa! Sometimes we chant in unison.)

The best parts of the practice were the few times the woman in front said new folks should remove their paddles from the water and just sit. It was lovely to let others do the work while I enjoyed the cool air rushing past me and concentrated not on the proper movements of my paddle but on the view of the lake.

The worst  part of the practice was when I had to switch to the other side of the boat. Scary! Each member of each pair had to switch, and we performed this maneuver while out in the middle of the lake. One pair at a time did the switch. I was once again pleased not to tip myself or anyone else into the water. However, the switch meant that just as I was growing accustomed to making the proper motions on the right side, I had to start making the movements on the left.

Also annoying was my new blue hat trying to fly away in the breeze. I literally had to hold onto my hat at times. I managed to keep up with it during practice, but I gave up on it altogether and left it in a free pile a few weeks later.

I was worn out when practice ended. I was glad to help paddle back to the dock. Everyone helped sponge out the boat (why?) and we returned our paddles and life jackets. We didn’t go with the team for breakfast at Denny’s, but the Lady did treat me to French toast at her favorite diner.

I haven’t been to another dragon boat practice, but the Lady joined the team. She has her own gloves and her own PFD (personal flotation device–aka life jacket), and her own paddle.  She’s even competed in races, and I suppose she’s seen the boat decked out with its dragon head and tail.

Pow-wa! Pow-wa! Pow-wa!

 

Sep2

Get a Job

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Children in the parking lot love to sit in my chair.

If it were only kids coming off the trail who wanted to sit in my chair, I’d speculate they were tired and/or their legs hurt. However, kids who are just getting out of cars also want to plop their butts in my chair. Is the novelty of a seat they’ve never sat in more than they can resist? Are kids these days simply so lazy they can’t stand for five minutes?

If there is a crowd at the front of the parking lot and I have to be a few steps from my chair, I’ve learned to keep an eye on it. If I look away from it for too long, I’m bound to find some child relaxing in it when I look back.

One Saturday morning, an extended family arrived in the parking lot in six vehicles. When everyone finally tumbled out of the minivans and SUVs, there must have been twenty little kids milling about. Haven’t these people heard of birth control? I muttered to my co-worker. I had to stand for some reason, them step away from my chair. Sure enough, when I looked back, some tween was relaxing in my seat.

I walked up to the kid and said, Excuse me. That’s not your chair.

The kid looked at me like What? Isn’t every chair my chair? (I hate people with a sense of entitlement, especially when those people are too young to be entitled to much.) But he moved his ass.

I went on with whatever I had been doing. When I glanced back, a different kid from the same family was in my chair!

I walked over and said (loudly), Excuse me! That’s not your chair!

Again, the child moved, but didn’t exhibit one bit of embarrassment or remorse. Apparently, every empty chair is for a kid to sit in.

In no instance when a child has plopped down in my chair has an adult responsible for the kid said, What are you doing? or Don’t sit in the lady’s chair. or That chair doesn’t belong to you. or We don’t sit in chairs that don’t belong to us. Nothing. I’m convinced the majority of parents and adult guardians will allow the children in their care to do anything if it garners them a moment’s peace.

One morning as I walked across the roadway to pick up a piece of trash, a young woman approached my co-worker to pay her parking fee. A little boy (about eight years old) was with her. The kid was running around, and the young woman (his mother? his sister? his babysitter?) was paying absolutely no attention to him.

I saw the kid eyeing my chair, so I hustled over and sat my butt down in it.

As I sat, I heard the boy say, something, something, chair!

This is my chair, I said,

The boy said, I would like to have a chair like that.

You better get a job, I told him. (Oh, how my co-worker burst out laughing when I recounted this part of the story.)

The kid physically recoiled from me. Who could blame him? I don’t want a job either. But to get a nice chair like mine, he’s going to need money, and to get money, he’s going to need a job. (Of course, I got my chair from a free pile, but I wasn’t going to give the kid that information and get his hopes up. To read about the free pile where I got my chair, go here: http://www.rubbertrampartist.com/2016/01/25/the-free-pile-at-the-rtr/.)

I took this photo of the chair kids love to sit in.

I took this photo of the chair kids love to sit in.

Sep1

Picnic Tables

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The parking lot where I work has five picnic tables. I guess that’s what makes it not just a parking lot, but a day use area as well.

Whenever anyone asks me if we have picnic tables or a picnic area, I stand up, and while using flight attendant-type hand gestures, say, There are two near those rocks, one in the meadow, one on the far side of the restroom, and one at the end of this spur.

At that point, some people say Thank you, and move on. I like those people.

But lots of other people have more questions.

Which of the picnic tables is the best? some people ask.

I usually manage to say something like You’ll have to decide that for yourself. I figure I get bonus points if I plaster a smile on my face during such an interaction. Of course, I’m thinking something closer to I’m working! I don’t have time to lounge at picnic tables, trying to decide which one is best!

If I wanted to be philosophical, I could say, Best? What is “best”? Best to me may be worst to you.

Or I could answer the question with a question and ask, What are your criteria for best when it comes to picnic tables?

The more annoying question is any variation of Which picnic table has the most shade right now?

Just a minute, I think whenever someone asks me to tell him/her which picnic table at this moment has the most shade, let me pull out the chart on which I’ve logged the relative amount of shade for each of the five picnic tables in this parking lot, according to the time of day and the day of the year!

In fact, I’ve never sat at any of the picnic tables in the parking lot. I don’t know which one is the best, and I don’t know anything about the shade situation. If I were choosing a picnic table, I’d probably avoid the one on the far side of the restroom (who thought that was a good place for a picnic table anyway?), but that’s about the only advice I can give.

The Lady of the House says visitors to the parking lot see me as the expert, and they want an expert opinion on everything.

Let me just put it out there: I’m no picnic table expert!

I think people in this society depend entirely too much on experts and authority figures. People have grown so accustomed to someone always telling them what to do, they’ve forgotten how to make decisions for themselves.

This is what I would like to tell people when they ask me about the best or most shaded picnic table in the parking lot:

Boldly go through this parking lot. Walk from table to table. Choose the one YOU think is best. Find the table with the degree of shade YOU find most desirable. Do not rely on my opinion, but instead, form your own!

IMG_6723

I took this photo of a picnic table. Do you think it has enough shade? Too much?