Author Archives: chivarnado

QUAIL MUTTERINGS #24. Ten Years Later (November 8, 2013)

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QUAIL MUTTERINGS #24.  Ten Years Later (November 8, 2013)

               In October of 2003, our extended family lost five houses here in the canyon. The Cedar Fire claimed our cabin, my mom’s house, my grandmother’s cottage, my sister’s dome, and my first house. So far, the only one rebuilt was our old cabin from the 1920’s. Now, a decade later, I’ve just submitted plans to rebuild my grandmother’s (Bamoo’s) house.

I’m trying to be careful about how and what we bring back into the canyon. It’s important that it blend into the environment and not disturb any more nature than necessary. That, after all, is what our home really is. The beautiful canyon nestled in the backcountry of Ramona. This is what we came back to after the fire and decided that yes, it’s still worth it. I’m planning to construct a berm house, built into the south-facing hill, like Bamoo had before. The thermal mass from the concrete wall behind and partway down the sides, sitting on a slab, will help keep the small abode a more even temperature and have a greener effect.

On October 23rd I spent six hours down at the County submitting my plans, visiting the various counters attempting to gain their sign offs. My cell phone rang. It was KUSI Television asking me to come down the next morning for an interview on Good Morning San Diego to commemorate the ten year anniversary of the Cedar Fire and discuss my book about our experience with it.

“You’ll never believe where I am right now,” I said.

“Unbelievable!” he said. “Ten years later?”

The live segment aired on October 24th at about 8:10 AM. It was actually kind of fun. I got to discuss both books and, of course, they wanted to hear about our evacuation. In the end, after reminding the audience that the Cedar Fire was the largest fire on record in California’s history, he asked if there was anything I learned from the experience or what I do differently now. I laughed. I figured everyone expected to hear how I now clear the hell out of my property to avoid any future fire danger. But no. I simply told him that I try to take more time out to smell the flowers. “They’re always there, you know. We just have to remember to take a moment and breathe.”

During the past few months while readying the site to build the nine-hundred and sixty square foot dwelling I’ve taken time to remember Bamoo. I framed a small picture of her to place on top of a bookcase. She taught elementary school in Poway for thirty years and was a member of Delta Kappa Gamma, an honorary society for women educators. Bamoo and Papoo (my grandpa and her stay-at-home husband/inventor) bought one-hundred acres back in 1955. A few years later my parents bought forty-five acres from them. Then in 1992 my husband and I purchased an adjacent twenty acres to complete the whole back end of the canyon. Five generations of my family have inhabited this valley.

Bamoo’s old cottage was built in the 1920’s by an artist. The same guy who built our cabin. I love those old craftsman-style houses. They’re my favorite. She had a patio in back demarcated by high rock walls. An old ice box sat next to an outdoor fireplace and a cement ledge seat ran along the rear wall. I sometimes go over there and duck under the dead, fallen trees obscuring it and sit to contemplate the eternal verities, as my dad used to call it. It never fails to renew my spirits. I feel it’s important for me to keep connected to my family’s roots as well as to the wildlife and plants that surround us here.

Upon collecting the plans back from the County for corrections, a couple weeks later, I watched as the agent wrote four digits on the stamp on the front page. My jaw dropped. Those four numbers were Bamoo’s last four digits of her phone number! Maybe she is still here after all. It somehow makes me feel like I’m doing the right thing. I can’t help but smile.

We spent the ten-year anniversary of the Cedar Fire having a quiet dinner with another couple whose house also burned. And yes, they have also rebuilt. Things have changed dramatically for all of us. It seems that our reference for the relative time of things is either BEFORE or AFTER the fire. It’s simply the system most of us have adopted. But let’s raise a glass and toast to a happy future; filled with compassion, community spirit, and an air of acceptance for life. May we all linger in the moment and smell the flowers because they are always around us.

 

Chi Varnado is the author of two books. Her memoir, A CANYON TRILOGY: Life Before, During and After the Cedar Fire; and her children’s book, The Tale of Broken Tail, are both available from www.amazon.com. Chi directs The Ramona Dance Centre: www.ramonadancecentre.com. Her collection of essays, Quail Mutterings, can be found on www.chivarnado.com.

QUAIL MUTTERINGS #23. Bound For Minnesota (October 11, 2013)

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QUAIL MUTTERINGS #23.  Bound For Minnesota (October 11, 2013)

 

               Adventures are important. The destination or what you do doesn’t really matter so long as it takes you out of your comfort zone and keeps you on your toes. It’s how you handle yourself in those situations that enables growth to happen. If we never step out of our routines we can become too complacent and sure of ourselves.

When I first received the wedding invitation from Minneapolis I simply put it aside thinking it highly unlikely that I’d be going. Minnesota seemed out of the question financially. My sister thought otherwise.

“We’ve never been to Minnesota before. You know what else is in Minnesota?” Bo asked. “That wolf preserve that Mom used to donate to.”

It was also her idea that we could canoe on one of those “ten thousand lakes” and camp out and hear wolves howling in the woods. This prompted her online search for outfits there that could facilitate her plan. It was at my little Fourth of July party, sitting in rocking chairs on the front porch, that our plan was hatched. Heidi was game if we included a little “antiquing” in the Midwest. One thing led to another and after a considerable amount of hemming and hawing, from each of us, flight tickets were purchased and reservations were made.

In early August the three of us boarded the plane with our accompanying luggage to support a wilderness adventure in The Boundary Waters of northern Minnesota, a road trip traversing the length and width of the entire state, a formal wedding at a mansion in Minneapolis, along with my personal supply of gluten and dairy-free snack foods. Hopefully, we were sufficiently prepared for the next eight days.

I don’t think any of us were ready, or really even aware that we would be carrying what felt like hundred-pound sack backpacks containing our food, clothes, camping gear… over hill and dale portages consisting of narrow, rocky trails up to a half-mile long which you had to traverse to get to the next lake. It might have been a little easier had we been able to use our hands to help heft up the sagging weight on our backs. But no. We had to carry paddles, fishing poles and zippered canoe pouches with our free appendages. All three of us were astonished, but unwilling to admit our reluctance to appear weak or “not game” for the adventure. So instead, we helped each other into our gravity-enhancing contraptions and careened forward in our hunched-forward stupors. Amazingly, we didn’t topple over or break anything, although each of us secretly believed that in all probability we would. It was literally impossible to stand upright which forced a completely unnatural hip-displacing posture. Only in retrospect can we laugh uncontrollably at the absurdity of our plight. Each of our three days out on the lakes required two hiking portages. Thankfully our twenty-two-year-old guide, a skinny but strong young buck, carried the canoes.

The time spent on the water was almost as “interesting” as we learned paddling and, more importantly, “steering” – which was done by the back person in the canoe. If there had been many other people out there in the wilderness we might have appeared positively drunk as we fish-tailed and “j-paddled” in S-shapes toward any general direction. The front person provided the power to the vessel. We each took turns in order to learn the basic skills required to maneuver a canoe with a partner.

As dusk began to settle each evening our trusty guide would find an unmarked, but established campsite on an island or peninsula; then we’d put our face nets on under our hats to brave the mosquitoes. The air borne blood-suckers descended on us from the thick woods just behind the shore-line. Luckily for me they preferred the others’ sweet smell to mine in spite of their constant slathering on of Deet-laced insect repellent. I guess my garlic consumption, or just my lack of sweetness, kept them at bay for I only used a natural bug spray twice a day. Even the smoke from our nightly campfires did little to deter those mini vampires from their instinctive duties. They came out in droves when one of us hiked back into the forest for a pit stop. The privy on each of these islands had no walls or roof. Just a tall metal cylinder coming up out of a concrete base over an open pit. One had to continuously fan the air behind the exposed, bare ass straddled over the cold, hard ring while scanning the area for bears. We’d heard there were some bear problems on the very island we camped on that first night. Thankfully they left us alone, perhaps feeling sorry for our red, itching behinds.

The scenery out on the lakes was serene and beautiful. Eagles graced the nearby sky as we paddled through wild rice paddies and caught glimpses of turtles, herons and lily pads. It was profoundly peaceful.

Days later, out on the open road, we’d stop at interesting places. There were several captive wolves grooming themselves in The International Wolf Center. We collected agates on a walk along The North Shore (Lake Superior.) We saw majestic waterfalls in a state preserve. Antiques were much more affordable here in the Midwest than at home in Southern California. It’s too bad it would have cost too much to bring them home with us. We stayed a couple days with friends who were visiting family and went to the local pig races. A must see for anyone not having experienced these before.

And finally, on to Minneapolis to the fancy wedding of our cousin’s daughter. The Van Dusen Mansion was grander and more stately than I had imagined. The ceremony took place in the courtyard, refreshments and an open bar in the mansion proper, dinner and champagne in the formal dining hall, and dancing and more open bars in the carriage house. Weddings are great for cutting a rug. We hadn’t shook our booties like that in years. Very therapeutic indeed.

So, like all good things, our trip came to an end and we departed Minnesota and headed back home. Even though we did not hear wild wolves howling in the woods we were all changed slightly, as the experiences we left behind infiltrated our beings in subtle ways. Not that any of us can always explain or understand the influences, but they are there regardless. So why not take up that next offer you get for an out-of-the-ordinary adventure? Who knows? It might do you some good. It did us.

Chi Varnado is the author of two books. Her memoir, A CANYON TRILOGY: Life Before, During and After the Cedar Fire, and her children’s book, The Tale of Broken Tail, are both available from www.amazon.com. Chi directs The Ramona Dance Centre: www.ramonadancecentre.com. Her collection of essays, Quail Mutterings, can be found on www.chivarnado.com.

QUAIL MUTTERINGS #22. A Memorable Wedding (July 22, 2013)

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               I don’t think there’s such a thing as a standard wedding. I’m no expert, that’s for sure, but I think we managed to pull off a pretty good one for our daughter last month, even if I do say so myself. Over two-hundred people descended into our canyon to take part in this country wedding. A live bluegrass band played in front of a rustic fountain I’d put together featuring an antique hand water pump feeding into a converted cattle water trough. Guests had a choice between barbecue or vegan, and home-made horsd’oeuvres. Each ivory-draped table displayed vases of fresh-cut flowers, candles, napkin-wrapped utensils and champagne flutes. Some out-of-state folks, I heard, thought that our venue was part of a Hollywood set and couldn’t believe that people actually lived in the log cabin. The mix of attendees was incredibly diverse, perhaps due, in part, to the combinations of the families involved.

Jessie’s two dads walked her down the stone steps off the front porch and through the bark laid path leading under the canopy of oaks. When the question was asked, “Who gives this woman?” they replied a choral, “We do.” Chuckles rippled through the crowd. Tom is her biological father and Kent is the dad who helped raise her with me. She feels doubly blessed.

When guests arrived they entered something that had taken on a life of its own, regardless of what we had to do with it. Perhaps Denise and Henry, let’s say, follow the signs and balloons from the top of Mussey Grade down to the dirt road where they turn left.

“Follow that car in front of us, Dear,” says Denise. “They must know where they’re going.” She notices the ravens flying overhead.

Hand-painted directions and two strapping young men, the brother and a cousin of the bride, urge them forward through the open gate and up the narrow lane curving to the left. Henry notices various other signs: FOLLOW THE PARKING ATTENDANT’S DIRECTIONS, NO PARKING, BATHROOM, QUICK SAND, POISON OAK AREA… “This is interesting,” he says to Denise. He pulls forward and backs into his parking space, as instructed. She holds his elbow with her right hand while pressing the wedding gift under her left arm as they walk down the solar-light lined path toward their destination. It is now 2:30 PM.

Quite a few people are already milling about, waters in hand, under dappled sunlight speckling the scene. Denise sets her present on the gift table and Henry ushers her to a seat near the split-rail fence.

“They sure have done a lot here. This place is lovely,” she says. Wood chippings completely cover all the areas from the natural bowl where the ceremony will be held, to the driveway and creekbed containing the tables, as well as the dirt road leading in. She picks up the hand-fans off their chairs before sitting down and hands one to her husband. “Another nice touch. Oh yes, I heard that Jessie had spent a couple years teaching in China. I’ll bet this was her idea.”

A friend of the family officiates the service referencing a parchment book she hand-crafted, marked with a silk ribbon. This beautiful piece of artwork will also serve as her gift to the new couple, complete with their chosen verses and dialogue. She orchestrates the “Handfasting,” draping strands of different colored strings over their joined hands, explaining how each one signifies a specific strength in a marriage.

Denise nods her approval. The four-year-old “Ring Bear,” as the bride’s nephew calls himself, does a splendid job carrying the basket holding the rings and sitting up front with his granny. The flower girl is a tom-boy and sports black shorts, a white button-down shirt and suspenders. Her preferred title is “Expert Horticultural Attendant.” The bride’s two sisters join the bridal party along with two friends. The chosen color is a deep purple. Six groomsmen, including the man of the hour’s brother, flank the groom. They are all wearing suspenders over white shirts and black pants.

The year leading up to this event has felt like non-stop preparation for me. When Jessie first told us that she wanted to get married here in the canyon, for sentimental reasons, I was thrilled. I’ve always been open to this, but I really had no idea what was in store. An absolutely humungous guest list along with multiple expectations from the other families involved had me reeling.

First of all, in order to accommodate parking for over two-hundred people, massive amounts of brush clearing had to be done. This meant hand-clearing, with shovels and machetes, an area out-of-sight from the proceedings, to ensure a beautiful country wedding. In turn, the chippings from the piles of scrub oak and buckwheat became the ground cover for the entire venue. This was made more aromatic by bringing in additional loads of various tree shavings. Spreading all this by manual labor took weeks.

Jessie’s dad’s family and Sean’s folks came up from the city a few times for our potluck work parties. At first, the creekbed had seemed a bit rugged to Jessie’s step-mother. When we originally showed it to her she said, “You’re going to grade this, aren’t you?

“No. This is one of our most level areas. It is a country wedding, after all,” I’d responded.

“The Aunties” have hearts of gold. One of them has construction skills and installed a hand-rail along the rock steps. They made most of the signs that we posted everywhere. I’d made a list, complete with arrow directions, for them to work from. We hung Christmas lights in trees and on the porch, placed solar lights to designate the path to and from our parking area, wrapped potted geraniums with burlap and ribbons to accent the seating area, and “The Aunties” loaned us an elegant canopy for the beverage area. We picked up a very large livestock water trough from the feed store for iced drinks.

When our good samaritan neighbors received their invitation they offered their tractor to smooth out the road. I had a couple loads of asphalt grindings delivered and thanked them profusely. Their guest cottage became the honeymoon suite.

My friend volunteered to arrange all the flowers. For months, we saved interesting jars and soaked labels off. She borrowed my truck, since I had a shell on the back, and picked up the multitude of lovely blooms on Thursday down in San Diego. My sister and another friend helped trim, wrap bouquets and arrange on Friday. On Saturday, the day of the big event, she drove the truck, filled with over a hundred vases of beautiful flowers, very slowly in the dirt road. So gradual was her progress that one of the groomsmen jumped out of the car behind her and ran past, laughing all the way up the road. I heard this story later from both of them, independently.

Five-hundred pounds of ice was brought in that morning. I’d hired two parking attendants, four servers who happened to be my advanced dance students, and my assistant to help manage the day. Sean’s parents generously covered a lot of the escalating expenses, and Jessie’s dad and step-mother helped with all sorts of things including making the horsd’oeuvres the night before. I suggested that an outline should be made detailing the order of events… for the helpers, similar to what I do for our story ballets. However, I’m rather clueless about wedding etiquette and such and recommended that someone else might want to take this on. It was Sean’s mom that stepped up to the task gracefully.

From 8:00 AM that morning the place took on a life of its own. Every square inch of the house was occupied. The bridal party was up in the loft getting their hair and make-up done and then the photos. Jessie used the bedroom upstairs for her changing area… The groomsmen took over our bedroom downstairs. I finally had to kick them out to get dressed myself. The step-brother who brought the vegan/gluten-free food spread out in the kitchen while the flower crew set-up shop on the dining room table. The log-railed staircase and living room overflowed when the photographers set up. All these independent microcosms were functioning on their own, but also as part of the larger macrosystem.

As my son escorted me down the aisle I felt as if we’d entered a completely different world. It was like a magical atmosphere had descended and transformed our yard. I’d never felt anything quite like this before. It was clearly a different zone.

Quite a few people asked if I had considered opening our place as a wedding venue. I don’t know. Perhaps the canyon is asking to be shared?

Chi Varnado is the author of two books. Her memoir, A CANYON TRILOGY: Life Before, During and After the Cedar Fire, and her children’s book, The Tale of Broken Tail, are both available from www.amazon.com. Chi directs The Ramona Dance Centre: www.ramonadancecentre.com. Her collection of essays, Quail Mutterings, can be found on www.chivarnado.com.