Author Archives: chivarnado

QUAIL MUTTERINGS #2. Chorus of the Frogs – January 9, 2011

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QUAIL MUTTERINGS #2. Chorus of the Frogs – January 9, 2011

 I lay here in bed at 3:30 AM listening to the beautiful chorus of frogs. My window is cracked open allowing the sounds of the symphony playing down at the creek to drift into my consciousness. Normally I’d probably miss out on this Overture de Croak, but I have a nasty head cold which is keeping me awake. I suppose I shouldn’t complain. It’s probably been close to a year since I’ve had one. Everyone around seems to have had several since I have so I guess it was my turn.

We’re so fortunate to have had such an abundance of rain recently, enough so the creek was running even in December. This was a local record since I’ve been around. We’ve had over sixteen-and-a-half inches of rain this fall, in just a couple of months. In fact, we had over ten inches in two weeks! The run-off has kept Kent and me busy digging trenches to keep the dirt road from washing out. Aah, the pleasures of country living.

The road leading into our place is more than a half mile long. The first part of the street, nearest Mussey Grade, is better maintained. There are a couple folks with hearts of gold who enjoy playing on their tractors. As one progresses further into the canyon there are fewer of us and the bulk of the maintenance falls onto those willing to roll up our sleeves and do the work – by hand, with shovels. By the way, there are only a couple of us. And then, once in the canyon, there’s just us, with more real, unpaid work than we can handle already. We just have to pick and choose the jobs that are screaming the loudest or the ones that are threatening to ruin some project we’ve already sunk our blood, sweat and tears into.

On the occasion when outsiders come in to fix something for us, or simply to visit, one thing usually registers in their minds. And this is that they have somehow stumbled back into perhaps the 1930’s, a time when things took longer to accomplish, with a lot more planning and time investment necessary. Everything seems more difficult here. There are no paved roads and the dirt lane is narrow and canopied by old oak trees making deliveries with large trucks practically impossible. The landscape is steep and unyielding with rocks and boulders literally everywhere. Everything we do here requires a hike – not like walking on Mt. Woodson’s paved road or Iron Mountain’s wide trail. This is more goat terrain.

Our washing machine is out on the side porch and the clothes line accessible only by a hike up the hill. The garden, where we pick our dinner, is up the mountain even farther. We turn our two horses loose during the day so they can forage for themselves while munching down the fire hazard. If they don’t come home by supper time we have to walk back into the canyon to fetch them. The goats and chickens, as well as the horses during the night, are a traipse over to our west side. Keeping enough firewood cut, split and collected is a time consuming and fitness insuring activity.

In other words, ours is not a life of convenience. Nor is it exactly ‘simple’ or ‘slower’. But these days we know that a simple life is usually more difficult and a slower pace probably entails more physical labor. Not always, but it’s funny – the choice of words in our language. It’s not to say that our lifestyle is not rewarding. It most definitely is.

The other night as I went to bed – with my window open a little, of course – I heard a porwil’s three-syllable call. It’s one of the most comforting sounds I know. A barn owl screeched a couple times in the distance. And yes, the chorus of frogs. Have you ever noticed how deafeningly loud and robust they can be and then instantly quiet? It’s almost as if they are all aware of a single music conductor waving his wand to play and then sharply cutting them off. And then luring them on again, one section of the orchestra at a time, building to a crescendo and then falling away again: all night long. What perseverance and passion. The ebb and flow of the symphony parallels our lives. If we slow down and listen, we might, perhaps, become more in tune with our own surroundings, our community, and the world that we live in. We’re each a single instrument – important in our own right. But together, as part of the orchestra, we can do wonderful things.

Until next time, may your life be full and blessed as you take the time to enjoy your walk or sit in the garden. Don’t miss the symphony!

Chi Varnado is a contributing writer for The San Diego Reader. Her memoir, A CANYON TRILOGY: Life Before, During and After the Cedar Fire, is available on www.amazon.com. The Tale of Broken Tail, her children’s book, should be coming out this spring and she is currently working on a novel set in her father’s Mississippi homeland. Chi directs The Dance Centre of Ramona. Her collection of essays, Quail Mutterings, will appear on Ramonapatch.com every month or so. Please visit www.thedancecentreoframona.com & www.chivarnado.com.

 

Quail Mutterings #1: A Special October (One Year Ago)

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QUAIL MUTTERINGS #1.  A SPECIAL OCTOBER – October 2010

(One year ago)

            Another Friday morning finds me hoofing it up the trail to the saddle. Fridays are wonderful – a break in routine for something special. For me, that means riding my horse into the backcountry or taking a hike up the mountain with my Australian Shepard, Job. My dog is a rescue from Lone Pine, named such because he has a job: to keep me company and provide safety when I meander into nature alone. His name, however, is pronounced the same as the biblical character who is always getting himself into unforeseen trouble, no matter how good his intentions might be.

Today I notice fresh deer tracks in the path. Either there are quite a few of them using this trail or, more likely, a few use this path regularly. It’s the end of October, usually a time when we’re fearful of wildfires spurred forward by the dangerously dry Santa-Ana conditions. But this year we’ve had an unheard of three-and-a-half inches of rain between the end of September through this month. Instead of having to squint to avoid the dust-filled wind, or scratching the dry, cracking skin on my hands while enduring an east-wind induced headache, I’m smiling and breathing in deeply the clean, fresh mountain air. I’ve lived here over fifty years and can’t remember another October quite like this. The earth is richly moist, offering up fresh green grass tenders toward the warm sunshine. The hillsides and the canyon below have a green tint – more like what we’d see here in early spring.

Just yesterday, during my morning run, I saw a doe with three adolescent fawns peeking through the bushes at me. I’m quite sure I looked a little silly running from seemingly nothing at all. We humans are such a strange breed.

Today I noticed three different kinds of mushrooms poking their heads up through the voluptuous soil. The first one looked almost like a small white flower in bloom, albeit with a much thicker stem. Another was a deep mustard-yellow with a swirled, cone-like cap. The third was more fungus-like, rather shapeless and hard. This one wasn’t attached to the ground and with a quick kick of my boot it released a dusty yellow powder giving the illusion of smoke.

Job raced up the south slope and yelped an unusual bark. I called him, but he just barked again. I heard him running through the brush. Just then, a bobcat took off across the clearing leaving Job barking at an empty bush. I’m glad of it. That could’ve been a tussle that I’d rather not see or have happen. My dear Job is in over his head again.

A little while later I’m up at the saddle gazing over Kimball Valley below, across the mountain ranges to the east, past Country Estates and Barona, out to Cuyamaca. Last time I was up here the mountains were layered in fog giving the illusion of islands in a mysterious sea. It was breath taking. Even if I’d had a camera it could not have done it justice. The view was spectacular and I’m grateful this vision was offered that day when I happened to be here to see it.

Coming back down into the canyon I notice that it’s a good acorn year. The live oaks and scrub oaks are laden with the little capped nuggets. It seems as though a good crop of them only comes through every other year or so. Some are starting to turn brown. Darn, I hope I haven’t blown it and waited too long. I really want to learn how to cure them and make acorn flour that I can add to bread dough. As children, my sister and I sometimes joined the Mesa Grande Indians for celebrations and ate shewi (acorn mush) and other interesting indigenous dishes. When making bread I like combining rosemary, our goat’s milk and whey (from making cheese) and other ingredients found here on our property. It just makes it that much more homemade and delicious.

A horny toad is sunning himself in the warm dirt as I quietly walk by without Job noticing him. A friend once told me, “Lizards are protectors of children.” That’s good news since so many of these sun bathers dwell here alongside my daughter and grandson. Our family has lived in this canyon for five generations. The place is full of Indian lore, rich for the cultivating mind. Many of the large rocks and boulders have indentations where our native sisters ground acorns into flour. Perhaps when I get around to grinding this year’s harvest I’ll make use of some of the same holes in the rocks.

Thin white clouds decorate the sky as I head home noticing that my stomach is growling. It’s probably all the thinking about that special bread. But for today I’ll probably pick some sorrel and tomatoes from the garden and make a quesadilla with Sunday’s feta cheese for lunch. Yep, that oughta do it.

Chi Varnado is a contributing writer for The San Diego Reader. Her memoir, A CANYON TRILOGY: Life Before, During and After the Cedar Fire, is available on www.amazon.com. The Tale of Broken Tail, her children’s book, should be coming out this spring and she is currently working on a novel set in her father’s Mississippi homeland. Chi directs The Dance Centre of Ramona. Her collection of essays, Quail Mutterings, will appear on Ramonapatch.com every month or so. Please visit www.thedancecentreoframona.com & www.chivarnado.com.

Quail Mutterings: Time to Let Go (November 13, 2011)

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QUAIL MUTTERINGS #12:  TIME TO LET GO – November 13, 2011

            The time has come to let go. Some things are easier to let go of than others. Two weeks ago my dog, Job, and I hiked up to the Saddle (the dip between our mountains to the east). For reasons unclear to me, I felt a little antsy, not quite myself. I figured a good huff and puff up the mountain might clear my head and set things right. It was a beautiful Friday morning so why not?

Once up there, gazing out over the distant mountains and valleys toward Cuyamaca, I got the sensation to simply let go and let it be. About what, I wasn’t sure. But okay, I thought. Good message. I’ll try. On the walk back down I found myself humming The Beatles’ tune Let It Be and had to chuckle to myself.

A few days later I took my beloved old 1985 Toyota Tercel wagon to the shop for a smog check after, of course, running a tank of premium gas through it with the “Guaranteed to Pass Smog” additive. It did not pass. This has been a great car for me. I bought it when it was two years old and had 32,000 miles on it. My three-month-old daughter and Mom came along with me. It was a miserably hot fall day so we kept a wet cloth diaper over Kali’s little head to keep her cooled off. I paid $7,500 for that car.

Years later, after fixing the radiator, the mechanic said that the car had more serious issues, including low compression, and wasn’t worth repairing. The vehicle was worthless. He told me that I probably would not even make it back home. That was fifteen years ago. The car has rattled and sounded like it was going to fall apart any day for a long time now. Ten years ago my mom borrowed it to drive the grandkids around and wondered why I hadn’t gotten rid of it yet. For the last several years the mice have co-inhabited the car with me. I set traps in there and had a battery operated gopher contraption that beeped every ten seconds to scare them off. Sometimes when driving, a mouse would run out from under the seat and make me swerve. This past year I had to take just about everything out of the car to keep the rodents from shredding it for nesting materials. My registration that I kept in the glove compartment was completely nonexistent. They ate it. Great. Hopefully I won’t get pulled over before renewing it.

That car took our family on vacations all over the western states. We’d put a clam shell on the roof and pack it full of bedding and camping gear. It’s been to theGrand Canyon,Zion,BryceCanyon,Four Corners, the Tetons, theOregoncoast and the desert. With four-wheel-drive it’s been the vehicle to get us in and out our washed-out dirt road. To me, it feels like part of the family.

But when it didn’t pass smog this time, I felt, logically, that it might be time to let the state retire the car for $1,500. After all, I could use the money and neither my husband nor I are mechanics. If your car fails smog, but still runs, the government has this vehicle retirement program. However, I was torn and going into severe indecision mode. The motor still ran strong. If I kept it a rat might chew through a wire and cost me hundreds of dollars or it could break down and I wouldn’t get a dime for it. But I loved that car. We’d been through so much together. It’s been in the family for twenty-five of its twenty-seven years.

After turning in the necessary paperwork and receiving my letter of approval I called the salvage yard where I would have to take it.

“What happens to the car?” I asked.

I had assumed that it could have a new life inMexicoor be parted out for other cars in need. But no.

“We crush it,” the lady said.

“You crush it? It’s not recycled?” I implored. I didn’t want to add, unnecessarily, to our already toxic, overflowing landfills.

“Well, yes. It is recycled,” she said.

But I wondered how. I was told that after crushing it would go through a shredder and become 1,800 pieces. At that point, a magnet would separate out all the metal parts from the upholstery and wiring. A further step would pick out wires… and what was left for the landfill would be cleaner than the dirt it was going in. That’s what she said.

The whole crushing idea was obviously bothersome to me so I sat down to meditate for clarity. What appeared tipped me into decision. “TMS,” as a friend had said. Too Much Stuff. And then I pictured all my dad’s old vehicles and piles of things that he couldn’t part with. As a hoarder, he left us plenty of junk to sort through. So I guessed that the time had come to “Let Go.”

My Tercel had been a just-around-town car for quite a while. Not one to drive off the mountain on a regular basis. Driving down toNational Cityto the dismantler’s, white knuckled on the freeway holding back tears, I persevered.Kentfollowed in the other car since I’d need a ride home. I pulled up the dirt drive next to the wind-torn canopy where a man wearing an orange vest requested my paperwork. I handed him the letter of approval, my ID, and the registration renewal page.

He said, “This isn’t the registration.”

“It’s all I have. The rats ate my registration,” I told him.

He stared at me blankly then said, “Well, you’ll need the real registration, not this.”

So I parked the car and asked where the closest AAA might be. Kent and I hurried to the Clairemont office hoping to get what I needed in short order before the yard closed and impounded my old car. Luckily they weren’t busy. After spending eighteen dollars for the replacement registration we got back just in time.

I pulled the Tercel back up to the tattered canopy and handed the man my papers. He looked at them before setting them down on the dirty picnic table heading over to wave a few loaded trucks through the scales. A huge semi-truck was parked over to the right next to a big tractor which was ramming recycled contents down into the bed with its long, clawing arm. I wondered if the shocks and springs on that gigantic truck could stand up to such abuse as it shook and rocked with each sharp compression. The noise was deafening.

The man came back and spray painted big, red Xs on my car and some numbers. Do they have to do this in front of me? Can’t he wait till I’m gone? I had been fearful that they would actually crush it before I left. I did not want to see that.

I was then instructed to drive over to the scales. Waiting in line I was nauseous. Finally, I pulled onto the platform and felt it sway. That didn’t help my queasiness. He waved me forward. Then he told me to get out of the car to go back and stand on the scale myself. That way he would know how much weight to subtract. What next? I opened the door and walked back to the swaying platform-bridge thing and stopped, wondering if I was in the right place. It didn’t seem like he was paying any attention to me, but I guess he was because he waved me back. I thought it odd that I couldn’t have just left the car and have it weighed without me, but this is bureaucracy. It doesn’t have to make sense.

After parking my scarred, Xed up car I walked over to a little building with a window and waited for my check. They told me it would “be a while” so I got inKent’s car. We talked about how some couples our age, mid-life, get divorces after their children are grown. We decided that might be rather lonely for us and decided against it. We talk like this sometimes, knowing that we’re pretty secure with each other…

At last, the check was ready. It was dated with a time of 3:35 PM. I could not cash it for another half hour or so. Another interesting (not really) bureaucratic idiosyncrasy. But it didn’t matter. It was Veteran’s Day, a holiday, and the banks were closed anyway.

So, there you have it. Letting go was not easy and I’m working hard at not having second thoughts. Just Let It Be, I tell myself, and then hum that old familiar tune.

Chi Varnado is a contributing writer for The San Diego Reader. Her memoir, A CANYON TRILOGY: Life Before, During and After the Cedar Fire, is available on www.amazon.com. The Tale of Broken Tail, her children’s book, should be coming out this spring and she is currently working on a novel set in her father’s Mississippi homeland. Chi directs The Dance Centre of Ramona. Her collection of essays, Quail Mutterings, will appear here every month or so. Please visit www.thedancecentreoframona.com & www.chivarnado.com.