QUAIL MUTTERINGS #28. Story Ballets, Graduations and Spring Cleaning (May 1, 2014)

QUAIL MUTTERINGS #28.  Story Ballets, Graduations and Spring Cleaning (May 1, 2014)

Story ballets, graduations, gardening and spring cleaning are my main focuses this time of year. There seems to be no chance for rest and relaxation when so many activities beckon. When the choreography is finished there are rehearsals. After cleaning the porch the windows need attention and of course – the weed whacking is never ending. The gardens must be planted, tended and watered. And then, the graduations…
This year, my most advanced ballet students were interested in choosing their own roles so instead of a single ‘Story Ballet’ we’re doing excerpts from three different fairy tales: Snow White, Beauty and the Beast and Sleeping Beauty. No one is left out of these. The younger dancers and gymnasts play supporting roles such as Snow White’s dwarfs, Beauty’s pestiferous sheep, the beast’s tormentors, and the maidens of Sleeping Beauty’s court. I love having all the classes participating in this ‘Literature in Action’ and thus part of a bigger creative project. The younger students try harder as they watch the older, more seasoned dancers. The alternative would be to put on just another recital, but the thought of that simply curdles my stomach. Yes, it’s true that putting together a cohesive, multi-dimensional piece of work is much more time consuming and labor intensive, but I feel that it’s much more rewarding to all involved, including the grateful audience.
During Spring Break, before visiting our son at Chico State for a couple days, we planted a variety of vegetables in the gardens. We have three completely closed in spaces in order to keep out the squirrels, rodents and birds; hoping to retain some of the produce for ourselves. This is an ongoing effort since these skillful little engineers seem to take pride in outsmarting us ‘evolved species’ and are constantly creating new methods of no-handprint breaking-and-entering and stealthy stealing. As Ramonans, we are fortunate, though, to have a Farmer’s Market and numerous farm stands in our community. I picked up beautiful tomato and cucumber plants, among others, from Connelly Farms to transplant in our garden beds. The horses, goats and compost heap provide our fertilizer and mulching needs. My morning green smoothies are supplemented from our own year-round Swiss chard and kale while the multitude of sorrel zings up our salads. Ahhh, the good life.
On May 10th, the day after the dance concert, we’re hosting the next meeting of our book club. I’ve heard that it’s one of the oldest, if not the oldest, ongoing one of its kind in Southern California – thirty some-odd years! The book we will be discussing is The End of Your Life Book Club by Will Schwalbe. Kent and I recommended it. The author and his dying mother form their own impromptu book club and have their discussions during her chemotherapy sessions. Several books are brought into the story which sound interesting. I’ve read a couple of them including Coming to Our Senses by Jon Kabat-Zinn, and discovered many inspiring nuggets within its pages. Since our house is a bit small we plan on dining and discussing out on the front porch.
On the following Saturday our oldest daughter, Jessie, will be graduating with her master’s degree in applied linguistics from SDSU – which happens to be my alma mater as well as my mom’s and grandmother’s. We will also be hosting a celebration for her. Out on the front porch, of course. The last big shindig here was Jessie and Sean’s wedding almost a year ago. What a beautiful, memorable day that country wedding was… As I start to lose myself in reverie I realize that I must snap back into the present. These things I was referring to earlier haven’t happened yet. I better get busy.

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. A sampling of Chi’s Quail Mutterings, can be found on www.chivarnado.com.

QUAIL MUTTERINGS #17. The Buzzards are Back (August 1, 2012)

QUAIL MUTTERINGS #17.  The Buzzards are Back (August 1, 2012)

 

            During the hot summer months my usual hikes up the mountain turn more into walks down the road. The trails are now covered by weeds and brush obscuring the resident rattlesnakes. This year hasn’t seemed too bad yet, I’ve only seen three so far, but I’d rather be safe than sorry and opt for the path a little more traveled – at least for now.

As I write this though, my nineteen-year-old son, Chance, is walking back down the dirt road. He’s been trimming the trail leading to the Saddle with long-handled pruning sheers and a folding saw. He tells me that he saw three deer this morning. The first he came across earlier during his run and then later there were two fawns up at the Saddle. He’d heard a noise and jumped up onto a boulder to observe them. They just looked at him, since he was holding still, before heading up toward the 2,200 foot peak. He said that their ears looked overly large compared to their small heads.

The image reminded me of our visit to the town ofNarainJapanwhere the deer seemed to outnumber the people in the streets surrounding the large, central park. We had gone to visit our oldest daughter, Jessie, while she was an exchange student studying Japanese.

These days I prefer to start out walking in the early mornings before the sun peeks over the ridge. Dawn has always been my favorite time of day. When I let myself sleep in and don’t go outside until the sun is already shining I miss the exciting awakenings in the canyon. The song birds begin their joyful melodies pre-dawn, about the time the Poorwill ceases its nighttime call. The Red-tail Hawks have already flown from their sleeping perches and are circling high above. The rabbits are hopping about finding tasty morsels under the bushes and young squirrels are cavorting over the boulders.

Mussey Grade Roaddead ends into a gate overlooking San Vicente Lake. To me, walking or riding a bike down the old winding cement road feels like being on vacation. It strikes me sometimes how this paradise lays practically in my own backyard. The only downside is that the more difficult part of the walk, or ride, is on the way home – huffing and puffing at the end of the exercise instead of near the beginning when I’m fresher and have more energy. But as they say, “It’s all good.”

The Mussey Grade creek is still running – a little more than a trickle. That’s pretty good considering how late in the year it is and how little rainfall we’ve gotten. I chuckled happily to myself when I peered down through the grass and noticed the sparkling water below on last Sunday’s walk. A neighbor had joined me that morning, forgoing her usual late slumber, grateful for the incentive to exercise.

This area known as Fernbrook had also been called Buzzard Gulch in the past. During all my years growing up here, and on into my thirties, dozens of big, beautiful vultures nested in the eucalyptus grove down our dirt road. My dad used to “Caw… Caw…” at them when he was outside working in the yard. He seemed to have a real affinity with them. I’d forgotten about that, but was later reminded when I noticed our eucalyptus tree full of them one morning shortly after Dad returned home from open-heart surgery.

Does this mean he’s gonna die? I thought. Or are they his protectors? Well, I guess they were the latter.

By then most of the vultures had vanished. Now, decades later, they’ve come back. In the mornings they can be seen atop telephone poles sunning their outstretched wings and surveying their domain below. In the evenings these shrouded sentinels can be spotted dominating entire eucalyptus trees. They are back! And I love them! When driving by I roll down my window to talk to them. “Hello, beautiful! You guys are gorgeous!” I don’t even care what the neighbors think.

These Turkey Vultures have lots of wrinkly, red skin all over their heads and necks. Sometimes they can be so ugly that they’re beautiful. I find them to be tremendously awesome beings. They live off of everybody else’s discarded waste and make do.

Recently my daughter, Kali, convinced me to go get a pedicure with her. I reluctantly agreed deciding that having someone else massage and decorate my toes once every couple of years or so might not be too bad. I selected a color that could blend in with the shade of dirt that I tended to walk around in. But she informed me that it was “Not my color.” She stated matter-of-factly that I should “Do red.” At last, a burgundy nail polish was agreed upon.

For the next week, every time I happened to glance downward I was taken aback. My sympathetic nervous system informed me that my toes were bleeding! Each time my brain had to re-adjust to the “painted toenails.” And then I would think of the buzzards with their floppy, red skin hanging off their heads encrusted with all the disgusting trash and dead things that they eat. Somehow, I’ll bet that this is not an image that most women see when they look down at their recently pedicured feet.

Anyway, we seem to be having a fairly mild summer, although it hasn’t been very consistent. We run the gamut through dry, humid, hot, warm, cooler, nice breeze, no breeze… But I really do appreciate these long days of summer. So many more activities and fun can be packed in and enjoyed. When I was a kid summer was my favorite time of year. Probably because there was no school. And I could swim in the pond. Perhaps things haven’t changed all that much. I still enjoy many of the same things I did half a century ago.

 

 

Chi Varnado is a contributing writer for The San Diego Reader. Her memoir, A CANYON TRILOGY: Life Before, During and After the Cedar Fire and her children’s book, The Tale of Broken Tail are available on www.amazon.com. Chi directs the Ramona Dance Centre. Her collection of essays, Quail Mutterings, can be found on www.chivarnado.com 

QUAIL MUTTERINGS #16. There’s No Place Like Home (June 1, 2012)

QUAIL MUTTERINGS #16.  There’s No Place Like Home

(June 1, 2012)

 

            “There’s no place like home. There’s no place like home…” These are the words Dorothy concentrated on trying to get back to her family inKansas. Even though she was standing in the middle of a wondrous, magical kingdom she still couldn’t wait to get home. Such is the case for me when I venture out to new places.

Just last week I took a road trip, by myself, up to Bishop, California. The occasion was Mule Days. Every Memorial Day weekend the place floods with donkey and mule enthusiasts excited about the wild-ass adventures that take place there. The parade on Saturday morning is the largest, longest running, non-motorized parade in the country. They’ve been doing it since 1969. The mule and donkey show includes packing, jumping, western pleasure, coon jumping, dressage, roping, races, gaited classes, chariot roping and races, gymkhana classes… You name it. Words can’t come close to describing it.

Anyway, it had been several years since I’d been so I was looking forward to going. My husband and I couldn’t get away at the same time because of our old dogs that need so much care and it was decided that I was the one needing a get-a-way. Unfortunately, I was unable to convince any of my friends to go with me. So instead of canceling my plans I went alone.

A friend from Bishop was showing her new mule in a few of the classes. During the summers she is a wrangler for a pack station up in the Eastern Sierra. She was busy with her own activities so we didn’t get much time to visit, but I did get to meet her mule and watch her perform. In spite of her mule being green and inexperienced I thought she did quite well.

The whole area was abuzz with activity. The restaurants were packed, the streets were crowded and the loudspeaker from the fairgrounds was audible all over town – especially during the evening shows when everywhere else was quieting down. I poked inside Spellbinder’s Bookstore to collect on my recent book sales and meandered through the aisles perusing the colorful displays. I spent most of my time petting the mules in corrals and walking around the fairgrounds, park and downtown. Walking, walking and walking.

All this time on foot gave me ample opportunities to ponder – more than usual. What came up for me mostly was home: the beautiful canyon, my comfy house, our family… What? I thought I came up here to get away from all that, but evidently not. I missed home. It’s funny how being away can trigger fondness in such a strong manner. You stop seeing the negatives and see, instead, only the good things. Normally, while immersed in a situation, it’s almost impossible to see only through rose-colored glasses. Our wiring seems to change depending on the setting of our environment. At least it does for me.

On Friday afternoon a chilly wind picked up and forced me to head back to my motel room for long underwear, wool socks, boots and down jacket. I just happened to pack these things at the last minute – just in case. That night, snow dumped all over the White Mountains to the east of Bishop which made the weekend much colder than the average temperature for this time of year. Great – cold and windy. My favorite… Not.

When Sunday finally rolled around I packed my bags and said goodbye to the Eastern Sierra. Starting out on the drive I purposely did not listen to any music or books on CDs. This way I could enjoy the grandeur of the scene without the influence from outside, auditory distractions. I do love those jagged, snow-capped peaks. So, for the two hours descending into the desert I became one with my surroundings and relished every minute of it.

Of course, upon arriving home I immediately got right into the tasks at hand: unpacking, watering, eating fresh greens from the garden… But then I escaped for a short walk up the canyon to reconnect with the familiar. The first pink hollyhock was flowering on the bank by the house. Penstemons were blooming again and a few lilacs still had the faded blue remains of the Spring’s blossoms. A hawk called from overhead and my dog took off through the bushes after a squirrel.

I’ve lived here all my life, over half a century, much longer than most people stay in one place. I’ve heard that one can become rooted to an area. But the natives before us recognized that the land can take hold and pull you in an even stronger way than your own roots can take hold of the land. I feel that. It’s a powerful sensation. Images of certain places in the canyon come to me, complete with smells and the feel of the air. Even just a log laying next to an old fence post under an oak tree – the damp mustiness floods my senses as if I am in that spot right now, even though it had been forty years ago. It’s a difficult thing to describe. Linear time disappears momentarily and I’m taken aback. Sometimes the feelings can be too strong, and I fight back tears of nostalgia. I’ve hiked all over this canyon and surrounding mountains and know it like it’s a part of me. Not separate at all. I’m connected to this place in ways I’ll probably never really understand.

Someone once told me of a Spanish term which describes this. La querencia – the place where my life is. It seems to fit perfectly. And so, for me, there’s no place like home. There’s absolutely no place like home.

Chi Varnado is a contributing writer for The San Diego Reader. Her memoir, A CANYON TRILOGY: Life Before, During and After the Cedar Fire and her children’s book, The Tale of Broken Tail are available on www.amazon.com. Chi directs the Ramona Dance Centre. Her collection of essays, Quail Mutterings, can be found on www.chivarnado.com.