Tag Archives: Mussey Grade

QUAIL MUTTERINGS #31. Wine Wednesdays (September 19, 2014)

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QUAIL MUTTERINGS #31.  Wine Wednesdays (September 19, 2014)

My sister and I were looking forward to having veggie salads with bleu cheese dressing on that evening in mid June. We had specifically chosen that day because one of the local restaurants held Wine Wednesdays in which they offered a bottle of wine for half price when meals were ordered. Of course, the day we went was the day they ended this deal. Boo hoo. “We’ll just have to create our own Wine Wednesdays,” I said. The salads were delicious anyway and we each got a glass of wine.
During the month of July I hosted my own Wine Wednesdays out front under the oaks for my liberal-minded crone friends. They were a hit. My sister would arrive early and help cover the picnic tables with table cloths, take out the pitcher of iced cucumber water, pick flowers for the rustic vases, and carry out the wine glasses, plates, utensils and napkins. Semi-elegance in the summer shade with a light potluck.
When a bunch of women over fifty get together the discussions can be quite interesting as well as entertaining. M says that her husband wonders what we all talk about. On one occasion someone has brought up that a friend’s ninety-year-old mother is getting chemotherapy.
“Can you imagine going through that at that age? I can’t even fathom it.”
“I sure wouldn’t do it. I’d just take the morphine.”
“I think that the local Indians, back when, would just take peyote and jump off a big boulder when they got too old and sick to cope anymore.”
“My husband said that if he ever got so senile that he’s incoherent then we should go out and have a hunting accident.”
“Yeah, and then you’d go to jail for shooting him.”
“Our laws aren’t too keen on assisted suicide, are they?”
“You know, in Oregon, they’re more lenient and understanding about it. And they are a lot more generous with the drugs for palliative care.”
“Boy, I can’t wait to tell my husband what we talked about today!”
We all laughed as a light breeze rustled through the trees above. The trickling water from the two fountains helped to camouflage the time of year, but still the temperature was pleasant. A dove landed on a branch overhead and called several times.
The month of August was too difficult for most of us to commit to Wednesdays, with work or trips, so we took a hiatus until mid September when we agreed to try to get together once a month during the school year. This last Wednesday was our selected day – right at the tail end of a triple digit heat wave. I wondered if we’d have to cancel since I have no air conditioning in the house and the coolest place actually is out front under the oaks. This could be disastrous for a bunch of menopausal women. We persevered.
My sister and I set up two standing misters that attach to hoses and even though we got a little wet it was better than nothing. Thankfully, when 4:00 rolled around it was already a bit cooler than it had been. We all seem to look forward to these ‘mini vacations’ to stop a while and enjoy each other’s company. None of us drink that much at all. It’s more about the label on the bottle. Is it interesting or pretty? I guess we just need an excuse to get together and connect, in an old-fashioned, real sort of way. Not texting, emailing or tweeting. There’s no cell phone service here anyway.
I told them about my substitute teaching job on Monday when it was too hot for the middle schoolers to go outside for PE. So each class of fifty or more students came into my classroom, which was only equipped for about thirty, for an hour with no lesson plan. Another PE teacher brought me a sports video, but there was no DVD player in the room. A lot of good that was. So, I got to wing it. I knew I had to keep them occupied or complete chaos would reign. Luckily, after taking roll some ideas came to me.
“How many of you want to go to college?” I asked. A show of hands.
“How many of you don’t want to go to college?”
“Who will probably go to college only because your parents want you to?”
Then I asked them what they might want to major in: PE? Science? History?
“Now,” I said. “Each table and the surrounding students sitting on the floor is a company. I’d like you to come up with an idea or a product and select a spokesperson for your group to sell it to the rest of us. You’ve got five minutes. Go.”
The decibels in the room grew substantially. Each table gave their spiel. Then after hearing all the groups I gave them two minutes to either improve their idea or pick a new one. Then we all listened again. Lots of students had questions about the products or “what if” scenarios so we spent the rest of the time fielding these inquiries. I told them that this was most likely how they’d have to think or work no matter what they ended up doing as a career. They were jazzed.
M said, “I’ll bet they’ll want you to sub at that school a lot in the future.”
“I doubt it,” I said. “I’m only available on some Mondays and Fridays since I’m busy at the studio on the other days. Besides, they’ll probably never even hear about it.”
“Hmm,” said R. “That’s probably true. A big institution like that. The kids, most likely, won’t talk to their parents at that age and everyone is so caught up in their own thing. Nobody really cares anyway.”
D began sharing about the trip she’d be taking with a friend in June. It was going to be to the south of France.
“Can you take me with you?” I asked. We all drooled over travel, especially to there or Italy.
She told us about other adventures she’d been on with her life-long friend. One of them had included meeting some people who were instrumental in re-populating Trumpeter Swans in Canada.
As our second hour wound down we each carried armloads into the house. Coming back outside, we paused under the oaks.
“You know,” S said. “The south of France doesn’t have anything on this place.”
“Really? You think so?” I asked.
“Yeah. I’m sure of it.”
It makes me happy that my friends like being here. I like sharing the canyon with them. Perhaps this is my true purpose. It feels right being a steward for this special place in nature, and providing a time and place for others to find respite from the onslaught of modern life.

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 #30. A Change in Routine (August 23, 2014)

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QUAIL MUTTERINGS #30.  A Change in Routine (August 23, 2014)

Time is money. Money is time. I’m so sick of it all I think I could puke. There’s more to life than what money can buy. And what use is time if we don’t know how to use it wisely? Perhaps we could take a few lessons from Mother Nature.
The pre-settler Indians of the Owens Valley discovered a valuable commodity simply by watching the birds around Mono Lake in the Northeastern Sierra. Multiple species of birds flock to its shores. The native people would watch them run around with their beaks wide open gulping the multitude of flies in their path. Others would peck around in the shallow water while some scraped fly pupas off the edges of rocks with their feet. Literally thousands of gulls, osprey and other large and small avians have used this oasis in their migrations for millennia.
The Kutzadika’a, one of the early tribes inhabiting the Mono Basin, was known as “Fly eaters.”  They learned from the birds and would scrape the fly pupas from the rocks around the water’s edge into baskets and then toss them into the air allowing the lightweight, crusty husks to blow away in the breeze while the tiny bits of flesh fell back into the basket. Each larva is worth one micro-calorie, according to the docent demonstrating this to our small group assembled in the tufa grove. She explained that the fat content and nutrient value in these tasty morsels is extremely high and was worth a lot when trading with other tribes. As one walks along, these Alkali Flies lift off the ground and part from one’s path. They are not pestiferous at all, unlike other flies.
Mono Lake is known for its tufa towers, beautiful limestone spires rising up from the lake’s surface and the surrounding ancient beds. The salt content in the basin is exceedingly high due to water flowing down the tributaries from the High Sierras, but not exiting from the lake. Eons of evaporation leave the pH at levels around 10! We tested it ourselves. This is about as alkaline as you can get. It’s even more than borax, which explains why the water feels a little slimier than we’re used to. In this kind of environment the tufa towers can form quickly. Up to an inch can be added in a day, although this is rare.
In the fishless waters of this inland sea live trillions of brine shrimp. They are about the size of a fingernail and are quite a feast for the migratory birds. This place teems with life. But evidently, Mark Twain had visited here and decided it was not his cup of tea. The volunteer told us that he deemed it a desolate desert, empty of all life. I can’t say that I agree with him.
I love the beauty of this area. The purplish-red hues are cast upon the evening clouds and across the lake by the sun’s reflections off the towering, jagged peaks. In the evenings, the mountains to the east slowly become shadowed by the higher range to the west, as if they are getting tucked in for the night. The covers eventually are pulled up all the way. The pungent sagebrush and dry quality of the air is intoxicating. Perhaps I might live here if it wasn’t for our beloved canyon. Kent and I drove Chance back up to Chico State for his senior year of mechanical engineering and decided to take the long way home. We checked out old mining country: Nevada City, Virginia City, Carson City… And now we’re meandering down through the places I like to visit every couple of years – the Eastern Sierra.
In my last Quail Mutterings I mentioned the importance of breaking up one’s usual routine, to keep life interesting as well as to appreciate what we have. This is one of the many benefits that this trip is providing us. After a night spent in Lee Vining we headed down to the Bishop area. Taking the cut-off to Tom’s Place, we continued up the narrow road all the way to the dead end. From here you can hike a few different routes, including one over Mono Pass which is around twelve-thousand, one-hundred feet above sea level. We took off in a more southerly route this time and enjoyed the view of a few glacial lakes. Occasionally we had to slow down to allow for the decrease in oxygen available in this altitude. The wind threatened to blow our hats off several times and I kept my lightweight jacket on despite it being August. We both loved walking out in the fresh air since so much of the days have been spent driving.
On Saturday we drove up to the Ancient Bristlecone Pine Forest where my mom had come with the Geology Department at SDSU, back when she was working on her degree. I don’t know why it took me so long to come here. It’s a beautiful place hovering in the ten-thousand foot altitude range.  Kent and I took the four-and-a-half mile Methuselah trail so we could visit the oldest known living tree on earth: an almost four-thousand seven-hundred year old Bristlecone Pine. It is surrounded by other three to four thousand year old neighbors. These amazing trees bend, twist and die back in order to survive the extreme conditions of fire, ice, snow, and wind. Some of these stand in unique natural sculpture gardens. It seems here that greater adversity grows stronger trees, century after century after century. The oldest trees survive in the most difficult situations. There might be a life lesson there for all of us.

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 #29. Just Another Sunday (June 6, 2014)

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QUAIL MUTTERINGS #29.  Just Another Sunday (June 6, 2014)

 

            I find it interesting how we, as well as other mammals, tend to find comfort in routine. As much as we complain about the “same old, same old,” we crave it as much as we admonish it. It’s simply human nature. This is what Sundays have become for Kent and me. And for the most part, we get excited and look forward to our Sundays.

We still rise early, just like any other day of the week, but we usually get to stay home – all day long. This, in and of itself, is worthwhile and enjoyable. We also allow ourselves, independently, to take a break from our usual routines of exercising and running first thing in the morning. I look forward to this mini-vacation. This little bit of difference, in a fairly scheduled, task-oriented week, is just the ticket I need to spruce up my attitude.

Last Sunday morning while working upstairs I glanced out the window and saw a deer standing at the top of the side driveway. On the way downstairs I snagged our son, Chance, and he followed me to the kitchen. Kent was out at the washing machine so I quietly opened the door and pointed out the mule deer which was still there. The three of us stood out on the porch watching for quite some time. I spoke calmly telling her how beautiful she was. “I hope you stay up here in this end of the canyon where it’s safer for you, and where there’s water.” She kept an eye on us, but seemed unafraid.

Then she began walking toward us! Halfway down the hill she stopped to nibble on some dry grass as I again muttered sweet nothings in her direction. A few minutes passed and she moved closer. And then closer still. Another mouthful of grass. Her big dark ears projecting out from her delicate brown face perked, listening to my voice. Our Lady of the Valley rounded the turn in the driveway and gracefully walked down the steep decline behind the trees.

The three of us moved slowly to the front porch as she parked herself at our galvanized cattle trough/homemade fountain for a long drink of water. She didn’t appear to be in any hurry at all. When her thirst was satiated she moseyed across the dirt road to the meadow before heading over to the creekbed and up the bank, continuing on with her Sunday morning stroll. She made our day. What a treat. The rest of my afternoon progressed a little slower and a bit more consciously, thanks to her.

Of course, we had to get on with our usual Sunday chores: picking greens and other ripe goodies from the gardens, watering, mucking corrals, dusting the horses and dog with diatomaceous earth, chopping poison oak, fixing things… These activities make up our Sunday rituals. Without Sundays, our weeks would more than likely bump into each other and cause stress and other unforeseen collisions. At least with Sundays providing a buffer, we have a better chance to cope with life’s buildup of tension during the week.

It’s also, ALL ABOUT DINNER. I begin early, usually preparing something we picked that day, to be ready by 6:00 PM. On Sunday evenings we look forward to our KPBS shows including Doc Martin, Ballykiss Angel, or Larkrise to Candleford… Six o’clock is awfully early to have all our chores done and dinner ready, but it’s part of our Sunday ritual that we’ve come to enjoy. So much so that we fiercely protect it by usually turning down the occasional invitation that might interfere with one of our favorite times of the week.

A couple days later, after being gone at work all day, I came home and took a walk to check-up on the various projects I have going on in the canyon. I noticed split-hoof tracks along the same path as the deer had traversed on Sunday. Vehicles had come and gone in the interim so I knew they were fresh footprints. Perhaps our Lady of the Valley also has her own ritual of meandering to the fountain for a drink, walking across the dirt road to the meadow, and then over to the creekbed and up the bank. I guess we all take comfort in routine. But I think in order to continue enjoying the regularity of our lives we have to vary things just often enough to spice it up a bit. So here’s to your own ‘Just another Sunday,’ on whatever day of the week or hour of the day it might fall.

 

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.