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QUAIL MUTTERINGS #21. The Basketball Hoop (April 8, 2013)

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QUAIL MUTTERINGS #21.  The Basketball Hoop (April 8, 2013)

 

One of my meanderings up the canyon finds me halted, standing on a bare spot of brown next to the ancient oak which held my childhood’s basketball hoop. That particular tree, however, isn’t there anymore, but the one right next to it still is. But for this moment everything is how it was – leaving me standing in my past.

The worn geometric patterns on the faded orange ball allow my left hand to grasp, dribble and maintain control of its direction on this uneven ground. The regular, hollow thumping mesmerizes and pulls me deeper into my pre-teen body. The one that is constantly on the move. Aiming high I shoot up towards the dusty green leaves allowing my buoyant, rubber friend to descend directly down through the net with a “swoosh.” There’s no flat backboard to bank off of. If I want to make a bank shot my hands have learned, through practice, to use the less curved portion of the trunk above as a surrogate.

The warm, dry breeze, carrying the surrounding scents of sage brush and decomposing horse manure, sends my stray hairs dancing, tickling my forehead. I smooth them back behind my ears with the palm of my hand using the sweat as a natural hair spray. The rough bark of the oak pokes my back when I lean into it to remove a leaf from between my dirty toes. A cloud of dust reaches me and I turn to notice my cousin riding his bike over to the house, his tires slipping on the dirt as he peddles too fast for his treads to grip. He won’t interrupt me. He’s just out for a jaunt. I have plenty of time, the sun is only beginning its descent to the west.

A few short steps take me to the grey, metal bar that Dad installed for me to flip around and hang from – to use up some of my excess energy. My hands wrap around the familiar iron rod and I kick over the top. Pumping into a cast I shoot my right leg through, under my body, to straddle the bar. After four mil-circles I turn sideways and do a few windmills before putting my other leg over to hang from my knees. This feels good. A different perspective on things is interesting. The underside of the cupped oak leaves reveal exposed veins, part of the tree’s circulatory system. The mottled, hazy blue sky holds buttermilk clouds to the east while the sparkling light trickles through the foliage canopy to a spot on my tummy, since my ripped T-shirt hangs around my armpits. Even now, I’m reminded of a previous time when I was five or six, hanging on my knees eating potato chips. A red ant had crawled into the salty bag lying on the ground and was on a chip that I put into my mouth. “Ouch” did that hurt!

Every so often I get whiffs of the existence of tree ants so it’s no surprise when I see highways of them marching up and down the massive tree trunk. Another reminder of the long, luxurious days of summer, my favorite time of year. When there’s no school and time and freedom stretch out around me. The creosoted, split-rail wooden chute (a narrow, four-posted mini corral which Mom built for treating sick horses) hangs from the ground nearby. Or is it standing on the sky? From my upside down vantage point it’s kind of hard to tell. It’s similar to the view I have while lying supine on my surfboard, in the pond down the road, when I tip my head backwards into the water. Either way, it’s a trippy sensation you can get without being in a drug-induced state. Humans of all cultures seek paranormal sensations. As children, didn’t we all enjoy turning around and around in circles long enough to get dizzy and fall down?

For now, my reverie has subsided and I head back to the house. The grass is growing in the middle of the road like those horse and buggy lanes of yesteryear and wildflowers are poking up everywhere. Spring is in the air and I can feel it. And that means that those long, luxurious dog-days of summer are on their way.

 

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 #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.