Category Archives: Quail Mutterings

QUAIL MUTTERINGS #40. A Hop, Skip and a Jump Away (June 27, 2016)

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Bread, bread, bread! But darn good bread. Not like what we have here in the States. And croissants! All baked fresh daily and full of yeasty gusto. The French really do have a leg up on us in the food department. So rich, vibrant and passionately prepared and presented.
Kent and I returned from France and Italy a week ago only to hit the ground running, tending to all the things needing attention here on the homestead. But over there, distanced from our day-to-day schedules, we were able to feel more present with what was right in front of us. To take the time to walk, or sit, drink wine or eat gelato… Even so, we managed to keep up with our exercise routines, more or less.
One morning we ran to the outskirts of the town and up one of the surrounding mountains. We jogged up rabbit trails, alongside fields of tomatoes and through voluptuous vineyards. Lots and lots of vineyards. From the top we enjoyed the absolutely beyond-words beautiful view of the agricultural valleys which lay all around us. Nestled in the center was the village of Alba. This is the region where the slow food movement was born. The area is also known for its white truffles, although not in season until the fall.
In the Languedoc region in France we enjoyed sampling the multitude of local wines while floating down the Canal du Midi on a barge. Bicycling or walking along the tow paths, where horses or oxen used to pull the barges, we spotted flamingoes in a marsh, melons growing in cultivated fields and horses grazing in pastures. We drifted past gypsies fishing from the banks, old barges and boats tied at the shore in disrepair, preoccupied river rats skirmishing around the tree roots at the edges of the water. The canal follows the lay of the land so as the terrain rises or falls the barge must go into a lock where the water is pumped in or out, changing its height to the required level for the next segment of waterway. An adventure in and of itself. Arching bridges covered in moss grace the tree-lined canal every couple of miles or so.
The train strikes made our travel days rather difficult and stressful. For instance, our first day: landing in Milan mid-day, after flying over the Atlantic, there was no easy way (that day) to get down to Cinque Terre. We should have been able to arrive at our destination by 4:00 in the afternoon. But no. “The regular trains are on strike today, Madam.” To make a long story short, we managed to patch together a hodge-podge of bus and short train rides (a lot of just sitting on the tracks) southbound to finally arrive to the little village of Corniglia at 11:00 PM. The last shuttle up the hill was at 6:00 PM so we had no choice but to trudge up the mile-long steep, narrow road dragging our suitcases and shouldering our backpacks. Nothing like being in the moment.
Provence was where we spent the most time. We stayed in a few different Airbnbs so we could check them out (and perhaps get a partial tax write off for our own business). One of the reasons I’d wanted to go to France was because it’s where my ancestors were from. I felt drawn. Ancient villages with narrow cobblestone streets flanked by towering walls hold dark secrets of the Middle Ages. Aromas of tasty sauces and baking bread still waft from those windows and doorways. A secluded, rural monastery survived countless wars by being self-supporting, growing its own food. I was impressed by its massive size. Some monuments date back to BC. Mind boggling.
Kent and I visited the Arena in Nimes. I loved how it’s just part of the city, not off by itself merely a tourist attraction. It’s currently in use for concerts and events. One can walk up and down the huge, precarious steps and around the top corridors which allowed for incredible views of the city’s steeples. I could almost smell the blood of the bull fights and the gladiators battling to the death thousands of years ago. If this amazing historical behemoth was in the U.S. it would most likely be roped off. One would not be allowed in certain areas or to perch on dangerously high and probably structurally unsound precipices. Too many potential lawsuits. But, I guess in France, you’re allowed to take your life in your own hands. To be accountable. This wasn’t the only place like this. We hiked up a steep hill to the crumbling Fort Buoux. The fortification stood atop a craggy ridge with sheer drop offs of hundreds of feet. Again, no restraints. We ducked in and out of sunken rooms and gazed out over the rugged countryside. Breath taking.
These were the things which inspired me. Not the cities. And not racing around from place to place in a tizzy attempting to cram in all the sites. Some yes, but it wasn’t our focus. It was fine with us to just gaze up at the laundry hanging from balconies drying in the breeze. We wanted to allow the time to simply be in the place. To reconnect with each other, which is difficult to do with busy schedules and heavy work loads. We came home to feverishly get the place up to snuff for our own Airbnb rentals. One day, after cleaning all the windows and screens in the house, I was reminded to stop and be present as my friend and I watched a beautiful doe amble down the hill toward the porch and over to the trough/fountain for a drink of water. We sat and talked for over an hour enhanced by the presence of nature. And, lucky for us, a bobcat has been serenading us every evening since we got back.

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. Her collection of essays, Quail Mutterings, can be found on www.chivarnado.com.

 

QUAIL MUTTERINGS #39. Isn’t February Too Early For Spring? (February 6, 2016)

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QUAIL MUTTERINGS #39.  Isn’t February Too Early For Spring? (February 6, 2016)

What? Who says it’s Spring? The birds do! That’s who. Every morning the canyon wrens are singing merrily all around the house. Their melodic, descending trills provide the sound track of a new day dawning. The house finches dart back and forth between their numerous nests in the nooks and crannies of our log cabin and the budding bushes in the yard. I’ve noticed that the squirrels have also decided that winter is over and clamber up and down the granite boulders and in and out of holes in the ground. Life is good.
The other morning Kent and I drove up the hill to get a better view of the planetary alignment, only visible in the night sky shortly before dawn. We got out of the car and stared up at the sky. I stood in awe of how miniscule we really are. These five planets, perfectly aligned, are so far away, but yet are some of our closest neighbors. We are only one of so many planets. The differences and difficulties that we have here, with each other and with different global communities, seem absurd. Don’t they? None of that really matters in the big scheme of things. Gazing upward from the east toward the west there they shimmered. Mercury was the least visible being the closest to the horizon. Venus, a big bright beacon. Saturn. Mars, emitting a reddish hue. And Jupiter, the closest to setting but still hours away. We returned to the morning cacophony surrounding our front porch.
Only last week we had that big winter storm with the crazy winds that knocked out our power for eight hours. I dug out candles, lighting them in groups to provide more light in needed areas. Luckily, I’d made soup the day before and there were enough leftovers to heat on the stove for dinner. A quick open and close of the refrigerator was all that was needed to remove the pot. Not a good idea to let out that ever-so-valuable frigidness necessary to keep our food edible. Then we moved the candles to the living room where a fire burned in the fireplace emitting a soft glow which added to the limited light available. There’s nothing like a power outage to help us put on the brakes and take the time for relaxed conversation. I welcomed and relished the resulting magical ambiance.
A day later, work on our rock tiny house resumed. The building is evolving, taking on a persona of its own. Whereas most construction follows a set of plans and dictated schedules this thing suggests we stop and ponder. That’s fine with me. It’s one of my favorite things to do. It’s also the reason why I’ve changed my mind, more than once, over the desired end product. It’s gone from being just a simple bathroom/kitchenette to adding a small bedroom on the side. The whole thing is less than two-hundred square feet and occupies the site, and one of the rock walls, of my grandmother’s previous abode. The one that the Cedar Fire took away. Now more rock scavenging is needed. We scour the mountainsides for more of “my beauties” as I call them. A friend who’s doing the construction probably worries that I’ll change my mind again, but I am trying to work with each phase that it has progressed to. Sometimes it’s as if the canyon itself is providing the instructions.
These recent evenings, on my nightly excursions outside to whisper my gratitude, I’m enraptured by the eclectic symphony coming from down the creek, toward the pond further down the valley. The bullfrogs’ rhythmic bass, the toads’ melodic counterpoint and the crickets’ steady pulse provide the backdrop for a lone Poorwill singing further up the ridge. I can also hear a Great Horned Owl and a Western Screech-Owl on opposite walls of the canyon. The boulders shine magically in the moonlight and I am, once again, filled with reverence for all this life around me and my place in it.
Tomorrow will dawn a new day in which the Dance Centre will rehearse for our upcoming story ballet: A Star Studded Tea Party. It’s not a traditional tale, but one that is evolving. Similar to the way that the tiny house has come along. Between the advanced dancers and me collaborating together, it’s grown into a birthday party for Alice (in Wonderland). The Cheshire cat, the white rabbit, and the mad hatter all show up. And, of course, the big bad wolf. Why not, right? If you’d like to check out our twisty tale then come on over to the Performing Arts Center at Olive Peirce Middle School at 6:30 PM on April 15th. Don’t worry. The date’s easy to remember. It’s tax day!

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 #38. Gather, Jam and Dine (December 2015)

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QUAIL MUTTERINGS #38.  Gather, Jam and Dine (December 2015)

Drum roll. Rum pum pum pum. The Winter Solstice approaches as the days become shorter and winter officially begins. Lights twinkle along roof lines and stores are crammed full of holiday merchandise for the hungry consumers. Jingle, jingle tinkle the bells signaling the Salvation Army’s donation buckets strategically placed in high foot traffic areas. In our canyon, the clear nights are already winter-time chilly beneath an explosion of twinkling stars which somehow seem brighter this time of year. I can see my breath during my early morning run and my ears feel like ice cubes fastened to the sides of my head.
My grandmother always got swept up in the holidays by baking a dozen or so varieties of Christmas cookies, each tucked into its own large tin stacked with the others on the dining room floor. Once winter break started and Bamoo would have the two weeks off from teaching school, she’d begin her frantic endeavor making coffee cakes for all the relatives. Sometimes I’d walk down the dirt road to her cabin and help. I loved kneading the aromatic, yeasty dough and then rolling out the stretchy plumpness on the bread board. Brown sugar, cinnamon and citron (which I couldn’t stand so I’d leave out on ours) would get sprinkled onto the flat, buttered surface and then rolled up and formed into a ring. This would then be allowed to rise for a second time in the toasty warm kitchen heated by the wood-burning stove. On Christmas Eve she’d deliver her savory beauties to a many family members speckled around the county. It was her own legacy and everyone looked forward to enjoying them on Christmas morning.
These days, we still heat our log cabin with a wood-burning stove. I feel some things from days gone by are better than the new, less simple, modern contraptions. I rather miss the days when we didn’t all seem to expect instant gratification. Being out here, nestled in the back of a rural canyon, away from pavement and shopping malls, is most likely what draws people to our unique homestead. We’re listed on the Airbnb website as a ‘nature lover’s paradise’. Most of our guests seem to come from Los Angeles or Orange County wanting to get away from it all for a little rest and relaxation. And perhaps a hike in the hills.
The week before Thanksgiving the clothing company, Tilly’s, booked our place for their ‘Spring Wear’ photo shoot. The models, organizers and photographers spent three days clamoring over boulders, balancing on stacks of firewood, petting the horses and examining the natural flora. All the while trying to look natural in a somewhat foreign, at least to them, rural environment. Most of them were completely out of their element and had never experienced any place like this before. Good for them, I thought. I hope some of the natural environment seeped into their beings and created a space for more of this. And a deeper appreciation of nature and a glimpse into a different way of life.
I think back to last December when The Dance Centre put on The Nutcracker. All the students assumed their roles well and enjoyed performing for the enthusiastic audiences. This is an every other year event, making this an ‘off year’. But that means we get to perform a new story ballet this spring so the discussion has begun regarding what it might be. A traditional story ballet? A fairy tale turned into a ballet? A new story or perhaps a twist on an old fable? We’ll see.
So, without The Nutcracker festivities, along with not having children at home anymore, I don’t seem to have the energy to put up a tree and decorate. And I am especially not inclined to want to take it all down and put it away. It feels like so much work for such a small amount of time to appreciate it.  But, I guess one could argue the same point against story ballets. I guess for me, though, the studio’s productions touch so many people in a variety of ways. Whether you’re a performer, a parent or a spectator the take aways are diverse. It’s visual, auditory, kinesthetic and a multitude of other experiences.
I believe I’ll take a simpler approach this year and host a drumming circle. What better way to celebrate the old and bring in the new year than to get together with friends, make music and share good food? Let’s gather, jam and dine!

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.