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

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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.

QUAIL MUTTERINGS #14. The Tale of Broken Tail (March 9, 2012)

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QUAIL MUTTERINGS #14.  The Tale of Broken Tail

(March 9, 2012)

 

The writing and publishing process for my children’s book was quite different than for the memoir, A CANYON TRILOGY: Life Before, During and After the Cedar Fire. For one, I had the privilege of working with a wonderful local artist, Dorothy Mushet. She owns the Banner Queen Art Gallery inJulian,California. After I wrote the manuscript and formatted the text around the descriptions of the future illustrations, along with my own poorly executed attempts at sketching them, Dorothy painted the pictures.

 

The Tale of Broken Tail is actually a true story. My mother, “Gramaset,” accidentally dug up a nest of three baby ground squirrels and then took responsibility for their care, sharing the experience with my daughter, Kali. They raised them until they were ready to live on their own. I felt the story needed to be told.

 

While writing this book I had numerous encounters with squirrels, usually just outside my bedroom window. One day, a scraggly old one looked through the glass at me, less than three feet away, barfed into the dirt, and then lay down on top of the rock wall for a couple hours. I don’t think he felt very well. Another day, one came down the boulder and looked in at me, dug a hole, relieved himself and then buried it. Many, many times I’ve watched them staring in at me for prolonged periods of time. “What?” I’ve asked them. It happens so often it’s become the norm.

 

When I asked Dorothy if she would be interested in illustrating this book she told me that my mom had asked her for two paintings: one of a wolf and the other a ground squirrel. Unfortunately, Mom had passed away shortly thereafter and Dorothy felt a little guilty.

 

“Really?” I asked. “Maybe I can play on that guilt a little.” This seemed to provide a little incentive.

 

I gathered various photos of Mom, Kali, our dogs… but still needed some images of ground squirrels. I had one morning left before I would take the pictures and manuscript to the artist so I went outside with my camera. Almost immediately a ground squirrel appeared on a rock. Lacking much faith in the likelihood of getting this little guy to cooperate I decided to ask his permission, just in case. I told him that he could be a star in my children’s book about squirrels. Well, I kid you not, this little ham let me follow him around for a good half-hour stopping here and there to pose for me. He sat on a stump, lay in the grass, stood on a rock…

 

I delivered my photos and read the story to Dorothy and her ten-year-old grandson. She watched his expressions while I read and noticed how interested he was. She also began to realize what a big project this was going to be. Her relatives were coming to visit soon and she would have to get things ready for them so she wouldn’t be able to start right away.

 

Dorothy called the next morning. “I’m going to start today!”

 

“Wow. That’s terrific. I thought you were too busy right now,” I said.

 

Evidently, providence was at work. When she was arranging the bedroom for her company two sketch pads fell out of the bookcase in front of her. Picking them up she realized that they were just the right sizes for the book illustrations and decided that my mom was trying to tell her something. Both of us got goose bumps.

 

For the next six months she sketched and painted. When she needed more photographs of ground squirrels one appeared outside her kitchen window and willingly obliged. She got her twin grandsons to pose for her so she could paint her pictures more accurately to scale. These photos are funny. How she managed to get ten-year-old boys to cooperate is testament to her being a good grandmother. They would ask her, “Which one am I, Kali or Gramaset?”

 

This whole process has been an interesting adventure. Now that I’m a grandma too, I hope that I can carry the legacy with honor. There are so many stories to tell with no shortage on fodder for the imagination. Our family has lived in this rural canyon for five generations and the Native Americans before that. If only the boulders and trees could talk.

 

 

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

QUAIL MUTTERINGS #13: Three Walks (January 21, 2012)

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QUAIL MUTTERINGS #13.  Three Walks (January 21, 2012)

 

            We’re already three weeks into the new year! Can you believe it? 2011 seemed to have disappeared in record time leaving me feeling a little at a loss. Sure, we all tend to agree that each year appears to fly by quicker than the previous one, but it’s one thing to just talk about it and quite another to allow yourself to feel it. It can be a bit unsettling. The only remedy I know of, even if only temporary at best, is to go out for a walk. Not a power walk or a run, but more of a stroll. So that’s what I did. Three times this week. I sandwiched these jaunts between work, tax preparations and a variety of other time consuming, stress producing activities.

On Tuesday morning, after my morning exercises but before teaching the afternoon ballet classes, I wandered across the dry creek and the green sloping field across the dirt road and headed Northish. I stepped over an old, dead tree trunk that had fallen down the week before. I’d been throwing out hay for the horses and goats at the time and heard the crash of the branches breaking, but didn’t know exactly where it had come from.

When I got over to the upper field the green grass carpet sparkled. Each blade of grass was tipped with a dewdrop. Yes indeed, I thought, the fairies have been here. I remembered the lines from A Midsummer Night’s Dream, when I’d played the part of the fairy at Coronado Playhouse.

“…And I serve the Fairy Queen

To dew her orbs upon the green.

The cowslips tall her pensioners be.

In their gold coats spots you see;

Those be rubies, fairy favours;

In those freckles live their savours.

I must go seek some dewdrops here,

And hang a pearl in every cowslip’s ear…”

I lingered by the old Model-A truck frame, enchanted by the beautiful sea of diamonds, catching the early morning’s rays of sunlight before the wash of warmth coming over the ridge would alter their form. It felt magical for the moment.

On Wednesday morning I decided not to go for a run, but to take a walk instead. This time my dog, Job, and I headed back into the canyon. Brrr was it cold! Jack Frost had come to visit that night and turned the whole creekbed into a winter wonderland. Everything was coated white. The bushes, the grass, the sticks lying on the ground… All was frozen. It was a dazzling display of a winter’s kiss.

Further up the dirt road I passed another old Model-A. Icicles hung from the back bumper like stalactites. Far more perfect and appealing to my eyes than the strands of icicle lights hung everywhere during the Christmas season. They’re nice too, but really, there’s no competition.

Job followed his nose as we started up the mountain. He stays with me pretty well, but he likes a little freedom too. We walked through The Pretty Place, a small meadow with a creek running through it that sprouts thousands of delicate wildflowers in the spring. We’ve called it that since I was a kid. Just up from there I noticed the wild violets coming up. It’s only January and I don’t recall them so early before. The lilacs are even starting to bloom.

Once up top, at The Saddle, I was finally in the sun. It felt wonderful after being in the shade of the mountain all the way up. I looked across at the lovely blue-colored Cuyamacas in the distance and heard the water running, far below, in the Kimball Valley Creek. This water often comes fromLakeSoutherland on its way to San Vicente Lake.

I turned around to head back down the hill and paused to let the sun’s warmth sink into my back. This is nature’s therapy at work. I didn’t want to leave. After a few minutes, I nodded to my dog and we began our descent. With each step I noticed the muted crackle of the half-frozen twigs breaking beneath my feet. It was a familiar, somehow comforting sound of being in the moment, in the countryside, enjoying being alone on top of the mountain.

My third walk of the week was on Thursday with my oldest daughter, Jessie, who’s visiting fromChinawhere she teaches English at a university inLianyungang. It’s terrific that the Chinese New Year is almost two months long! At least her vacation is. She’s spending a couple days here with us, every so often, to get her dose of country air. She says the pollution there in the big cities is just awful. We walked briskly down the dirt road and then up a hill. This increased heart rates and forced us to breathe deeply and enjoy the views.

As I write this our son, Chance, is taking the Greyhound Bus back up to ChicoStateafter a long break between semesters. Soon, I’ll need to start picking out music and choreographing for the studio’s spring production of Rapunzel. Somehow the magic of this week’s walks: the ‘fairies’ dewdrops and Jack Frost’s visit, have helped inspire my readiness for the creative tasks that lay waiting for me in this new year. I now hope to ponder and wonder more, and watch, without trying to plan so much. It sounds worthwhile, anyway. Doesn’t it?