Time Flies

     November, 1984 – Veteran’s Day to be precise.  Barbara and I took our five children, ages three through ten, on BART to San Francisco.   The three-year-old was my youngest son, a boy born with boundless energy.  The City was steeped in fog and the damp cold left our cheeks pink, our breath steamy.

     First stop on our day of playing tourist: Embarcadero Center.  We headed for Justin Herman Plaza and its quirky fountain with the foot path meandering between and behind numerous waterfalls.  The kids took off in a flash, jumping, chasing, having a wild time.  I hurried to catch up.

     “Michael,” I yelled, “wait for me!”

     He heard my voice, but cascading water drowned out the words.  His face turned to look back at me, but his feet never got the memo to slow down, much less stop.  The path turned.  My son didn’t.

     Forward motion carried the child too far away from the path for me to grab him.   (Picture a Road Runner cartoon with Wile E Coyote’s legs running through thin air beyond the edge of a cliff.) His head disappeared beneath the water’s surface.  Spluttering back into view, Michael’s swimming lessons from the previous summer came to the rescue.  Several flailing strokes brought his small hands to mine, saving me from having to decide whether or not to dive in after him.  One quick heft and the cherub stood in front of me, water streaming from the hood of his fleece jacket and the cuffs of his corduroys.

     Dear Barbara herded the dry quartet off to the warmth and distraction of a nearby McDonalds.  I checked the “You Are Here” sign, and discovered a shop specializing in imported European toddlers’ apparel at the far end of the center.  Michael and I headed in that direction.  Water splooshed out of his shoes with each step, leaving a trail suitable for Hansel and Gretel to follow.  I struggled to avoid the stares of people walking toward us. 

      The store manager came to her door.  “The fountain?” she asked.  I nodded and she produced a large plastic bag for Michael to stand on.  “Be sure to bathe him well tonight.  The street people wash in the fountain.”

     Perfect.  I looked at my bedraggled son, imagining what he would look like after I shaved his head.  This boy had outgrown toddler sizes long before.  The woman searched her racks and brought us the one jogging suit that might almost fit him.  A pair of matching socks completed Michael’s ensemble, which cost more than 95% of the garments in my closet at home.  Thank goodness for credit cards.

     I’d brought our well-worn, collapsible stroller on the day trip just in case my youngest tired before the older children.  Now, since he had no shoes to wear, I bundled him into the seat.  The helpful stop keeper shoveled his discarded wet clothing into a bag for me to carry, and together we tucked another  plastic bag around my son to keep the wind from biting.  I ignored the printed warning: This bag is not a toy,  keep away from children.  

     The opaque barrier served another purpose.  The older, literate children did not immediately see Michael’s shocking pink jogging suit emblazoned with the glittering words, “Party Girl.”  Barbara strolled the little guy over to the counter to buy him something hot to eat while I issued a warning about maternal mayhem befalling the first kid who teased the damp one. 

     Fast forward twenty-eight years.

     Ken and I took BART to San Francisco yesterday.  The day could not have been more user friendly.  Blue sky, gentle breeze, temp in the 70s, a bay full of boats.  We had time to spare and paused at Justin Herman Plaza.  I pointed out the fountain’s zigzagging path.

     That morning The City had hosted the annual Bay to Breakers race.  Costumed runners enhanced our people watching opportunity.  A group of five individuals dressed as super heroes, complete with capes and masks.  Three ladies in pink tights, pink wigs with attached antennae, and kelly green mini dresses straight out of the 60s.  A solo young woman who’s race number was the largest thing covering her bikini-clad body.

     The Giants and Athletics afternoon game drew a throng of fans along the pedestrian-friendly bay side.  Troops of  dancers entertained, jingle bells stitched to their trouser legs, ribbons flowing from their flowered hats.  A wiener dog sporting a visor – complete with openings for her ears – strutted and sniffed.  

     Ken and I arrived at our destination, the Epic Roasthouse restaurant.  The establishment is just north of the Bay Bridge, with an unobstructed view of Yerba Buena Island and Treasure Island, the site of our wedding almost 41 years ago.  Within minutes, Michael, his fiancée Claire, and her parents joined us.  Our party of six celebrated the couple’s engagement and began the foundation for what I hope will be a lifetime of shared family moments.

     As we walked together back toward the Embarcadero BART station, I listened to Michael telling Claire about his dip in the fountain all those years before.  To my surprise, he said his brothers teased him mercilessly about the pink Party Girl outfit.  Until that very moment, I’d always believed my threat had been effective.  Sneaky, sneaky boys.

     I must be having fun.  Time has sure flown by!

The Scam

     Hollywood makes a good living filming stories about con artists.  A tidal wave of titles — wait, should that read, “a title wave?” —  floods my mind without much thought at all: The Sting, Paper Moon, Catch Me If You Can, The Grifters….  Search Netflix for either “con” or “scam” and prepare for an avalanche of viewing options. 

     I have to admit, The Sting is one of my favorite oldies.  First, you have Paul Newman and Robert Redford.  Neither was hard on the eyes back in 1973, and together they brought more than a scosh of talent to the screen.  Second, the music was good enough to win an Oscar.  Thank you Marvin Hamlisch.  (Click on this link to hear the syncopated theme song: http://www.youtu.be/_xWS3h-apmk .) Third, the plot offered drama, comedy, intrigue, and in the end the bad guy was the only real loser.  What’s not to like?

     However, real-life scams bear little resemblance to their big-screen cousins.  For one thing, the victims aren’t always Fat Cats with a history of evil doings.  My neighbor gave me permission to share her experience with you.

     Evelyn (not her real name) is a widow who will extinguish 97 candles on her birthday in June.  She lives alone despite being legally blind.  Three falls since Christmas have left her worried the extended family may soon apply pressure to make her leave her home of 74 years.  Yes, this lovely lady with the wicked sense of humor has her challenges, but her memory is way sharper than mine.

     Yesterday morning a young man phoned Evelyn, identifying himself by name as one of her many grandsons.  He recited a twisted tale culminating in why he needed Grandma’s help.  A friend, he told her, had been invited to a wedding in Spain.  The friend’s traveling companion had to cancel out on the trip at the last minute.  The caller, on a whim, accepted the proffered free ticket and joined his friend, flying across the Atlantic to witness the marriage of two strangers.

     It seems the friend had a bit too much to drink at the wedding reception.  He asked Grandma’s fair-haired boy to drive their rental car back to the hotel.  Unfamiliar with either the vehicle or the Spanish vehicle code, the ill-equipped young man caused an accident and the policia were not pleased.  He had been escorted to el jailoso (that’s Spanish for the hoosegow).  A compassionate  judge put the poor American in touch with an English-speaking lawyer who, for a mere $2000 up front, could get all the lad’s legal problems sorted out.

     “Is your car running, Grandma?” the caller asked, shifting gears.

     This is when red flags waved with such energy, even my neighbor’s dim eyes couldn’t help but see them.  Evelyn doesn’t own a car.  In fact, she never learned to drive – something everyone in her family knows.

      “I don’t have a car,” she replied with caution.

     Oh, that’s right,” the con man didn’t miss a beat.  “I’m sorry, Grandma.  I’m just so scared I’m not thinking straight.  Could you ask Pat or one of your neighbors to drive you to Western Union so you can wire me the money?”  He proceeded to recite the information she would need to get him out of trouble.

     Evelyn listened, told the caller she wasn’t able to write down the information due to her poor eyesight, and apologized for not being able to help. 

     My husband arrived just as she hung up the phone.  Ken checks on Evelyn each morning when he’s out walking the dog.   Today, our neighbor’s face was ashen when she opened the door. 

     “My grandson just called me from Spain,” she said, her shaking voice barely audible.  “He’s in jail and needs $2000 right away.”

     Ken listened long enough to recognize the classic scam we’ve all been warned about.  He assured Evelyn some stranger was trying to cheat her out of her money.  Telling him she couldn’t help was exactly the right thing to do. 

     “Let’s call your grandson and make sure he’s all right,” Ken suggested.

     Rattled, Evelyn blanked.  She didn’t know the grandson’s phone number.  She couldn’t think of his last name so Ken could look in the phone book.  They eventually came up with the name and number of another relative who confirmed the young man in question was, indeed, safe in California right where he belonged.  A few calls later, Evelyn was able to hear her grandson’s calming voice.  All was well.

     That is, all was well except for the lingering effects of the fright this inconsiderate #%@&* caused a 96 year-old, nearly blind woman.  What if Ken’s timing hadn’t been so spot-on perfect?  What if Evelyn hadn’t been alert enough to be suspicious?  What if she had a car and a driver’s license?  Two thousand dollars would be a major hit to this sweet pensioner who watches her pennies. 

     But that’s not the worst of it.  During the quiet afternoon that followed, Evelyn went over and over the phone call in her mind, remembering more details.  The caller’s voice had sounded familiar, she told me.  And he mentioned “Pat,”  the woman who drives Evelyn to her appointments, by name.  My neighbor can’t identify the voice, but she is sure the scam artist is someone she knows.

     What’s that old saying?  Keep your friends close and your enemies closer?  I’m afraid Evelyn has an enemy very close indeed.  And he isn’t Henry Gondorff or Johnny Hooker.

National Poetry Month?

     Freshman English at Cal was a struggle, especially the section on poetry.  I kept wondering, if the prof is right and that’s what the poem really means, why didn’t the poet simply say so?  Today, when I write, I work up a sweat seeking just the right words to convey my meaning.  Clear and straight-forward, that’s how I write and who I strive to be.

     This is not to say I don’t like poetry.  Ogden Nash is my hero.  I know some of Dr. Seuss’s rhymes by heart.  I even find Robert Frost enjoyable.  But celebrate National Poetry Month?  Me?  Not likely.  The truth is, Joanne ain’t got no couth.

     At least, that’s what I thought until a new friend, Susan Taylor Brown, sent me the link to her latest blog post.   She wrote: 

     “For National Poetry month I’m posting an original poem a day along with a
mini lesson to help teachers teach poetry. I’m hoping folks will share
their own poems in the comments.
Also hoping people will help spread the word to teachers and home schoolers.”

     So, here I am, spreading the word.  I encourage you to visit Susan at www.susantaylorbrown.com/blog and read her thoughts on using prompts to teach reluctant writers about poetry.  (You’ll be impressed who her reluctant students are.)  In this exercise, Susan offers a variety of words from which to choose and suggests we think about how one of those words fits into the world of our five senses. An experienced teacher, she then shows how she crafted a free form poem (I think that’s the term) from the result. 

     Just to prove I can be brave when properly motivated, here’s the poem Susan’s prompt dredged out of me.  Please, be kind.  Don’t comment on my work, instead add your own poem in the comment section.  Really!  It’s just word play, and it’s great fun. 

Wonder

Wonder looks so bright I shield my eyes, but can’t turn away.

Wonder feels so prickly, I flex my brain to make the pins-and-needles go away.

Wonder sounds like church bells carried on the breeze from far away.

Wonder smells like an early morning snowfall– all the dirt and clutter hidden away.

Wonder tastes new and distinct after all the familiar recipes are filed away.

Is it any wonder, when push comes to shove, we find a way?

Marching Along

     In like a lion, out like a lamb?  Not this thirty-first day of March.  At least, not here in Nevada City.  Pine giants towering upwards of 100 feet high, buffeted by wind gusts, waggle like scolding fingers.  Rain attacks the skylights, sending percussion waves rolling through the house.   My bright orange California poppy flag, sodden, strikes a vulture’s pose.

     And yet, the resident black lab sees no reason to forego her morning constitutional.  She waits by the door, vocalizing in guttural tones, reminding us dawn broke many hours ago. 

    “Can’t you see,” her gaze conveys, “what a great adventure awaits?”

     Tree frogs in the front yard echo her enthusiasm. 

     Somewhere, mallards bob their heads in agreement.  A great day to be outside!  Come, join us. 

     Ken dons his rain gear and boots.  My turn will come soon enough this afternoon.  Shadow paws at the door in anticipation.  They head out, leaving me with my steaming cocoa.  We will each enjoy the much-needed storm in our own way.

    Streaming water curtains the windows, blurring everything beyond.  I close my eyes, imagining the creatures hunkered down nearby:  robins who just yesterday flirted with one another in the bright sunshine; patient does, awaiting the imminent birth of their fawns; coyotes and bobcats, alert in their dens. 

     The furnace cycles on, masking all natural sounds.  I am at once grateful for the warmth and annoyed with the interruption in the rain’s stereophonic symphony.  A gauge on the deck tells me the temperature has plummeted ten degrees in three hours.  The staccato beat of raindrops may soon give way to the shroud-like silence of snow.

     Cedar branches choreograph an energetic Latin routine, swishing this-way-and-that, up-and-down, like the delicate skirts of flamenco dancers.  The copper and brass weather vane keeps time to their inferred music, magnifying and reflecting the day’s dull light as it swings.   Daffodils bow low, hiding their faces from the onslaught.

    One sharp bark announces Shadow’s return from the wilds.  Her breath fogs the glass door and I hurry out to dry her.   Toweling-off is a game in itself.  I cover her head, rubbing muzzle, neck and ears.  Her tail thumps against my leg.  Which is better – going away or returning home?  Ken and Shadow both shake, he out of his raincoat, she out of  her coat of rain.  Boots are shed, paws are wiped.  An invigorating wind blows us all back inside.  

     There are many things I could be doing today.  Housework.  Paperwork.  Laundry.  Instead, I’m inclined to enjoy the present.  There’s a book I’ve been meaning to read.  The fireplace beckons.  Cozy in a soft blanket on a stormy day.  I count my blessings.

The Lesson

     Sixth graders in the Oakland USD were “encouraged” to attend Friday night dance classes in the late 50s.  We girls stood along one wall of the cafeteria (which reeked of institutional lunches and cleaning agents), wearing our Sunday dresses and trying to see which boy we would be paired with once the session began.  The boys lined the opposing wall, grumping in leather shoes, white shirts and their fathers’ ties.  I learned to love dancing, despite this rocky start.

    The nuns who ran my husband’s elementary school did a much better job of killing his dancing spirit.  They orchestrated an annual school-wide spring  festival.  Mothers stitched costumes to compliment each class’ dance performance.  Our sons never tire of teasing Ken about the yellow, ruffle-sleeved shirt and magenta sash he donned for a flashy Rumba number in seventh grade.

     Ken and I danced during our dating years.  Part of the courting ritual, I guess.  But as we settled into married life, and child rearing replaced opportunities to dance, the love of my life made it clear he preferred to sit and listen when the music played.   This disparity in our interests was an anomaly, but it caused more than its share of discord.  I would invariably go home annoyed after an evening of watching others dance while my body ached to participate. 

     We struck a compromise some 25 years ago.  I promised not to ever again badger Ken to dance with me.  He promised to take dancing lessons if and when one of our sons was engaged and the reception was going to involve dancing.  

     So, last night we attended our first ballroom dance lesson at the Nevada City Veteran’s Hall.  I have to admit,  I was apprehensive.  Registration was through the local community college.  Would students be way younger than us?  I rarely wear anything but jeans these days.  Was denim and athletic shoes proper attire?    Most worrisome of all, what if the instructor made us switch partners? 

     Ken made no effort to hide his lack of enthusiasm.  For two weeks, he proposed one possible Thursday night schedule conflict after another.  Then we actually got “lost” on the 1.5 mile drive to the Vet’s Hall.  I felt so guilty, I told him we didn’t have to return for follow-up lessons if  the first class was too unbearable.

     Our blond, falsetto-voiced instructor was in her early seventies.  Six couples of similar ages made up the student body.  Four of the men were clearly not there by choice.  One couple had taken the class before.  He seemed ambivalent.  The sixth guy was clueless and, judging by his lack of coordination, possibly under the influence.

     We began by simply walking, hand-in-hand, around the room in time to the music.  I feared Ken would bolt each time we neared the exit.  His ocular muscles are probably sore today, there was so much eye-rolling going on.  We quickly progressed to assuming a proper “dance frame” (Ken’s right hand on my waist, my left on his shoulder…) with the men walking forward and we ladies walking backward around the circle, still in time to music.  No sweat.

   Then the teacher began putting us through our paces.  In the remaining 90 minutes she exposed us to:  the foxtrot, box step, waltz, swing, cha-cha, and rumba.  Apparently it’s better to be bad at lots of dances than anywhere near proficient in one.   When we tackled the tango, images of Pacino in Scent of a Woman and  Arnold Schwarzenegger/Jamie Lee Curtis in True Lies flooded my mind.  Giggles disrupted my concentration.   None of our peers saw the humor.

     There was some good news by the end of the evening.  Being on my feet in heels for the first time in months raised no blisters.  My husband’s  enveloping arms are reassuring and infinitely better than touching (ugh!) a sweaty-palmed sixth grade boy.  And, best of all, Ken agreed to go back next week. 

  Watch out, Fred and Ginger, the Browns are coming.

http://www.youtube-nocookie.com/embed/OMOBdQykKQY?rel=

Nature vs Nurture

Identical twins, separated at birth and reunited as adults, make psychologists giddy.  How are they alike?  How do they differ?  Can the triggers for any divergence be pin-pointed?  Which has more influence on human development, nature or nurture?

Recent news stories of a convicted serial murderer directing officials where to look for his victims’ remains makes sane people wonder….  What possible cause could result in one person taking pleasure from killing others?  Was he genetically programmed to mayhem?  Did his mother potty train him too early?  Was his father too strict?

My three sons have three distinct personalities.  One is introverted, content to have one or two close friends, talented but adverse to drawing attention to himself.  Another enjoys being a team player, maintains close friendships with former classmates living in different states, and pushes himself to excell.  As a child, the third was the “peer” about whose pressure other parents warned their kids, doesn’t much care what the world thinks of him, and has the kindest heart I’ve ever known.

Considering all my guys have the same parents and  grew up in the same house with the same rules, I tend to think Nature has more impact than Nurture.  I offer my dog, Shadow, as Exhibit  A.

Shadow came to live with Ken and me when she was six months old.  She is the poster girl for obedient canines.  She  doesn’t bark other than to alert us when someone approaches the front door.  She doesn’t lick.  She doesn’t jump up on people.  She doesn’t chew on furniture or shoes.  Gentle, calm Shadow rests at our feet, radiating affection.

Well, most of the time.  She does have this one … ”thing.”  The sweet girl thinks she’s a bird dog.

Keep in mind my hubby isn’t a hunter.  The dog has not been trained to flush birds or fetch downed prey.  But let a covey of quail cross our path, Canada geese honk from above, or the neighbor’s hens forage in their own front yard, and Shadow becomes transformed.  Transfixed.  Transfigured into a transgressor.

In these instances my faithful companion no longer hears my voice.   I believe a veterinary ophthalmologist (if there is such a person) would confirm she cannot see me, or anything else for that matter, because her entire world shrinks down to the feathered fowls in her sights.  Her brain ceases to process all extraneous input.  Nothing matters but the chase.

And so it was a few days ago.

In our rural neighborhood with little traffic, Shadow takes most of her walks off-leash.  However, due to an embarrassing event a few months ago, there is one short stretch of road where the leash is required.  Our neighbors occasionally allow their flock of Rhode Island Reds and Plymouth Rocks to hunt and peck outside their fenced-in coop.   One such day, Shadow discovered chickens will run around like, well, “like chickens with their heads cut off” when she chases them.  Ever since, I have not trusted her to pass the property in question unleashed.

Saturday I hitched her up some 50 yards before passing the Hen House.  We walked in the company of friends that day, and Shadow hardly gave a sideways glance as we passed her new favorite sprint site.  We walked another 50 yards without suspicious whining, pulling or any other indication the dog was plotting.  But the instant I un-clipped the woven tether from the tagged collar, she reversed course and ran faster than I would have believed possible.  Straight back to harass the egg-layers.

I am sad to report a beautiful black-and-white chicken lay motionless at my dog’s feet by the time I arrived at the scene of the crime.   Downy feathers clung to Shadow’s muzzle and front paws.  She plucked away, crazed by the thrill of the kill.  I needed all my strength to separate her from the lifeless body

No one was home to witness the murder.  For a moment, I fantasized about escaping undetected.  But then my conscience spoke up, reminding me of the distinction between right and wrong.  I marched Shadow up the hill in record time, holding her leash mere inches above her head, forcing her to keep pace, making sure she knew I was not pleased by her actions.  Once home, I wrote a note pleading shame and horror over what had happened.  The signed note, taped to a large bag, went onto the backseat and I drove back downhill.  As I lowered the still-warm bird’s body into the bag, the homeowner arrived.

“I’m Joanne,” I greeted him as he stepped from his car, the shopping bag heavy in my hands.  “We met last fall.  You might remember I have a Black Lab.”

He nodded, reaching back into the vehicle to unbuckle a toddler’s seat belt.

“Maybe you’d rather take your son inside first?”  I held the bag out, letting him consider what might be inside.

“No,” he answered.  “It’s all right.”  A second little boy leapt out of the car.

The two-year-old climbed from bumper to hood with ease, then scaled the sedan’s roof.  The young father’s demeanor told me this was common behavior, of no concern.  I had Dad’s full attention.

“I’m so sorry,” I began.  “I’ve tried to protect your flock from my dog, but she doubled back on me.”  I raised the bag, letting the evidence finish my apology.

My neighbor is a class act.  He put my discomfort aside, assuring me he understood the dog was following instinct.  We parted without harsh words or warnings regarding future encounters.  My head spun with relief.

Nature or nurture?  And, more to the point, do humans act out of instinct, too?  Yes, of course.  We protect our young.  We physically react to loud, unexpected noises.  But we also think on a higher level than Labrador Retrievers.  At least, most of us do.

Sad to say, there are some very real, very scary dogs among us.

With Fresh Eyes

     Mom made lavender ”mother-daughter” cotton dresses for us to wear on our first visit to Disneyland in the spring of 1956.  Our family foursome spent an eternity taking the train from Oakland to somewhere in SoCal, where we stayed with good friends.  Even today, I can’t tell where Garden Grove ends and Anaheim begins.  Back then, just shy of my seventh birthday, I doubted we were still in California.  Or even America, for that matter.  I’d never been SO FAR from home.

The vacation racked-up a fist-full of firsts.  In addition to riding the rails and seeing Mickey on his home turf, I got a noisy pair of maracas from the farmer’s market (instead of the baby alligator I wanted).  I peered into the Brea Tar Pits, and experienced profound disappointment when not one single dinosaur stared back.  I learned about shuffle board beside our friends’ backyard pool, and was thrilled to receive my Junior Stewardess wings, presented with great fanfare, on the exhilarating (prop airplane) flight home.

I’ve returned to the Magic Kingdom many times in the years since.  Several trips as my parents’ child.  Another batch as the parent of my children.  Last week a friend and I did the unthinkable.  We two ladies strolled Main Street and explored California Adventure without any accompanying youngsters.  That’s right.  Two grown women who enjoy a good time and don’t care who knows it.

Our three-day passes went into play during an unusual January warm spell – even by Anaheim standards.  I traded my cold weather gear for short sleeves and upped my sunblock from SPF 15 to “Infinity and Beyond.”  Unbelievable.   A heavy rain the day before our arrival meant excellent air quality and something I’d never seen before: a view of the snow-topped mountains to the east of the Southern California basin.   Amazing.  Poised for action as the parks opened each morning, reluctant to leave when loud speakers announced the closing each night, my friend and I spent our days walking purposefully from one attraction to the next.  Fantastic!

     California Adventure was all-new to me.  Soarin’  is spectacular, especially when you get to sit front-row-center.  The Grizzly River Run is wet and wild, especially at night.  A seemingly innocuous, kiddie-size roller coaster called Goofy’s Sky School left me especially hoarse and shaky.  Goofy joined the Tower of Terror on my personal No-Ride list.  Toy Story Mania (aka  TSM to those in the know) is my current favorite addiction.

I’ve always been aware how clean the happiest place on Earth is.  Litter is non-existent and bathrooms, despite continuous hour-after-hour use, shine.  Meticulous landscapers toil unseen to compliment every aspect of the park.  Weed-less, blooming plants invite smiles.  A hundred foot high, white-barked eucalypts tree is pruned to accentuate delicate limbs.  Blinking “fairy lights” enhance the nights’ festive atmosphere.

By contrast, the omnipresent attention to detail throughout the parks caught me by surprise.  Somehow, I’ve always been too busy enjoying the big picture to appreciate the delicate network of supporting illusions.  Just as an author creates realism by including sensory information (the main character shivers in a chill breeze, subtle sounds populate the foggy dawn, salty air shrouding a cruise ship lingers on the tongue), so Disney Imagineers make unreal surroundings credible.

Visitors descending into the subterranean ”It’s a Bug’s Life” theater pass through rock strata and smell musty, damp dirt.  Passengers weaving their way to the The Big Thunder Mountain Railroad boarding platform pass through a gold rush era town where a pelt dries outside the tannery shop and a scaled-down stamp mill stands ready to crush ore.  The weather vane atop the Haunted House casts a sailing ship-shaped shadow on the widow’s walk.  Neptune himself perches on the roof of The Little Mermaid’s building.  Little touches with a huge impact.

A marvelous, exhibit called The Disney Gallery occupies a storefront on Main Street.  Look to your right immediately upon entering  Disneyland.  This “Don’t Miss” attraction is for those of us who grew up watching Annette and Cubby on The Mickey Mouse Club.   Sketches hung throughout a spacious cluster of rooms illustrate Walt’s initial conception of how the park should appear.  Quotations provide insight to his philosophy, “Give people more than they can see all at once, and they will return again and again.”  Framed newspapers document the opening ceremony on July 17, 1955.   Photographs remind us of attractions we enjoyed but which no longer exist:  The canoes circling Tom Sawyer Island, the mule ride, the painted desert, the spaceship ride to the moon, the house of tomorrow….

I saw things on this latest trip to one of California’s most iconic destinations that were new to me.  I viewed familiar sights with fresh eyes, noticing details created and placed with such thought their presence was easy to overlook.  Best of all, even though I traveled SO FAR from home, I felt completely AT home, and spent time with some very special old friends.

Toxicodendron diversilobum

      In the world of Odyssey of the Mind, the most prized achievement a team can earn is called the Ranatra fusca, named after the scientific term for the common water skater.  This honor is not always awarded.  It is reserved for an outstanding performance demonstrating unparalleled use of imagination and/or perseverance in the face of insurmountable odds.  As an OM judge, years ago, I was gratified when the team I nominated for the Ranatra fusca received a standing ovation at the tournament’s awards celebration.

     Toxicodendron diversilobum, commonly known as western poison oak, is the only other scientific name I know.  Neither the term nor the plant earns any such accolades.  Especially not from Ken and me.  Between us, we have spent the past three-plus weeks battling the dread rash and itch after an ill-fated decision to take our Lab hiking at Lower Scott’s Flat Lake.  What can I say?  The weather between Christmas and New Year’s was so mild and we’d been wanting to visit the area….

 

     I’ve always been susceptible to poison oak.  My family moved next to an open space area teeming with the weed-like bushes during my sophomore year of  high school.  Our cat chose to spend his days doing whatever it is outdoor cats do, in and under those dusty plants.  Petting the cat transferred oils to my skin.  My yearbook picture attests to a year of endless rash.  Eventually, I developed some temporary level of immunity.

 

     Temporary.  That would be the operative word here.

 

     In the fall, I have a fighting chance of recognizing (and avoiding) the crimson, three-leaved clusters of poison oak.  Even the green foliage common in summer sometimes raises subconscious red flags within my dense skull.  But, how was I supposed to know the deciduous, barren twigs of winter – which are indistinguishable from every other dead-looking twig - are at least as toxic, if not more so, than their dear-departed leaves?

 

 

      Somehow, maladies always worsen as weekends approach.  Apparently, fevers (or in this case, rashes) are capable of tracking time.  By late afternoon on a Friday, I was frantic.  The incessant itch actually made coherent thought difficult.  Standing still was a challenge, breaths came in gasps.  My doc rewarded me with a cortisone shot in the butt, promising relief by Saturday morning.

She lied.

 

     Saturday night I was a certifiable.  Unable to lie still in bed, I decided to read until my eyes grew too heavy for any rash to pry them open.  The Saint of Florenville, A Love Story, by Alfred Garrotto, rescued me.  My friend Al’s remarkable prose and unique plot distracted both mind and body until, at 5:00 a.m., I finally fell into a deep, if short-lived, sleep.

     Frequent doses of Benadryl, repeated applications of various lotions and ointments, oatmeal bathes and every home-remedy suggested by friends kept me nearly sane until Monday morning.  The internist’s receptionist referred me to a dermatologist’s office.  The well-meaning but useless staff there was unwilling to fit me into the physician or his assistant’s schedule until Tuesday afternoon.

 

      “You don’t understand,” I pleaded.  “My heart is racing.  I can’t think.  I haven’t slept for two nights.”

 

     “Do you need to go to Emergency?” the unsympathetic voice at the far end of the line intoned.

 

     “How about I bring a book and camp out in your waiting room?” I suggested.  “That way, if anyone cancels an appointment you can slip me in.”

 

     Silence, then, “We don’t do that.”

Large, swollen patches of my back resembled angry splotches of burning tomato soup.  Ken had to drive me to my appointment the next day because I would’ve been a hazard behind the wheel.  The skeptical PA looked at my rash from a distance.  She informed me it is impossible to get poison oak without coming into direct contact with the plant or the oil.  Either I had been rolling around naked in the woods, or my dog had surreptitiously rolled in my sheets.

 

     Naked outside in December?  Me?  I wear long johns every waking hour of every day from early November through April.  And, as spoiled, er, loved as our canine is, Shadow isn’t allowed on our bed.  I took my prescription for a cortisone-laced topical solution to the pharmacy, and muttered socially unacceptable thoughts as I paced the aisles waiting for the salve of salvation.

 

     Two days later, the mutilated tube writhed, squeezed beyond recognition and empty, on my bathroom counter.  An agent for my insurance carrier explained she couldn’t possibly authorize a refill until ten days from the original purchase date.  My Benadryl-crazed mind considered mailing her a gift wrapped box of poison oak twigs.

 

     Ken decided bathing the dog, just in case her fur still bore residual oil, would be a wise move.  As always, our bashful girl buried her face in his armpit and leaned against his reassuring chest as he lathered her.  His shirt was sodden by the time he lifted Shadow from the tub.

 

     A week had passed.  Friday afternoon found me seated at the computer searching the internet for ways to avoid future adventures in The Land of Poison Oak.  Ken read the screen over my shoulder, then reached a bared arm around for me to see.

 

     “Does this look,” he asked, “like poison oak to you?”

 

      I plied him with Benadryl and drove him to his doctor’s office for a posterior injection and his own prescription which could be filled without delay.  The dog is clean.  The house is filled with empathy.  The Saint of Florenville was once again required reading.

 

     Toxicodendron diversilobum.  English translation:  Toxic diversion resulting in sore bum.

 

 

 

Welcome, 2012

The new year has finally arrived, and not a moment too soon for the new me.    This year, my cup will be at least half-full if not runneth-ing over at all times.  This year, I’m expecting great things, good times, and lots of chocolate.  This year, I’m going to be one of those people Dad referred to when he’d say, “She’s so happy, she wouldn’t say ‘sh*t’ if she stepped in it.”

Why?  Why not!  The year’s already off to a good start.

     On New Year’s Eve, my generous friend surprised me with extra-large IKEA chocolate bars and an Amaryllis bulb kit.  I’d neglected to make any resolutions — not for a lack of areas in need of improvement, mind you – so right then and there I promised myself I’d make sure those king-sized treats didn’t get stale and the hard-to-spell, easy-to-grow, soon-to-be-flowers would be potted asap.

Done and done!  My resolutions have been made, and kept, and it’s only the second day of the year.  Woo-hoo.  I get to be myold, unimproved self for the next 363 mornings, afternoons and evenings.  Guilt-free.  Way to go.

Yesterday, neighbors invited Ken and me to join them on a road trip to Disneyland later this month.  I’m such a huge D-land fan, I still have the mouse ears from my first ever visit to the magic kingdom in the 1950s.  My last stroll over the drawbridge to Sleeping Beauty’s Castle was in November, 1997.   I need a m-i-c-k-e-y- m-o-u-s-e fix.

1997.  That was the year Mom and I drove to SoCal to see my youngest son and his high school marching band perform in the daily Main Street parade.  The kids’ chaperones told us the parade would start by Small World and proceed to the park’s main gate.  Twenty minutes ahead of time, we ladies found the perfect vantage point and settled in.  Ten minutes ahead of time, efficient park employees blocked off the parade route.  Expectations and excitement bubbled up within me.  Five minutes ahead of time, other parade watchers lined the sidewalks behind us, eyeing our position with envy.  The clock ticked, the loudspeakers buzzed, and a booming voice announced, “Please join me in welcoming the Monte Vista High School marching band from Danville, California, stepping off now at the main gate.”

Wait, what?  No, not main gate.  Small World!

I grabbed Mom’s hand.  We hurdled over the blockades and sprinted along the empty street toward main gate, ignoring official commands to move to the now-packed sidewalk.  By the time we met up with my son and his peers, the band had finished playing THEIR ONE PIECE, and were double-time marching to the drummers’ cadence.  I barely had a chance to wave as the familiar uniforms blurred past us.  Taking a picture was out of the question.  Not exactly the Disney-esque moment I’d envisioned.

But, now I’m heading south again.  And I hear there’s a whole new amusement park to see where the parking lot used to be.  I can’t wait.  My black plastic ears and felt cap are at the ready, my walking shoes are broken in, and I’m planning on balmy January weather.   Yesterday I asked myself, ”What could possibly top this?”

     Today a catalog of spring course offerings for the local community college toppled out of my folded newspaper.  And there, right on the cover, DANCE was featured.  Now, that might not seem like a big deal.  But it is!  Year’s ago, Ken and I radiated tension every time we found ourselves where people were dancing.  I wanted to dance, he preferred to watch.  Feel the tension?  Finally, we made a deal:  I would cease pouting and prodding because we weren’t dancing; he promised to take dancing lessons if/when one of our sons was on the cusp of getting married with dancing planned during the reception.  Voila!  The wedding is set for June.  The search for a DJ has begun.  And the completed class registration form is in the mail.

I love 2012.

Swedish Cardamom Bread

I’ve never seen the job description for “Grandmother,” but I imagine it reads something like:  The Grandmother (henceforth referred to as Granny, Grandma, Nana, Nona, Gigi, and/or Moo) will, preferably, love, but at the bare minimum like all children born to her children, step-children, foster children and assorted waifs.  Of course, there are exceptions to everything.  Swedish cardamom bread is both the reason I believe my Grandma Larson liked me and the reason I’m not so sure.

Every year, my grandmother came to spend Christmas day with her son (my father) and his family (Mom, my brother, and me).  And every year she arrived carrying a loaf of homemade cardamom bread.  The offering only appeared on December 25th, and there was always only the one loaf.  My  brain formed a Pavlovian response to the pungent smell of cardamom on Christmas.  To this day, I salivate at the sound of Christmas bells.

I really liked cardamom bread.  So much so, one summer when I was about thirteen and knew absolutely nothing about baking bread, I asked Grandma Larson for the recipe.  She seemed pleased at my interest and wrote down the amounts of each ingredient on a scrap of paper.  A note on the back told me how long to cook the dough, and at what temperature.  So, she must have liked me, right?

I’d mastered Snickerdoodles and Toll House cookies.  Knowing no better, I assumed the same basic process worked for baking bread, too.  Wrong!

And that’s why there’s this tiny, itsy-bitsy suspicion lurking in the back of my mind.  If my grandmother really liked me, wouldn’t she have at least alluded to the need to knead and the requisite rising time?  I’d like to give her the benefit of the doubt.  Maybe baking bread was akin to breathing for her and she simply couldn’t imagine anyone not knowing how.  Maybe.  All I know is the first time I tried making cardamom bread I ended up with petrified cardamom logs.  No, really.  Jaw-breaker hard.  Dull the knife blade hard.  My second attempt was no better.

Luckily, I filed the recipe away until, years later, I had learned how to make bread from a cook book.  Novel concept, eh?  At any rate, when the time was right I succeeded in making mouth-watering, dentally-sound cardamom bread for my husband and sons.  With growing confidence, I even supplied my father who had not, by then, had a loaf for many years.

Anyhow, I’m going to share the family recipe with you.   And, I’m also going to explain how to make bread.  There it is.  My 2011 Christmas gift to the world — or at least to the three of you who read my blog.  Enjoy!

Swedish Cardamom Bread – makes 2 loaves

7-1/2 C Unbleached all-purpose flour                              1/2 tsp Salt

2-1/2 C Milk, divided                                                          1/2 C Butter

2 Packages yeast (1-1/2 T)                                                 15 Cardamom seeds, shelled and pounded

1 C Sugar

Cardamom can be purchased in powder form but don’t waste your money.  The powder has almost no aroma and even less flavor.  Instead, invest in a jar of whole cardamom seeds.  Cut into the side of the hard hull with a paring knife.  The shell will split allowing you to remove the tiny kernels within.  Discard the shells.  Pile the kernels near the center of a clean piece of fabric.  Fold the fabric over the kernels and beat the heck out of them with a kitchen mallet — or if you don’t have one, a hammer swiped from the garage works nicely.

This photo shows the whole seeds, the empty hulls, the tiny kernels, and the powdered cardamom.  15 seeds will produce about 3/4 of a teaspoon of powder.  I’ve used the same bit of white fabric for years, storing it in a baggie attached to the recipe.

Heat 1/2 C of the milk 20-30 seconds on high in your microwave (until warm but not hot).  Pour the milk into a food processor equipped with a bread hook.  Sprinkle yeast over the milk.  The yeast will soften somewhat as you heat the remaining milk and chunked cube of butter for about 90 seconds on high in the microwave (again, until warm but not hot).  The butter does not need to melt completely.

While the milk is being nuked, add the sugar, salt, cardamom and 3 C of flour to the yeast mixture.  Slowly add the warm milk/butter combination through the food processor’s feed tube.  Process until well blended, scraping the sides of the bowl as needed.  Add the remaining flour and process until the machine stalls.  (Seven-and-one-half cups is a huge amount of flour.  Unless you have a commercial size processor, your machine will stall.)  Pour the dough onto a lightly floured surface and knead until smooth and elastic ( 1-2 minutes). Use the heels of your hands to push the dough firmly down and away from you.  Then use your fingertips to pull the dough back toward you.  Continue this motion, turning the dough every few strokes.  The point of kneading is to fully mix the dough until the consistency is the same throughout.  The kneading is done when the dough comes together in a ball.

Place the dough ball in a large, oiled bowl.  Turn the dough to coat the entire surface with a thin layer of oil.  Cover the bowl with a dish towel to hold in the warmth and moisture and leave it in a warm place to rise.  (I use the oven, preheated for about 15 seconds and then turned off.)  Allow the dough to double in bulk, which takes about 45 minutes.

When the dough has doubled, if you gently push two fingers into the dough, it will hold the impression.

Gently roll the dough out of the bowl onto a floured surface.  Cut the ball in half.  Each half will then be cut into five pieces — three of equal size and two slightly smaller.  Using the palms of your hands, start at the center of one of the larger pieces and gently roll your hands back-and-forth, working toward the ends of the dough piece.  Repeat until the dough forms a rope about 18″ long.  Lay the rope lengthwise on a greased baking sheet.  Repeat with the other two large pieces.  Braid the three ropes together, tucking the ends under so the braid won’t come undone.  Make ropes out of the two smaller dough pieces and twist them together.  Lay this twist on top of the braid, again tucking the ends under the loaf.  Repeat with the second half of the dough to form a second loaf.

Cover the loaves with a dish towel and leave in a warm place to rise for 30 minutes.

Mix an egg with one teaspoon of water.  Brush this egg wash over the loaves, then place the baking sheet in the lower third of an oven preheated to 375 degrees.  Bake 30 minutes.  Remove the beautiful golden-brown loaves to a rack to cool.

Grandma’s recipe makes a sweet bread — remember that cup of sugar?  It’s terrific toasted, spread with butter, dipped in coffee or tea.  I doubt you’re going to enjoy ham sandwiches made with cardamom bread.  It’s probably not a good accompaniment for dinner, either.  But I can tell you with the assurance that only comes from experience, cardamom bread isn’t just for Christmas anymore.