S. Kay Murphy's Blog, page 7
January 25, 2022
Sgt. Thomas Tibbs, eight years in
I didn’t want to let January slip by without acknowledging that special “Gotcha Day” for Sgt. Thomas Tibbs. When I adopted him, my vet said he was “six-ish.” Oh my dogs, that was eight years ago….
My best boy is fourteen now. In the last four years, he’s been diagnosed with pemphigus, pancreatitis, irritable bowel syndrome, arthritis, and age-related bronchitis. He eats special food and has more medications stockpiled than I do. His eyes are getting foggier, and he is rapidly losing his hearing. (Turns out that last malady is a godsend; he never woke at all when the fireworks began on New Year’s Eve.) Although he can no longer hike with me, he still enjoys his daily ride in the truck, using a ramp to walk in and out of the extra cab.
With every passing month, his decline is more pronounced. Conversely, with every passing day, he becomes more and more in love with being loved.
It’s hard to believe that this is the same dog that hated being touched when I first brought him home. I had to leave his collar on all the time because getting close to him required herding him into a corner so that he had no way out. Once I had his collar, I could clip the leash on, and he would come along, but reluctantly. (It is exactly the same behavior Maya exhibits now, by the way, so I have every confidence that someday she will no longer panic when I approach her.)
He still hates going for walks, because he hates having the leash on. (“Something bad must be about to happen,” is what he thinks—the whole time. Always.) But he’s so happy now, that even though he still resists getting his collar on, he makes a game out of it. He does this every. single. day. Even if he’s not feeling well. You can see that crazy game if you click here. (I took the video for this post, so yeah, it’s him last week.)
I had him two years before Thom let me rub his belly. Funny how that happened. He only ever wanted to be outside, in a far corner of the yard, curled in a ball. (Again, this is Maya’s behavior now, only she’s in the den, not outside, and that’s where she stays all day, every day, except when we take potty breaks or go for a walk or hike.) At my vet’s suggestion, I made Thomas come inside for a while each day, and I gave him a soft bed to curl up in while he was there. I’d been watching some ridiculous daytime show that demonstrated dog massage, all of which I thought was a bunch of hooey, but while I was petting him, I just started doing it—massaging his head and the back of his neck. After a few minutes, he was so relaxed, he rolled over on his back. I couldn’t believe it. I tried to replicate the experience the next day, but he wasn’t having it. It was weeks before he did it again, and after that, only rarely.
But then I retired. When I did, our days hiking increased. Our time together increased. He began sleeping next to my bed at night (instead of outside or in the garage, as he had once preferred). If I waked in the night, I lean over the side and rub his back, just to hear him sigh that sweet doggie sigh of contentment.
Three years ago, I asked him one night if he ‘wanted brush,’ holding up his dog brush and setting it on the floor outside my bathroom as I finished brushing my teeth. He laid down on the floor and waited, and when I finished, I sat with him for twenty minutes, brushing out his fur and singing to him (and Purrl, because she’s always jealous and has to be in on everything, like all pushy cats). The next night, I stepped out of the bathroom after brushing my teeth, only to find him waiting in the same spot, looking up at me expectantly. “Seriously?” I said. “Okay.” I sat on the floor and brushed him again.
Thus began our ritual of “getting love” every night before we go to bed. I don’t always brush him. Sometimes I give him head rubbies or a back massage. But you know, I highly recommend the practice. It becomes like a meditation. Just fifteen minutes or so of quiet and deliberate relaxation and deep breathing before bed. With a dog, of course (or cat, I don’t discriminate—but if it’s a cat like Purrl, she’s going to climb up and claim your lap and then God help you when you try to get up). It still takes him several minutes of quiet brushing or back rubs to feel secure and relaxed enough to flop over on his side. When he does, he often dozes off now, sprawled on the floor, knowing that he is safe and loved, and that tomorrow when he wakes up there will be good food and treats (after his walk) and lots of soft blankies for napping.
It doesn’t take much to make a dog happy.
Come to think of it, we should all take heed of that.
January 18, 2022
After After Life
This blog post is about a television show, but it is also about suicide, so if you’re triggered in any way by that content, please feel free to click away; you have my blessing and my wish for a stellar day.
Also: If you believe suicide is “the coward’s way out,” or that it is “a long-term solution to a short-term problem,” or that when a person has the extraordinary courage to admit they may be suicidal, they’re just a “drama queen” or “crying out for attention,” you can click away as well. Just bugger off. You’ll get the day you deserve.
Sorry if that sounds insensitive, but these are all things that have been said to me over the years, quite insensitively, I might add. And here’s a few more gems:
From my ex-husband: “It’s part of your life’s script to be sad, so you’re always going to be sad, no matter what.” (What in fecking hell does that even mean?)
From a colleague: “We all feel despair. Life is mostly hard and depressing, with only the rare, occasional bright spot of joy. That’s what we live for. So that someday—maybe—we might feel joy again.” (Just shoot me now, then.)
From a friend: “All that depression stuff is just brain chemistry. These days, fixing it is just a matter of finding the right medication.” (Well then! So good to know!)
If you’re new to the blog, and you’ve never read my memoir, The Dogs Who Saved Me, let me just say briefly that several times in my life, I have been clinically depressed. Twice I have been suicidal, the first time when I was fifteen. That time, I hardly ate or slept, and all I thought about was how to kill myself—without failing, because I was terrified of being shoved off to a psych ward—and if you don’t know me, just trust me; I had reason enough to despair. But time moved me forward (and out of certain situations), and I got better.
I kept a journal during those dark times. I still have it. And it seems as though Ricky Gervais has been reading it. Because he says that he is “fine” and “happy,” so how else could he fully understand what the absolute edge of despair is? And then offer a depiction as vivid as he does with the series he has written and directed, After Life? It’s brilliant. It’s absolutely brilliant. One hundred percent spot on with its dialog about the aching, empty loneliness that brings some of us to the brink and asking “What’s the point?” Or, more precisely and in his words, “What’s the fucking point?”
If you haven’t seen it, don’t get the wrong idea. It’s funny. Like, laugh out loud funny. But also cringeworthy in some scenes. (Season 3, Episode 4, “Kath” goes on a date with a teacher, and I swear to Buddha, I dated that guy. He snaps his fingers to get the server’s attention, tells Kath repeatedly to take her elbows off the table, and makes her feel, in his overbearing, condescending, demanding way, stupid and about two inches tall. I could barely watch it, it hit so close to home for me.) The show is also more than a bit raunchy, yet so heartbreakingly sweet in some scenes that my tears just flow and flow, and I wonder if it’s because I feel a touch of the old sadness or because of my relief at the realization that I’m still here, that I stayed long enough to see my life become good and rewarding and worth all the pain. Or both.
The premise of the show is that “Tony” (the main character, played by Gervais) has lost his wife, Lisa, to cancer, and he is so angry and heartbroken and alone without her that he moves through life inflicting his grief upon everyone around him but simultaneously trying to find a way out of his personal hell. Every time I watch it, I want to go along on one of his long walks with his dog (a gorgeous German Shepherd—and may the Universe bless Gervais for all his work in animal rescue), and I want to tell him, “Hang on, Tony. You’ll find a tiny ray of hope, and it will get brighter as the days go by, and life will look beautiful again. Just trust me.” And as each episode ends, I think, “Thank goodness it’s just a show, and he is “fine” and “happy” in real life (whatever that is).
The truth is, not everyone is fine and happy. I am. Now. But I haven’t always been. So I know what that road to recovery feels like. How heavy each step feels as you trudge forward at an agonizingly slow pace, pressed down by the enormous weight of all the pain you carry. I’m here to tell you, it will get easier. Not tomorrow or the day after. Not this week. It will get easier so gradually that you won’t feel the difference as the weight is lifted. You’ll just be halfway through your day one day and realize you haven’t thought of taking yourself out today. Or you actually smiled at someone. Or you made actual plans to do something you enjoy.
If you are feeling that way, please never hesitate to reach out or get help (from a professional, not some asshole acquaintance or colleague or significant other who just doesn’t get it).
I see you.
I acknowledge your cry for help as absolutely legitimate.
You deserve the same happiness as everyone else on the planet.
I love you.
National Suicide Hotline: 800-273-8255
This is a link to the National Suicide Prevention Lifeline
January 12, 2022
Books in 2021
Some years ago, I began the habit of stacking up books in my to-read pile as autumn approaches. I hate the short days, when I can’t be outside as much, but if I have a book to look forward to reading, the long evening hours are well spent.
Here are a handful of books I’ve read in recent months that I absolutely loved.
Beautiful Ruins, Jess Walter
In a casual conversation, a somewhat happy-go-lucky friend mentioned that he had just finished reading a book that made him cry.
“What the heck? Really?” I queried. “What book was that?”
“Beautiful Ruins,” he responded. “Have you read it?”
“No,” I replied, “but I’m about to.” I downloaded it to my Kindle and started reading it that night. Why did I love it? For the characters. All of them, and there are many, therefore multiple points of view, but that is never off-putting to me. I want to hear everyone’s side of the story.
The Lincoln Highway , Amor Towles
This novel was also recommended by a friend who loves books and knows me well. It is similar to Beautiful Ruins in that there are multiple points of view, and most of the characters are easy to love, easy to sympathize with. The setting of this novel could have taken place in current times, but I’m so glad Amor Towles to set it in the 1950’s, the decade of my childhood. The writing is lovely, the characters so memorable and the book so long, a reader will genuinely miss them for days after finishing the book. I still do….
Project Hail Mary , Andy Weir
This novel is science fiction. But keep in mind, there is classic sci-fi, and then there are books like A Hitchhiker’s Guide to the Galaxy. Project Hail Mary isn’t quite Hitchhiker’s Guide, but it’s also definitely not Dune or the Martian Chronicles. Andy Weir, by the way, is the guy who wrote the novel The Martian, upon which the movie starring Matt Damon was based. I didn’t read that one. I only read Project Hail Mary because a friend sent it to me with a note saying “Trust me. Just start reading.” So I did, standing over my kitchen table, the cat still playing with the shipping debris. I read the first 20 pages that way, then made some lunch and sat down and read another 30, then realized the entire day was whiling away as I read this quirky, funny, harrowing, charming novel. I finished it in a matter of days (despite its length at 496 pages), then wrapped it up and sent it to a friend with a note that said, “Trust me. Just start reading….” He loved it so much he called me from Texas when he’d finished it. Our two-person book club spent an hour and a half talking about it. (Just to mention here: I rarely read sci-fi anymore, but I re-read Dune in the summer of 2021 because the absolutely fabulous film was set to air months later. Loved Dune even more the second time ‘round.)
A Valley of Light and Shadow: Las Vegas Writers on Good and Evil
In between novels, I read through the essays and memoir pieces in this anthology. The book is published in collaboration with the Las Vegas Book Festival, and it highlights the writing of authors who live or have lived in Sin City. In a conversation with my friend, the multi-talented Tim Chizmar, he mentioned he’d written an essay for the current volume. Since the proceeds of the book support writers, I bought a copy on Amazon, expecting to read a few essays about how, ‘Yeah, it’s hot here and there aren’t a lot of jobs besides working in the casinos.’ This book is definitely not that, and Tim’s essay was so compelling—about the profound life changes he went through over the course of a five-year period, how he hit rock bottom—then discovered he was headed for whatever was belowrock bottom—then somehow survived, learned, grew, flourished and became successful all over again—well, it made me cry and applaud in equal measure. I highly recommend this book for lovers of human interest stories and also for my fellow writers; there are fine examples of the personal essay and memoir writing here, and money spent on the book will help support their craft.
The Sweetness of Water , Nathan Harris
Where do I begin? The sweetness of his words, the sweetness of his characters, the agony and sweetness of a time in our history…a time that somehow seems to keep repeating itself. This book is lovely in a thousand ways. I understand why Oprah snagged it for her book club, why Barack Obama said it was one of his favorite books of 2021. I’m right there with ya, Mr. President. If you love writers who can magically craft a sentence that stops you in your tracks for the sheer beauty of it—like a gorgeous sunset or the unexpected sighting of a wild animal—read this book. Then come weep with me.
Daughter of the Morning Star, Craig Johnson
Speaking of beautiful craftsmanship in writing, please never pigeon-hole Craig Johnson as simply a “mystery” writer or a writer of “Western” novels. The Longmire series definitely has a contemporary Western flavor, and each book has a stand-alone, mostly who-done-it mystery to be solved. But this series isn’t just beef & barbecue. It is rich in many sophisticated flavors as well. I began reading the Longmire series some years ago, based on the recommendation of a friend whom I trust—otherwise, I probably would have passed, assuming that the novels were gratuitous-violence-heavy and formulaic. No, in fact, they are not, and this was a delightful discovery. In fact, from the first pages of the first book, I was surprised and delighted by the extent of Craig Johnson’s expansive lexicon, his sensitive treatment of all things Native, and his extraordinary ability to weave a compelling story. I’ve read all the books up to this most recent one, but Daughter of the Morning Star is absolutely my favorite. Here’s why: In it, Johnson deals with a harrowing and heartbreaking truth, one that is astounding in its scope but shameful in its lack of coverage by the popular press. It is this: The suicide rate for Native teenagers is two and a half times greater than the national average, and the murder rate for Native women is ten times the national average. Every year, Native women go missing at a horrifying rate, but these cases rarely make the news. In Daughter of the Morning Star, Johnson dishes out these statistics unapologetically as he draws us into the life of Jaya One Moon, a rising high school basketball star. Native culture and beliefs are woven in with sensitivity (not appropriated), and we see in Jaya a woman with whose great strength is no match for the dark forces that threaten her. Still, she perseveres. Another reading characterized this novel as haunting. It is exactly that. Hauntingly beautiful in its realism.
January 5, 2022
Away with the fairies....
Come away, O human child!
To the waters and the wild
With a faery, hand in hand
For the world's more full of weeping than you can understand.
William Butler Yeats
This may be the longest period of time I’ve ever been away from the blog since starting it in 2009. But, well, I’ve been away with the fairies, as they say in Ireland, both figuratively and literally.
If you’re unfamiliar with the phrase, it can mean anything from daydreaming to being not quite right in the head or perhaps just falling down the rabbit hole of Facebook for an hour. (Where does the time go?)
I have indeed been doing a lot of daydreaming, but it was essential to the work I’ve been putting in on my middle-grade series of novels. Since the fall, I’ve finished and edited the third book. This week, I began to write the fourth and final book in the series. Without giving away too much, there are definitely fairies in these books, though they play a minor role. A large, black dragon plays a major role, as does a ten-year-old girl whose gift it is to sing… which brings others “toward light,” as the dragon tells her.
For a solid month, Sgt. Thomas Tibbs wasn’t well, so I was up sometimes four or five times in a night to take him outside, resulting in some long naps for me during the day. And of course, there was Maya to walk every day (whether she wanted to or not, although she will now leap into the backseat of the Subaru, given half the chance, because she’s decided she loves walking—as long as it’s out in the hills with no people or cars or other dogs or machines or loud noises, which is why I love hiking too, I suppose).
With Thom’s intestinal issues under control now (thank the Universe) and the holidays over with (thank the Universe again), we are in a state of as-close-to-normal-as-possible-given-the-constant-threat-of-COVID-infection. I think that’s as good as it’s going to get, and honestly, I think that’s pretty good. I am grateful for my family, for my furries (Thomas, Maya, Purrl & Jenny), for my health right now (still no sciatic pain! Woo hoo!), and for my own gift of putting words on a page in such a way that perhaps (as is always my most fervent hope) they will lead others toward light.
I’ve missed you, dear Reader, and I’ve missed sharing my adventures with you. So here’s to a new year, new adventures, and our continued journey together.
Off with the fairies....
This may be the longest period of time I’ve ever been away from the blog since starting it in 2009. But, well, I’ve been off with the fairies, as they say in Ireland, both figuratively and literally.
If you’re unfamiliar with the phrase, it can mean anything from daydreaming to being not quite right in the head or perhaps just falling down the rabbit hole of Facebook for an hour. (Where does the time go?)
I have indeed been doing a lot of daydreaming, but it was essential to the work I’ve been putting in on my middle-grade series of novels. Since the fall, I’ve finished and edited the third book. This week, I began to write the fourth and final book in the series. Without giving away too much, there are definitely fairies in these books, though they play a minor role. A large, black dragon plays a major role, as does a ten-year-old girl whose gift it is to sing… which brings others “toward light,” as the dragon tells her.
For a solid month, Sgt. Thomas Tibbs wasn’t well, so I was up sometimes four or five times in a night to take him outside, resulting in some long naps for me during the day. And of course, there was Maya to walk every day (whether she wanted to or not, although she will now leap into the backseat of the Subaru, given half the chance, because she’s decided she loves walking—as long as it’s out in the hills with no people or cars or other dogs or machines or loud noises, which is why I love hiking too, I suppose).
With Thom’s intestinal issues under control now (thank the Universe) and the holidays over with (thank the Universe again), we are in a state of as-close-to-normal-as-possible-given-the-constant-threat-of-COVID-infection. I think that’s as good as it’s going to get, and honestly, I think that’s pretty good. I am grateful for my family, for my furries (Thomas, Maya, Purrl & Jenny), for my health right now (still no sciatic pain! Woo hoo!), and for my own gift of putting words on a page in such a way that perhaps (it is always my most fervent hope) they will lead others toward light.
I’ve missed you, dear Reader, and I’ve missed sharing my adventures with you. So here’s to a new year, new adventures, and our continued journey together.
September 11, 2021
Twenty Years Forward
September 11, 2001 dawned a beautiful day in Southern California. In the pre-dawn hours, I had a great gym workout. As the sun rose, I drove to the job I loved teaching high school students about words and how we shape them to make meaning of our lives, of our world.
I felt so good, in fact, I didn’t turn the radio on. I just drove. I probably sang, as I often did in the truck on the way to work. But as I exited the freeway, I finally punched the button to listen to a Los Angeles based news station. I taught Journalism, after all; I needed to stay current on breaking news.
“Breaking” would be the operative word that day.
Breaking planes. Breaking buildings. Breaking bodies. Breaking families. Breaking lives. Breaking hearts. So many hearts breaking. So many hearts hoping against hope. Then breaking many days later.
Breaking routines.
Teachers were gathered in the staff lounge when I arrived, riveted to the news coverage.
“What do we say to our students?” someone asked.
“I’m not changing my lesson plan!” a teacher snapped back. Astonished, I looked at her, saw her eyes filled with tears, and then I wanted to hug her. Denial is a powerful manipulator.
“Are you scared?” I asked the fourteen-year-old freshmen in my first class.
“Yes,” they answered.
“You’re safe here,” I told them. “I promise.” I told them, too, that I loved them, something I had never said to a class before. But I would say that to my students every year after 9/11. And from that day forward until I retired, I would ask myself at the beginning of each school year: How can I make my students feel safe in my classroom this year?
Because, to be honest, I haven’t felt safe since 9/11.
The war in Afghanistan, hunting down Osama bin Laden, did not make me feel safe.
Mandating security screenings at airports did not make me feel safe.
Instituting a “war on terror” in which we clumsily target individuals who do not look or believe as we do has not made me feel safe.
What I need more of to make me feel safe is not an escalation of fear.
What I need more of to make me feel safe is love.
At the end of the day on September 11, 2001, I gathered my children around me. I needed to feel their love, and I needed them to know that no matter what happened in the coming days, I loved them fiercely.
Because this is what I learned from 9/11: Love is stronger than fear.
And no matter what has broken, love will find a way to heal it.
September 1, 2021
Assassin
Last Friday, a parole board “panel” in California, consisting of two individuals, voted to grant parole to Sirhan Bishara Sirhan, the man who shot presidential hopeful Senator Robert F. Kennedy on June 5, 1968. Kennedy died the next day. Sirhan has served fifty years of a life sentence with the possibility of parole. He is now seventy-seven years old. This was his sixteenth parole hearing, and it does not ensure his release. The full board must agree to the parole. The recommendation is then passed to the Governor of California who may uphold or reverse it.
For nearly a week, I’ve been trying to wrap my head around this news, and I’m having a devil of a time doing it.
I was only fourteen in 1968, but my youth did not shelter me from the shock of this crime. In fact, Kennedy’s assassination altered the course of my life at that time.
My ninth-grade World History teacher, Herbert Jehle, was a good man and a great teacher. While he taught us events that had transpired in the world centuries before, he reminded us daily that we were currently living in a dynamic era of history, which included the Civil Rights Movement, the war in Vietnam (and its subsequent opposition in the U.S.), the women’s rights movement, and a cultural revolution that had some of us petitioning the school administrators to allow girls to wear pants to school.
I had already stepped over the edge of that fateful abyss and become a news junkie while witnessing on television the brutal struggle forward of the Civil Rights Movement, and I was also habituated to reading our daily newspaper. But I’d been reluctant to allow myself interest in politics for one reason: My father loved John F. Kennedy. Are you kidding me? An Irish Catholic veteran becoming President of the United States? My dad’s excitement was palpable—despite the fact that he was in the last months of his life due to a terminal illness. My father died in May of 1963. JFK was assassinated the following November. Watching the teachers at my elementary school in tears, I remember thinking two things: What's the point of becoming President if the opposition simply assassinates you once you get elected? And at least my dad didn’t live to experience the tragedy of his hero being shot down in such a horrific and public way.
Still, Mr. Jehle’s daily updates on the presidential campaign were interesting, and I began to see a glimmer of hope in what I read of Robert Kennedy in the newspaper. He supported the Civil Rights Movement. Not as a campaign promise, but in real, definitive action, and he had when he was U.S. Attorney General in the early 1960’s. I liked him.
And when I say “I liked him,” trust me, this was not a schoolgirl crush. I was well aware that many young women thought he was some sort of heart throb. I didn’t see it. He had that goofy Massachusetts accent, for one thing, and I didn’t find him particularly attractive. But as I learned more about what he stood for—his vision for what America could be if we could sort out the tangle of our war on an Asian shore and the long-armed legacy of Jim Crow—I really, really liked him.
So on that now infamous evening of June 5, 1968, I was glued to the TV set in our living room, watching, waiting, hoping that “Bobby” would win the California primary. And he did. The memory has remained vivid for 53 years. The announcement. Kennedy stepping up to the podium to joke and celebrate with the crowd that was delirious with victory and hope. And his last words before he turned away: “…so it’s on to Chicago and let’s win there.”
Which is when I reached over and turned off the television. It was late. I had school the next day. My sister and I had horses, and we would get up at 5:00 to feed and care for them before getting ready for school. We woke to a small clock radio alarm set to KRLA, a station based in Pasadena but broadcasting to the greater Los Angeles area.
In the pre-dawn hours the morning Robert Kennedy was shot, I thought I was waking from a nightmare. I’d been in such a deep sleep from staying up the night before, the radio alarm had been playing for some time, but the station wasn’t broadcasting music. The news of Bobby being critically wounded had infiltrated my dreams. When I came fully awake, for a brief second I experienced that universal relief: Oh. It was just a nightmare.
But it wasn’t. It was real.
I spent the day in shock. I have no memory of it. But I woke the following morning to the news that he had died.
It was as if someone had held a match to my youthful idealism and laughed as it burned. My interest in both politics and journalism crumbled into ash and floated away on the wind. It would not be rekindled for many years. I didn’t even really follow Sirhan Sirhan’s trial, but remember being glad that he was given the death penalty. He killed the hopes of so many. He should die for it.
That’s what I thought at age 14. That is not the person I am today.
Which brings me back around to my attempt at processing the potential release of Robert Kennedy’s killer.
Salient facts:
Sirhan has always insisted he ‘does not recall’ the shooting.
No motive for the shooting has ever been established. (Disregard the rumors, perpetrated by the press and the former mayor of Los Angeles, that Sirhan was a militant Palestinian angry over Kennedy’s sympathy toward Israel. This has never been born out.)
The man has been in prison for 50 years. Fifty. years.
This is what I wonder:
Is the purpose of prison to punish? Or rehabilitate? If the former, how do we determine when the punishment has been sufficient? If the latter, is this man—who was 24 at the time of the shooting—such a hardened criminal that it took 50 years to rehabilitate him?
The United States has the largest prison system in the world—and that includes China. Does that mean America has far more criminals than anywhere else in the world? Or is it because we have a lock-him-up-and-throw-away-the-key mentality?
To be honest, I don’t know the answers. I’m still trying to process all this, as I said. Maybe all these questions are moot, if the full parole board ultimately denies parole. Maybe we should have been asking them already. I’m hoping my readers will respond with some perspectives of their own. Feel free to comment below.
August 23, 2021
Back to Whitewater Preserve
Last time I went to Whitewater, the preserve was closed for the day due to the possibility of flash flooding. I did hike along the river for a bit, but I didn't stay long, and I kept a constant eye on the weather. This time the preserve was open, and oh, what a beautiful place it is! There's a ranger station, a very clean restroom, picnic areas in both sun (for the cooler months) and shade (for the warmer months), and a couple of deep, beautiful ponds connected by a nature trail.
The ponds and picnic area are a short walk from the parking lot. The trail for longer hikes heads off to the north, deeper into the canyon, but there are short connecting trails that lead to the river, with sturdy wooden bridges installed for easy stream crossings.
I took more videos than I usually do on a hike, simply because I love the sound of water pouring over rocks, and this water is so clear and lovely and unexpected here in the desert, I wanted to share it with friends on social media. I can't post it here, but if you click on this blue writing, the link will take you to YouTube and 48 seconds of tranquility.And that was why I went back to Whitewater Preserve. For the tranquility. My mind has been greatly troubled of late, what with the earthquake in Haiti, the chaos in Afghanistan as the U.S. withdraws, and the alarming rise in COVID-19 cases due to the Delta variant (and some people's choice not to get vaccinated). Also my grands are going back to school, my kids are going back to teaching in the classroom, and all of that concerns me. We've all been vaccinated, but there is another concern with the rise of "breakthrough" cases of the virus among vaccinated folks. Yikes. And I miss my friends. We were all finally starting to climb out of our bunkers when the Delta variant began jumping from victim to victim. Ugh. But...walking along the river, listening to the water or just the crunch of my boots in the sand along the shore gave me some space and time away from the madness. I'm grateful as always for these beautiful places. Shout out to the Wildlands Conservancy for making sure these beautiful places remain wild but accessible. (The conservancy is, by the way, the largest provider of free outdoor education for kids in California).
August 21, 2021
Back to Oak Glen
I've been meaning to share a post about going back to Oak Glen to hike, but life has gotten in the way a bit. There were friends who needed help and dogs that needed training and some other pieces of writing to work on. This will be the first of two pictorials. Because two weeks ago I hiked in Oak Glen but a week later I hiked in Whitewater again. I have nothing profound to say about these hikes. I just feel so blessed to have been outside in Nature, with all its wonder.
This hike began with a small miracle. I started down the trail at the Oak Glen Preserve, which is maintained by the Wildlands Conservancy, and I'd only gone as far as the public restroom before I was stopped in my tracks. There before my eyes was my nephew, Kevin. I hadn't seen him in many, many months, not since he'd brought his young sons to my senior community to feed the ducks in our pond. Before that, during the height of the pandemic, I hadn't seen him in over a year. And there he was, standing outside the restroom, waiting for a friend to emerge. We had a hug and a quick catch-up and another hug, and if you know the good science around hugging, you'll understand how happy I was to start my hike on a high of oxytocin, serotonin, and dopamine.
Kevin went off to hike with his friend, and I headed down the "boardwalk" trail looking for blackberries. And lordy, did I find them.
Ripe, juicy, sweet, delicious blackberries, growing alongside the trail. Okay, you're really not supposed to pick them. But...heck, are they gonna begrudge me two or three (or a dozen) ripe blackberries? Along that path, I encountered two women who were also sampling. I asked if they were finding any ripe (as I hadn't yet), and they gave me the advice to pick from the top (which was spot on). They also engaged me in conversation about when blackberries are in season in Connecticut (July, as compared with late August in California), and we went on to exchange stories about blackberry pie and other delights, standing in the warm morning sun and waxing nostalgic about our childhoods. Then they moved on, and so did I, following the boardwalk trail down into the shady canyon.
Usually on this trail I see something fun--quail, deer, bear tracks (or scat). On this day, though, the family directly ahead of me on the trail was traveling in a large pack (hooray for parents who take their young children hiking!) and also had their dog with them--a large male Doberman Pinscher--so I knew I wouldn't be seeing much wildlife. Still, I snacked on blackberries, took photos, enjoyed the aroma of fresh pine, and rejoiced in my ability to amble cheerfully along.
Of course the ambling stopped when I had descended to the bottom of the canyon and had to walk back out again. To complete the loop, back up to the picnic area and across to the parking lot, it is necessary to ascend these stairs:
That's just a small portion of the trail. It continues upward at that incline for a third of a mile. If you have compromised lungs, I suggest frequent stops. Okay, I don't know why I even wrote that; you don't need me to tell you to stop because you'll stop on your own when you can no longer breathe. (If you don't have compromised lungs, you may not fully understand. But yeah, you can have all the leg strength in the world, but no air means no up. Or at least a very slow ascent.)
I did finally reach the top and, of course, did a celebratory jog in place, Rocky style--not really, but I wanted to. I just didn't have any air left. The happy thing is, every time I've done this hike in recent years, I've done it in less time. Not that I'm hurrying--I'm still sauntering and ambling--but I am so much stronger now than I was five years ago when I first hiked this loop. Yay me! And next time I'll go on a weekday when there are few people. Maybe I'll actually see a bear!
August 11, 2021
The Perfect Peach
If you prefer your fruit cold or canned, I can’t help you, and there’s nothing for you to see here, so click or scroll away to something more satisfying. But before you go, in the name of the goddess Pomona and all that is botanically holy, take those bananas out of the refrigerator—and the tomatoes, for crying out loud, if you’ve stashed them there. No tomatoes in the fridge. Ever.
Where was I?
Peaches. I have a peach tree. I didn’t plant it. It was here when I moved in. How lucky am I? And I dare say, on far more than one occasion, I have been blessed to find the perfect peach.
When I’m picking, I search only for ripeness. If the fruit, ever so gently impressed by my thumb, gives way, the globe is plucked.
A sharp knife will glide through such a peach, the two halves falling away from each other as if relieved at their release. A slight tug, and the skin, thin as a gossamer veil, will lift away, leaving the pale flesh exposed and inviting.
