Zzott!

Sorry for the posting cutback lately; I’ve been shockingly busy (me who hoards slack as though it’s being discontinued), which means I’m doing about half the work in a week that DH does on a busy workday. In a couple of days, I’ll be able to share the fruits of some of my labors. In the meantime, there was a storm last night that reminded me of a story I’ve been meaning to post about for a while.

***

“Ha ha ha, Julie!” My sister was pointing at me and laughing. This wasn’t unusual (she was usually teasing me about something, and laughing at me was generally a good way to push my buttons), but I was a bit baffled. Other kids from our neighborhood were laughing, too, not just at me but at each other as we stood in a cluster in the middle of the neighborhood street.

“Your hair!” She was practically bent double.

“Your pigtails!” (see photo – my standard look of the day)

Pointing again, she could barely breathe for laughing. She began to gesticulate wildly, indicating that my ponytails were sticking straight up. Since most of the other kids around us, Sis included, had short hair, I didn’t see what had them in stitches. I started to pout.

KRRAACK-BOOOOM!!!

Laughter turned to shrieks. I glanced at the sky, convinced we were being bombed (a not entirely unreasonable assumption, since we did live on an Air Force Base in a foreign country). What I thought I saw seemed to confirm it – a smoking fireball, descending from the sky and forking in two directions. In hindsight, I know that can’t have been right right – it was simply lightning, but I didn’t know that yet.

“Hit the deck!” I yelled, as we all dropped to the ground, ducking and covering, cowering in little curled-up balls of fear on the barren pavement. After a few minutes, when no other bombs appeared to be falling from the sky, Sis, her friend and I ran into our house where our mothers were visiting, a cluster of squawking little girls. Sis and her friend both got shocked a bit when the lightning struck. I didn’t, but at that age I wanted sympathy too, so claimed the same.

After checking to be sure we were all right, Mom told us what happened inside.

“The pictures flew off the walls,” she said as sheets of rain began to pour down on one side of the house. We were right at the edge of the shower, and it rained like that for several minutes. Sirens began to wail, and since there had been no more thunder we peeked out the front door to see fire trucks parked outside of a neighboring building. The end of it was gone, exposing two floors like a giant doll house, with a great pile of rubble heaped below. The fire trucks were from two jurisdictions, British and American (our housing was on British land leased to the USAF), and they were actually arguing loudly about whose job it was to deal with the situation. Fortunately, there was only one victim that I know of – the family downstairs wasn’t home at the time, but the woman upstairs had been cooking, and had gotten a nasty electrical shock. Looking back, I imagine it must have been quite serious, but we kids were told she would be okay.

As the storm passed, the argument outside was settled, and everyone was reasonably certain there would be no more lightning strikes. We tried to figure out what had happened. Mom explained that our hair was standing up from static electricity, and that whenever that happened you should find shelter immediately. Obviously, though, as the remnants of the neighboring house demonstrated with shocking clarity, not all shelters were safe. Where we lived, electrical storms were very rare. As a result, homes were not built with lightning rods or any other type of grounding system, which also explains why the pictures flew off the walls.

These days, I love electrical storms. In Arizona, they are fairly common during the summer, and often quite dramatic. At the back of my mind, though, when I see the cloud-to-ground lightning, I am taken back to that day. Even though our house, like virtually all recently-built American homes, is grounded, there’s always the niggling worry that eventually, the lightning won’t just be close, it’ll be a direct hit. I wonder how well the structure would really hold. I hope I never find out.

-o.o-

Call & Response #4: The Good, the Bad and the Ugly

This week’s Call was posted by Walt at his Blog ‘O Froth. This time, given that it’s more of a great story than a photo, I highly recommend stopping by and reading his first, if you haven’t already. He has summed up the gist, however, in this opening paragraph:

“Everyone experiences what they would call “good” and “bad” times during their lives. The interplay and fluctuation of “yes-and-then-no” occurs in the tiniest of details on throughout all that we observe. But there are times of extreme adversity when we seem to be stopped at every turn — when, as is said, “you can’t see ‘up’ from here.” People develop various strategies for reconciling such times. One is by virtue of this principle:
“Every adversity, every failure, and every heartache carries with it the Seed of an equivalent or greater Benefit.”

This, then, is my response. It’s a long one, but I hope you’ll sit a spell; I haven’t told this story this way before.

***

For most of my young life, when my family didn’t live in Texas or England, this humble house was Home. The story of how my mother’s family initially came to be there in the ’50s can be found here, though I have been remiss in updating for a few weeks. In the ’80s, it was mostly just Grandma’s house, and had been for quite a while. When we came back from England, my Dad was stationed at McChord AFB in Washington, and it was decided that we would move in with Grandma and eventually buy the house from her.

Repost

Between feeling generally wonky today (revenge of the swimming pool, I suspect) and getting ready for tonight’s choir rehearsal (the first of the season), I don’t have a new post in me today, so I’m reposting this (from back when I had about 2 readers; if it’s the same one I reposted before, my apologies – I can’t find the one I re-posted last time).

***

Yesterday, my brother and I went out and bought bikes. He’ll be moving back north to chillier climates soon, and is looking forward to playing in the snow. Unfortunately, his sabbatical to the desert has not been conducive to physical fitness, and since I need to find some exercise to replace my trainer (who recently moved away) biking sounded like a fun thing to do.

So we hit Target, looking for something cheap but useful. We found a couple of no-frills mountain bikes, brought them home, and hit the road. Starting out, we stuck to the streets in my neighborhood. The hills are fairly gentle (compared to the hills of my childhood) and the traffic is minimal in the afternoons. Coasting down a longish stretch, I was transported back to age ten or eleven, when my brother and I used to go down the “Blind Road”, a dead-end road near our home with a ridiculously steep gradient and a sharp, almost 90 degree turn at the bottom. In our mother’s time, that turn had a thicket of stinging nettles and devil’s club on the outside, and at least one of my aunts or uncles had ended up face-down in the middle of it. By our time, there was a ditch between the road and forest. Somehow, we usually managed to stay out of it, following the curve of the road and coasting for what seemed like miles, our hair blowing back and maniacal grins (or grimaces) on our faces, whooping and shrieking at the ludicrous speeds. Yesterday, I laughed at the memory, and at the caution with which I rode two decades later.

After meandering through the neighborhood for a while, we decided to seek out the bike trail across a main road from our neighborhood. I knew it was there because I had seen the signs, but I imagined it to be a meandering, paved route for leisurely rides and rollerbladers. Instead we found a dirt track running parallel to the road, full of twists, turns, hills and valleys. In the dirt and away from the traffic, it was easier to to stand and pedal, riding the trail like a roller coaster track. I was painfully aware of the occasional jagged rocks and gravel patches zooming beneath me; in shorts and helmetless, I knew any fall could be seriously mangling. The thrill of the ride slightly outweighed my caution, however, and again I felt transported back to a younger age, when biking was something we did just for fun. By the time we returned home, winded and smiling, I finally understood why so many people in my neighborhood like to bike. I had remembered it as pleasant, but had forgotten the sheer joy of riding the hidden paths and the dangerous curves, knowing the risks but daring them anyway. Somehow, back then, I managed not to crash much. I suspect that, with a little caution, I can maintain my record and still have a blast. With a little grace, I may even be able to laugh when I do fall, and be glad for all the times that I flew.

Lost & Found

(Photo Copyright 2007 Robin Starfish)

(The following is my belated response to Call & Response #1: Lightness)

 

I didn’t mean to get lost; it just kind of happened, while I was dawdling along. Minutes may have passed, hours or even days for all I know (time tends to go funny when you dawdle too much, I’ve found) while I watched the little yellow butterflies dancing through a young cotton field, or listened to the sighing of the wind through dense stands of maple. All I know for certain is that when I finally looked up, everyone else had moved on and my surroundings took on the dread feel of an empty supermarket aisle to a small child.

 

I tried not to panic, bu there it was: on one side of my brain, the sensible side, I chided myself for a fool, but on the other it was pure pandemonium. The pandemonium would have won out, too, were it not for the very calm voice that came from somewhere else, and gently suggested that I keep moving forward. So I did. Eventually, I realized I was moving in a spiral. I had passed yonder cluster of bushes before, and the little waterfall with its bright cluster of koi, but each time around they were farther out, and I was farther in. Finally, the spiral came to a stop of sorts, at a stand of gently curled reeds along the bank of a burbling creek. Reaching out, I traced one of the curls with my finger, following it around and in, and finding that it somehow grew larger even as it tightened.

 

After several minutes (or hours, or even days), I heard worried voices calling my name. Looking up, I realized I knew exactly where I was (in the garden, of course, though a corner previously undiscovered), and that I had never really been lost at all.

 

 

Clipped

 

 I finally took the girls in to get their toenails clipped today. It was getting pretty bad – if either of them stepped on your feet, they left marks, and Zoe’s claws are like little daggers, wickedly pointed. You’d think I’d do it more often, but it’s such a pain I put it off as long as possible.

 

I take them to the groomers at PetSmart. For toenails, you can just walk in, and as long as you help hold the dog it’s usually no trouble. Unfortunately, I have to hold two (and yes, I know I could take them in separately, but I’d rather just go once and get it over with). Lyra likes the attention but hates the clipping, so she wiggles a lot. Meanwhile Zoe (wrapped around my leg) is desperate to escape. Actually, having her wrapped up like that helped, since she couldn’t go too far.

 

On the weather front, today’s storm is looming closer, with lots more big clouds and gusts of wind. I don’t know if it’ll hit here yet, though. The Valley is still ringed by clouds, but the clear space overhead is shrinking. Seems like it should be a metaphor for something, but I don’t know what

 

-o.o-

Waiting for Rain

Monsoon season is creeping closer every day. Tonight, as I sit here, the wind is howling around the house, creating a strange squealing-squawking sound as it rattles the window screens. Zoe is cowering under the desk at my feet. If it were daytime, the outdoors would be one big brown cloud right now, and the traffic would slow to a crawl as drivers struggle to see through the racing streamers of dust. As it is, the air inside smells as though I just spent an hour beating the carpets. The humidity has been rising this week, as well; temperatures that were remarkably bearable just two weeks ago are brutal this week. Stepping outside at mid-afternoon, the air seems to snap and crackle on the skin, and plants that appear hardy wilt overnight.

I like the wind. As a child in Washington, my mother and I would stand on the back porch during windstorms, listening to the vigorous sighing of the trees, waiting for the inevitable crashing of branches (and hoping our roof would be spared). The air carried with it a cleansing vitality along with a fair amount of danger. Out here, the same holds somewhat true, though the dust makes it rather less pleasant, keeping me indoors. Later, we moved to a town whose name supposedly meant “place of the evil winds,” or something to that effect. New roof tiles were an almost yearly purchase there.

Any day now, the dust will be followed by punishing rains and violent electrical storms, to complete the washing cycle begun by the wind. In fact, here come the first rumbles now.

It should make for an interesting weekend.

-o.o-

Swimming

Thanks to my niece, I’ve decided to start swimming again. Today I swam a mile, and I’ve decided that I’ll leave it at that (a couple years ago, I got up to two on a regular basis but burned out on swimming). My first day back was Monday, a relatively cool and cloudy day. When I did the backstroke, the clouds looked like giant, swooping wings with a span measured in miles.

Today the sky was spotless, the sun merciless. The water was warm as a bath, and the bright ripples reflected on the bottom revealed complex patterns and hidden currents across the pool’s surface. On my back, staring up into the blue sheet of sky, I could see tiny flecks of light dancing like twinkling molecules in front of my pupils. I’ve seen these before – they’re particularly visible from airplane windows, again when I’m looking at the blue of the sky. They’re not the “stars” you see when you get faint, though there is a resemblance, and they’re not patterns of blood vessels in my eyes – I can see those at the same time, if I’m paying attention, and they look like what they are. They’re not floaters, and they’re not stray cells or debris wandering across the surface of my eye – those look enormous by comparison. Whatever they are, molecules or illusions, it is a pleasure to watch them flicker and dance, while my arms and legs churn at the water, pulling me along.

At such times, it seems such a strange wonder to me that I, a being made of roughly 70% water, can swim in this giant pool and not dissolve to become part of it. I wonder how much of me gets left behind, and how much of other people I take in (not too graphically, mind you – it’s more than a little gross, I know). Above all, it’s fascinating that it is possible to lose or exchange so much of our physical structure while still being essentially, wholly, ourselves.

What a marvel it is to be alive.

-o.o-

Pretending

A few years ago, I was trying to think of little jobs I could do to bring in a little extra cash. Having a degree in painting is not particularly useful in finding a “real” job, so I turned to the internet in hopes of finding something simple I could do, with flexible hours and the possibility of working from home. For a couple of months, I took jobs as a Mystery Shopper.

Mystery Shopping is actually a rather interesting occupation, and is probably excellent practice for anyone who wants to be an actor. There are different types of Shops, but the basic idea is to act as a customer or potential customer of a business, and provide a rating of the business’s performance. The standard ad to get people into Shopping will say “Get paid to shop!”, though that’s not quite how it generally works. Some few people actually seem to make good money at it, but at such levels it’s quite time-consuming, worse it seemed than a normal job.

Anyway, I found I was fairly good at it. For most jobs (there was one exception, though I don’t think even there I was spotted as a secret shopper – I think the guy just thought I was nuts), people seemed to swallow my story hook, line and sinker. In the course of a few weeks, I was a student looking for a storage unit for the summer, a wife who wanted a bigger diamond ring, a minimum-wage employee looking to open a bank account, or a college grad looking for an apartment. I called bank loan centers (several in one day – I had to talk to about five different reps, and give different false info each time) to request lines of credit. There were jobs at fast-food restaurants that involved a simple meal-purchase and evaluation and would pay for the meal, and more complicated jobs at nicer restaurants requiring careful timing logs and specific orders, which also paid for the meal. It’s good work if you can do it well, and have a sharp eye for the important details.

The trouble was, I hated pretending. Even though I was providing a valuable service to a business (and ultimately the employee who was being evaluated), and doing nothing wrong, I hated walking through the door, engaging in a lively dialogue (and usually very friendly – I’m an introvert, but apparently I can be downright charming when I must) with a sales rep who actually believed I would end up buying, and then walking off, having taken up time they could have used on a real customer. I felt like I was using people. More importantly, I loathed misrepresenting myself.

After about two months, I stopped taking anything but restaurant and grocery shops. Those were easier on my conscience – I just had to order a meal as I normally would, but pay more attention (while not being obvious about it), or ask a store clerk where some item could be found. Shortly after that, I took a more regular job (one that often is found via mystery shopping), working as a merchandiser (someone who rearranges shelves in stores when new product lines come out). The work was simple, and I did it well. Better yet, I didn’t have to pretend to be anything other than myself.

For some people, pretending is easy. Natural. Fun. Certainly safe, and often necessary or even beneficial. For others of us, it just feels better to share our true selves, even if only to a few trusted friends. I’m glad I have friends out there who are willing to let me see their true selves. I’m glad that I can share myself, too.

Thanks.

-o.o-

In Which I Attempt (Inadvertently) to Sink the Ness Nasty

A while back, I wrote about my near drowning while on vacation in Loch Ness.

My Dad, reading my blog this weekend, reminded me that I have been remiss in sharing some further adventures from that excursion, so here is another grand tale from our Loch Ness adventure (ca. 1983).

~*~

Toward the end of our journey through the lochs, canals and locks of Scotland, we went through  Ft. Augustus. There was a lock there, and apparently we went through during rush hour. The boats went through in groups, as many as would fit at once, and there were a few really lovely vessels passing through at the same time we were.

The pace was leisurely enough that my dad and Roger got off the boat, to peruse local gift shops and look for extra groceries (Roger, a Brit, almost got into a fight with the proprietor of said gift shop, who was angry because Roger started writing in some postcards he had picked out to buy while waiting in line).

My sister, brother and I sat out on deck, watching the other boats.  Eventually, a bit of a ruckus kicked up. There were hoots and wolf whistles coming from other boats near us, and my sister and I perked up, curious what all the fuss was about. The words “French,” “nudist ” and “topless” reached our tender ears, at which point my sister and I started giggling. I still hadn’t spotted the boat in question, but my mother had, and she quickly shooed us below decks until the excitement had passed.

Mango Redux

I’m feeling too tired to come up with something interesting today, so instead I’m re-posting one of my earliest blog entries, which was read originally by perhaps three or four people.

~*~

Mmmmm… Mango

I’ve been on a fruit kick lately. Apples, pears, bananas, grapefruit, cherries. It’s been surprising, since I haven’t really been interested in fruit before. I used to buy a pear now and then, with the vague notion that I should eat healthier, but anything else bought on a whim would sit uneaten in my fruit drawer, lonely and forgotten, turning into the brown sludge designed to nourish the seeds within if they happened on fertile soil. My refrigerator, however, is not an optimal place for plant growth; after one or two unpleasant surprises I learned my lesson – no buying fruit that I know I won’t eat.

Until recently that was my relationship with fruit. As I noted earler, however, things have changed.

So last weekend, I was at the grocery store and noticed mangos on sale. I wanted to try something new, and I hadn’t eaten whole, fresh mango since I went on a trip to Puerto Rico more than a decade ago. It was bought at a fruit stand, and when we (several people wanted a taste) tried to eat it, we discovered that it is best to have a sharp knife handy. We roughly peeled the skin, grubby fingers quickly becoming slimed and sticky. As we were camping, we had stubby camp silverware handy, and each tried vainly to scoop out a bit with a spoon. The fibrous pulp was resistant to our advances, turning into a sticky, juicy mush that was extremely messy to eat. It was tasty, I vaguely recall – I didn’t get much more than a mouthful. Since then, though I generally enjoy mango pre-sliced, the thought of handling the frut conjured up sloppy memories.

Back again to this weekend. The refrigerated packs of fresh mango I’ve bought in the past were good, if a bit bland, and didn’t seem to be too fibrous to eat so I thought buying a whole one and trying to slice it myself might be worthwhile. The mangos were fairly big, so I decided to have one for lunch on Sunday. Remembering Puerto Rico, I grabbed a sharp knife and sliced into the skin. It slipped into the ripe fruit as though sliding into butter, but met with a strange resistance – an oddly shaped, and as it turned out rather large seed inside. I managed to manuever around it and get a good slice. Getting the skin off the meat was simple enough, and finally I could get a taste. I opened my mouth and took a big, sloppy bite.

The world stopped, and somewhere angels must have been singing..

I closed my eyes, the better to focus on the intricate palette of flavors and textures seducing my mouth. Sun warmed, the pulp gave up its flavor in langorous stages, melting in my mouth with only the slightest sandpapery hint of fibrousness. It began with a mellow smoothness, reminiscent of melon. Moving my tongue and chewing slightly brought forth a a ray of sweetness, bearing a familiar resemblance to mango-flavored beverages (the way a painting by any of the Old Masters resembles third-rate hotel room art). It finally ended with a mingling of the two, mellow and sweet intermingling in a sensual juiciness that slid down my throat and left me lusting for more. I devoured the rest standing there at the counter, leaving only the skin and the rough fibrous bits clinging to the seed. Juice coated my fingers and cheeks, wafting a subtle, sweet aroma. I stared at the scraps of yellow, green and orange skin pooled on the juice-soaked paper towel as though awakening from a trance, feeling sated and surprised.

If ever there were a food of the gods, I think this might be it.

Of course, I may only be saying that because it is so rare these days to find fruit at the grocery store that is actually ripe.

(August 3, ‘06)