Yellow Egg plums
A portion of the bounty from the backyard tree. I have already made four jars of jam, three cobblers, and have eaten my way down to at least 15 pits. Such a unique buttery flavor for a plum!
Show down.
Backing out of the driveway, head over my shoulder, I spotted a black cat perched like a gargoyle on the fence. “Kitty!” I chirped to myself as I am wont to do every time I see a feline friend dart around the neighborhood (my desire to own one seems to grow exponentially every week).
But then something else caught the other corner of my eye.
A squirrel, its feet frozen to an adjacent limb, met the intense stare of the cat head-on. Neither creature moved a muscle. How long had they been transfixed in this battle of wills? Who would concede and who would be the victor?
Creeping closer with my camera, the cat broke its death glare on the squirrel and glowered in my direction, as if to say “Back the eff off, lady”. Seizing the opportunity, the squirrel somersaulted around the limb of the tree and darted across a nearby telephone wire.
That cat was pissed.
Rose thief
With a pair of fabric shears,
I snipped half a dozen roses from the yard of a foreclosed neighborhood home.
Big blowsy blooms looked at me moonishly as I tip-toed through the weedy garden, avoiding the several sodden newspapers mildewing underfoot.. ink and fiber married together for eternity, or at least for a steamy period decomposition.
I’d like to think the roses were happy to have me have them, but I did feel a bit of a sneaky thief, orphaning the young buds from their sun drowsed siblings.
And the children leaning against the railings of the apartment building across the street, chirping to each other, deciphering whether I belong to the empty house that they must certainly trespass around on Saturdays.
Six thorny stems with heads of custard, rouge, snow, and shell pink, went into their coffin of cold water, and beamed obligingly for two afternoons on my coffee table.
They’ve wilted away,
but the bushes in the abandoned yard keep shining for no one.
Plight of the proposal writer
I peddle the written word. Today my boss complimented me in this manner “You are a terrific writer when you start from scratch”. Meaning, there are times when all a grant proposal needs is some updating and tweaking of last year’s facts and figures. Maybe some dusting off of old lingo. Supplanting one funders name for another. Its easy. And apparently, not my best work.
Then there are those times when the guidelines for the funding opportunity are so precise, so particular, you cannot recycle your boilerplate. I must sit at my desk strategizing the approach and eventually peck away at it until something exists that didn’t before.
I guess this seems pretty obvious.
I’ve been complimented on the quality of my work before…and by and large, I am usually pleased and proud of what I’ve created out of my very own brain.
But I just wish it came a bit easier. Today, for example, I spent eight hours of a work day blinking at the screen and coaxing out something persuasive. Not to mention the three days previous, where I couldn’t even bear to open the file because the task of mining my mind in that way was too too too daunting.
And then something moves. The blade of grass brushes the boulder at the top of the hill and down the mountain it goes. I am never more relieved and pleased than when it finally happens. It practically feels the project is already done.
The odds that this project will be funded are nearly nonexistent. The foundation is too discerning and the opportunity to widely publicized. Strangely, this doesn’t dampen the drive to write a really strong application. At least I have that working for me.
Sunday
Now the back of my knees are pink and I have a small ache behind my brow but earlier I spent happy hours in the gallant sunlight with the merriest of friends. Ate terrific sausages and drank cocktails made with egg whites. Sampled vodka in a hangar on an old naval base. Sat on a teal velveteen couch and preened for a camera. Lake lounged on a yellow blanket with cheese and unread books.
Driving over the San Mateo bridge in the dusk, towards the plated neighborhood luminaries in the near distance and the saturated blue of the hills of the horizon, is like being ushered into the breast pocket of the bay area.
An asprin and aloe will tuck me in.
It is earth day and I promise to:
Take shorter showers. I need to by an egg timer so I can hear a ‘ding’ at two minutes.
Buy biodegrable garbage bags. I have plenty of re-usable grocery bags but what good is that when you need plastic bags for your kitchen garbage pail? Why should your househould garbage be held hostage for a thousand years in a non-biodegradable plastic bag? Must look into this.
I want to compost. But I don’t have a garden. I have a few plants but I don’t have a whole backyard to nourshish. Is this viable for me? Worms? Etc? I promise to look into it some more.
Happy Earth Day!
Windy Hill
I took myself on another Sunday afternoon excursion. This time it was a four mile hike to the top of Windy Hill in the Windy Hill Open Space Preserve just down the way in Portola Valley. It was a terrific hike, just the physical challenge I’ve been needing since starting a desk job. Sun shining, breeze blowing – heart pounding, thighs blazing. I kept my sights on the summit, or what looked like the summit until I turned a corner, and saw more mountain ahead me. Eventually, I made it to the top of the 1600 climb and ate my tangerine. Behind me was a view of more coastal mountains and the ambiguous blue-gray fog that obscures the ocean in the horizon. Ahead of me was this view, the peninsula and its rambling towns, the shadowy purple hills beyond the East Bay.
I missed hiking while away from California. Minnesota is mostly prairie. I love the mild adventure of it – conquering a climb, exploring the environment – a perfectly admirable way to spend three hours.
Gone coastal.
I packed a sandwich and a blanket in my basket and drove Woodside Road 84 West out to the coast. A winding road, canopied with redwoods and moss drenched live oaks, peppered with brightly jerseyed cyclists pumping up the hills. The Coastal mountain towns like La Honda and Skyline Blvd. are inhabited by beatnik retirees in homes they built after their San Francisco exodus in the 70s. Funky, earthy, hideaways now worth millions.
The road T’d into Highway 1. The left Santa Cruz. To the right Half Moon Bay. Straight ahead San Gregorio State Park. The parking fee was $8 (thanks Arnold) but when I rolled down my window at the booth the handsome park ranger said I had a ‘sexy smile’ and for that I could park for free. It’s nice when your looks work out for you this way, though if my boyfriend had been in the car I’m sure we would have paid the $4 each.
Because it was Sunday and the kind of weather that makes you feel wasteful to be indoors, there were plenty of visitors to the park – families picnicking, couples clasping in the wind, kids digging heels into sand, – but people tend to give each other their own space at the beach and don’t interfere with your desire to be there, however mutual it may be. To each his own day-trip.
I found a perch up on a sea cliff, spread my blanket, opened my book and munched my PB&J. Four hours of tender spring sunshine and twirling bluff breezes. Of contemplative thoughts and pages turned. Blades of fuzzy grass plucked and braided. Gulls gliding effortlessly by at eye level. A call to a faraway friend.
And then, with Bob Dylan howling out his harmonica, I drove out my free parking spot, waved at my benefactor, and drove down to Half Moon Bay for some ceviche and a glass of white wine.
Home before dark – so nice to have the light linger again.
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