Drought

       

    My neighbor stood on the front porch. The obligatory cigarette dangling from her lips as she sprayed her front lawn with a water hose. On my way to the mailbox, she said, “Good afternoon, Pam.”

            “Good afternoon, Sarah. Did you know it rained for about 30 seconds a few hours ago?”

            She took the cigarette from her lips and looked around the cul-de-sac. “Can’t tell.”

            “Yeah. No one can.”

            I put up my Christmas lights after Thanksgiving. It sprinkled tiny drops on me then. Yesterday, I took down my lights—six weeks in between and not a drop of rain. Today, moisture came down so light it wasn’t measurable.

Meanwhile, the Eastern States flood and freeze.

            I lived in the Bay Area during the worse and longest droughts—1986 through 1991. Hot, dry, and miserable, the Bay-ites put bricks in the tanks and didn’t flush for number one not even in restaurants. We skipped showers, watched our yards turn to dust, and drove cars that all looked earth-toned. Hot. Dry. Miserable.

            The bonus round for the lack of water was Santa Ana winds, forest fires, and then the Quake of ’89. “Memories may be beautiful but yet…”

Finally, the rains came—hard and fast. On vacation, Paul and I walked hand in hand as the banks of Napa River overflowed into the streets and soaked our feet on the sidewalk. Redwoods fell over in Sausalito, the roots no longer secure as years of drought separated them from the soil. Earthquake shaken dirt turned to mud and erased banks in South San Francisco, Big Sur and SoCal.

Postcards for the tourist trade depicted the four seasons of California: drought, fire, flood, and mud slides.

Well, “Tighten your seat belts. We are in for a bumpy ride.” I am so glad I have chosen this moment in time to live a place whose summers are on average twenty degrees warmer than where I lived in 1987 through 1991. Sarcasm? Oh yay.   http://droughtmonitor.unl.edu/

Haircut

Matthew’s Barber Beauty and Nails cut my hair today. Specifically, James of Matthew’s cut my hair. I walked into the shop. Some lady with mounds of curly black hair underwent a trim by James’ deft hands. He looked up. “Can I help you?”

            By sign language I indicated a cut. He nodded and said something about a few minutes wait. I sat down and picked up a magazine with countless celebs plastered on the front, flipped a few pages, and slapped it back down on the coffee table.

The shop was long and narrow. On one side, two barber chairs lined with a wall of photos and mirrors. A rather large mirror, opposite James and his client, poised at an angle separated two areas—the barber on the left and to the right, two Asian women sat in the service area of a nail shop. It appeared that past the nail stations were one or two foot spas. Not interested in the shop, I looked back at the Barber brushing hair off of the lady’s shoulders. She thanked him then stepped around the giant mirror to a seat in front of a manicurist.

James smiled and motioned me over to his chair. I started talking before I got up in my usual nervous rapid fire manner and pulled the wig off my head. “I’m a cancer patient. My hair grew back some then since October seems to be retreating again. The wig wiggles when the hair is long.” I pointed to the back and sides. “It drives me nuts and the wig clips dig holes in the side of my head. Hairdressers don’t get it that is why I am here in a barber shop. I need a boy cut. You are a barber? Your name is Matthew? You own this place?” I plopped my fanny into the chair removed my glasses, stuffed the wig and the glasses into my open purse.

“Here let me take those for you. Can I set them here?” He pointed at the counter. I nodded. “I’m sorry the hairdressers don’t get it. I have shaved a few cancer patients.”  He flipped a polyester wrap around my neck and body. “I’m James. Matthew retired six years ago. He opened the place in ’78 so I kept the name. Sometimes people call me Matthew, I don’t mind.”

“Well, James. I need the back shaved close. Longer towards the top. Ears cleared but sideburns for the wig clips. The front layered if possible. I wear wigs all the time now…but at home. Well, I like to relax. A little boy’s cut was what I had in mind.”

James ran a comb through my hair. He was in his late forties early fifties I would guess—although, I am terrible at guessing the ages of men over thirty.  Heavy set about five-ten and bald—male-patterned bald—hair on the sides and a smooth race track on top with just a few hairs. He parted my hair in the center then look front toward the mirror.

 I caught a glimpse of his view of me then I saw the large mirror in back. It was angled in such a way that as I look forward I could also see the back of my head and the top—a site I had not seen in decades. Though I had tons of hair on the sides and back, almost all was gone from top of my skull. I sported a similar race track as the barber.

He must have seen my shocked expression because he moved in front of me to block the mirror and started clipping the sides then pulled out the trimmer for the back.  “Your hair is really curly back here. Is that natural?”

“Yes.” Not really. I had some curl to my hair all my life. When the re-growth started after chemo it was straight then one morning a few months later, I got up and it was curly. I thought it looked good enough to go to Ireland without wigs. A decision I regretted after I viewed my photos.

James slipped a handheld mirror into my hand. “Is this okay?”

The cut was smart, exactly as requested. A boy cut with some wispy sides to look feminine. The baldness not so pronounced with the sides and back cut short. My hairs matched.

After giving back the mirror, I grabbed the wig, shook it, and stuck it back on my head.  Artificial hair stuck out in all directions. I used the wig brush to beat the cap into submission.

James chuckled.  “I didn’t think you could get a style out of that.”

I smiled into the mirror back at him.

“That is a lot more hair.”

“There are people in my life who have never seen me without this wig. What do I owe you?”

“Sixteen.”

“Thank you. I will be back.”

Blackberries

            My sister-in-law and her husband sent me a Trader Joe’s gift card for Christmas. I picked up a replenishment of spices emptied during the holiday food orgy, some veggies, and a quart box of super-ripe blackberries. Each berry was iridescent black and size of my thumb—well almost.

            “Wow those are black,” said the TJ clerk.

            “I was surprised to see them. Aren’t they supposed to be out of season?” I looked over the cover and saw the marking. “Oh, Mexico. That explains it,” speaking to myself more than the young man.

            The cashier scanned my items. I had winced a bit on the $3.99 price for the blackberries. I know I shouldn’t have. That’s a terrific in-store price.

My mind wandered instead to the American River. My brother, Steve—Gary he was called back then, and I picked sun-baked berries off the thorny vines that grew in huge mounds around the edges of the rocky beach.  We fished or threw rocks or dragged in crawdads that hung like grapes off a piece of bacon stolen from Mom’s kitchen. We drank the river water and munched on wild fruit—our fingers and nails stained purple. We forgot to fight like siblings and soaked up the summer.

            I eat blackberries year round. There are ones from Washington, Oregon, California and then Mexico. Soon we will see Chilean and Australian then where ever—Asia I guess. The availability is staggering.  One pint sells for $6.99 in the off season. The two-fer bargains happen when the Californian crop is bursting. Mexico, reliable Mexico, steps up in winter to offer my one quart for $3.99 or free if you have a TJ gift card from your in-laws. 

            It’s the flavor that I miss.  The intense sweetness could never be recaptured with an adult tongue—spoiled by drink, hot spices, and ludicrous mixtures of flavors at every meal. Yet, I remember the experience of finding a sweet blackberry after tasting a few sour not-quite-ripe ones.

            Twenty years ago, my dear friend Suzanne invited me to visit her at a cabin above Los Gatos. Her family had rented the location for a week. It was their good-bye to Suzanne who was moving with her husband to Carroll, Iowa. After spending a bit of time with her folks, she and I walked arm in arm along Saratoga Springs. The day seemed hot for the Bay Area. I sported a cowboy hat and sunglasses. I thought I looked cool in the ninety degree weather.  We crossed a bend in the creek. The bank was tangled with blackberry brambles.

            I started munching off the vines and then found myself explaining to a California native what I was eating. Suzanne, a decade my junior, had never picked blackberries. Sad but true. We gathered my hat full of berries. She wisely suggested that we wash the fruit before eating. I had to wait until we got back to the cabin and rinse the bounty before I could see her face light up when the hot syrupy goodness hit her taste buds. It was worth it. No one’s face can light up like Suzanne’s.

            I am eating my Trader Joe’s blackberry now. The taste will never be quite as good as the memories it evokes.

Thanks, Ann and Phil for the gift card.

My 2014 Resolutions

10.  Move my butt in some kind of exercise everyday. 

9.  Throw the frisbee more often for Dex. 

8.  Smile more bitch less.

7.  Enjoy what I do and do it the best that I can.

6.  Read something new daily but follow up with books I love. 

5.  Stop watching the bent gossip that has become the "News."

4.  Accept that my hair is not coming back. Wear my wigs like I'm Susan Hayward in "Valley of the Dolls."
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=WfyhaXlKNts.

3.  Eat food that will improve my health. 

2.  Finish my book, "Steps" before 2015. 

1.  Thank God everyday for those I love and those who love me. 

What I have learned in 2013

10.  Consumption of sugar, any sugar, leads to over eating, more sugar, and general yuckyness. 

9.  A dog, in puppy mode, will jump in your lap for pets whether he weighs six pounds or fifty.  I have the cracked ribs to prove it. 

8. Dinner in Dublin tastes better with Jameson. Dinner in Sacramento does not. 

7.  I have come to the conclusion that our Congress is completely corrupt.  This revelation comes 105 years after Mark Twain made the same observation. Better late than never. 

6.  If your best friend is a dog, you will miss engaging in stimulating conversation. 

5.  Whatever the balance is in your checking account, it will be the total of the car repair bill plus twenty percent.

4.  If your friends are talking about the beautiful sunny weather and it's the end of the year, plan on water rationing for the next twelve months. 

3.  You cannot debate convictions with an agnostic because he doesn't have any. 

2.  If someone tries to tell you that you are NOT your job title, ignore them. Society judges individual worth on that title. This is not to say that your real value is tied to work. It isn't. Your ego needs to handle to disparity. 

1.  Want to make God laugh tell him your plans. If you want to laugh along with God, write your plans down every New Year, stick them in a envelope, seal and date it.  Each New Year's Day open the envelope that is five years old. Read those plans aloud. Have a chuckle with your Creator. 

Reaction

          Yesterday, I took off my wedding ring. It was time. No clap of thunder occasioned the event. No comments from a passersby. No external reaction at all. A quiet emptiness filled the ache in my heart. I was prompted to take off the ring by my own deed. I read a part of my blog, Sound the Alarm, “…my late husband, Paul…”and realized that I no longer had the identity of wife. After two and half years, I lightly hold the title of widow. I am not one half of a couple, part of a whole, flesh of one flesh. I am singularly alone.

            Today, after receiving a replacement charger cable from eBay, I managed to play the last tape in our video cam. The film started as a close up of Poindexter, the dog, sleeping on the couch. Zoom in. Zoom out. In the background, Paul spoke, “Dex. Cute dog. Dex.”

I found myself holding my breath. The scene stopped. Next in the film, I was walking outside with the camera in an unsuccessful attempt to film the dog. The scene switched to me playing with the water hose and Dex. Paul filmed me and stopped.

            The next bit started with Vlad hanging a wire creation of a dragon. He made it with his hands.

            “What are you going to name the dragon?” I said that. I held the camera.

            “Bob,” sounded Paul’s voice in the background.

            More video of Vlad, then a glimpse of Dan, Jennifer, Oscar, Brandy. I am leaning against the hospital bed that was provided by hospice. Paul rolls into the room, seated in his wheelchair, and leans forward to see the green-wire artwork hanging from the living room ceiling. It’s not the Paul in my head. Not the Paul that comes to me in my dreams. It’s reality Paul—in the last fourteen days of his life. I stopped the video.

            Tomorrow I get up, go to work, and pretend, as I do every week.

If you are one half of a whole that is gone from your today, then you understand that tomorrow is a fragment of yesterday. A ring, a video, or a piece of art, can trigger what is left of internal reaction in your heart.

Leek and Bean Soup

I hate raw onions. Having said that, my friends have extolled the flavors and likability of leeks. Up until a few months ago, I had not knowingly tried this vegetable that looks like a chive on steroids. I mixed the chopped goodie into a salad and gagged. It tasted like an onion.

Monthly, I receive a delivery of fresh fruit and veg from an organic farm in the area (Farm Fresh To You). To my disappointment, they gave me two large leeks in my package. Determined to make friends with this bulbous tuber, I remembered that I do like French Onion soup and The Chew offered a white bean soup recipe that seemed doable. I decided to merge the two. The results are yummy.

Oil – Extra Virgin Olive is my favorite

Black Pepper—Fresh ground

1 to 2 Large Leeks—sliced in nice circles

6 Stalks of Celery—coarsely chopped

3 Garlic Cloves—smashed and chopped

½ Large Yellow or White Onion—finely chopped

1 Quart Organic Vegetable Stock

Herbs—your choice. I like bay leaf, basil, caraway seed, and cayenne pepper.

Coat the bottom of a Dutch oven with oil add leeks, onions, and celery.  Make sure there is enough oil to coat everything. Cook, stirring occasionally, on the stove at medium high heat for at least 20 minutes to caramelize the onions, soften the celery, and un-spiral the leeks. Add pepper and garlic. Cook for 5 minutes more.  NOTE: I do not salt my cooking. If I want more salty flavor I add more celery.  You can salt to your heart’s lament. 

NOW you have a choice at this point to transfer everything to a crock pot on low adding in the vegetable stock & herbs. OR keep everything in the pot adding in the vegetable stock & herbs. Cover and cook on low heat for about three hours. The first choice, you can go shopping. The second, you stay home and clean the house or write a blog.

When everything is hot, soft and yummy. 4 hours in a crock pot. 3 hours on the stove.

Add:

2 Rinsed Cans of White Beans, or Garbanzo Beans, or Your Favorite.  If you hate canned, then prep your fresh or dried beans the day before. Canned is faster.

Mix all.  Take 3 cups of the soup and dump it into a food processor and puree. Add it back into the soup. Mix and leave the soup on warm.

When serving in individual bowls sprinkle cheese (fresh, grated or veggie) on the top. I like Cashew Cheese or Feta. Both are yummy. Serve with a slice of hearty bread. Enjoy! Makes a great meal for Christmas Eve before Church.