Chicken Blog

noreply@blogger.com (Natalie) — Fri, 18 Jul 2008 03:39:00 +0000

More Strands in This Web

Anniversary dinner coincided with Cruisin' Grand, and we enjoyed an evening stroll, taking in the sights.

Some things I'll do for a friend... what can you say with 1 word? Here is what I came up with for my friend Tarie.

1. Where is your cell phone? purse
2. Your significant other? amazing
3. Your hair? frazzled
4. Your mother? resourceful
5. Your father? storyteller
6. Your favorite thing? laughter
7. Your dream last night? fear
8. Your favorite drink? water
9. Your dream/goal? home
10. The room you�re in? family
11. Your hobby? blogging
12. Your fear? failure
13. Where do you want to be in six years? roadtrip
14. What you�re not? confident
15. Muffins? yum
16. One of your wish list items? house
17. Where you grew up? California
18. The last thing you did? dishes
19. What are you wearing? grunge
20. Favorite gadget? peeler
21. Your pets? delight
22. Your computer? iMac
23. Your mood? sad
24. Missing someone? many
25. Your car? blessing
26. Something you�re not wearing? smile
27. Favorite store? thrift
28. Like someone? Geoff
29. Your favorite color? secret
30. When is the last time you laughed? yesterday
31. Last time you cried? today

Red. Reminds me of all the beautiful berries everyone has been picking and canning and sharing. Like these raspberries! Have you seen Such Things? Scrumptious.

There is something so appealing about this pick-up... it evokes country roads and picnics, meeting up with friends and good cheer. Summer and picnics, summer and hikes, summer and the company of children. Good stuff.

I enjoyed reading Amanda Soule's post about 10 things she is loving, and at the bottom she asks, "And you? What are you loving right now? I am still savoring the question.

I was passing by the "Blue Yonder" and I came away with beans for my gardening friend, Anne, of "Mom, What's For Dinner?" She can make cheese!

Jennifer has been looking back and recalling happy memories of summer camp. Those have been fun to read. She also passed along a "Brillante Weblog Premio" to me, which is very sweet, because 1. she thought of me and 2. she put me in very good company. Then Lesley passed along the same award to me. Thank you Jennifer and Lesley!

I get to nominate 7 other bloggers... 7 Brillante bloggers. There are so many! I'll share the love with:

Janece and Paul and Amira. They are most brilliant!

Also very brilliant is Amy and her busy, beautiful family.

This family does not know me, but I am enjoying the stories they tell... they are brilliant.

As though making dinner every night isn't brilliant enough, I have to shout about the brilliant woman blogging about dinner every day... healthy dinner, thoughtful dinner, dinner with leftovers, new recipes, new ideas... all brilliant.

Tarie is Brillante. She writes about her greatest loves, her family and literature, and her enthusiasm is infectious.

Recently I posted about Em and her chicken quest. I hope you saw her news piece... naturally, I feel a strong allegiance to her cause. I think she is deserving of a Brillant Weblog Premio.

"Two geeks get their farm on. Chaos ensues." Seriously! How could I not award "Farm Natters" a Brillante Weblog Premio? I was hooked from the first post I read... Goose Invasion.

Is that 7, already?

Very well, then I think I should wrap this up. The children are reading several books, alternating, and reading aloud. Maria has been very enthused about playing basketball with her brothers. Geoff and I are trying to calculate how much stuff we could pack and store in anticipation of getting out of here: No, we have no destination, but we want to make a move towards our move. The lot with a trailer was nabbed by some nitwit with too much money... I am not bitter. Repeat. I am bolstered by all of your brilliant suggestions for "introducing" the hens to the landlord... obviously this calls for some creative enhancement of something approximately probable. I thank you one and all.

noreply@blogger.com (Natalie) — Tue, 15 Jul 2008 20:46:00 +0000

Come Back Later... I'm Whining
Seriously, I could crawl under a table, stare at the underside and feel sorry for myself all afternoon. Feh. Blech. Blah.

I still haven't signed the new lease deal with the landlord. It's not such a terrible contract, it's just that it is debilitating thinking of being here indefinitely, and worse: I have to disclose a proposal for approval of any new pets. You know, pets? Like, as in, chickens?

It's all my fault. After 5 years of yearning and false starts, after waiting and hoping to find our destiny, I finally took matters into my own hands and defied common sense and reason. I hate renting. I hate not knowing where we are going next. I hate having to answer to another adult for my paint choices, and for permission to have this or do that. I am tired of living half in and half out, apologizing for our messes and regular wear and tear.

Oh, yeah, it's a pitiful situation... not our circumstances, me telling it.

Yup. I should have known better than to walk in to that feed store and walk out with chicks. My plan was based on hope and optimism and it is swiftly falling apart before my very eyes. The chicks aren't cute little peepers, that can hide in the shower stall and fit in a lunch bag. They are days away from cackling from a nest box. They fly and run around. They make a mess, and they make a scene. And they are going to make my landlord mad.

They make me happy. They amuse us all... how can I have regrets?

If we are here to tell our story, then there are still blessings to thank God for, but in all honesty... this has been a really hard year, following challenging years, on the tail of some disappointing times. And I do not feel like I am managing very well.

I've spent too much of the day doing house searches on Redfin, an amazing search tool, if you happen to be looking in one of their service areas. Redfin is amazing, but the market is lousy. Yes, there are deals and more options than last year, but too many sellers are still smokin' some wacky stuff. Now, I am just sad and defeated. Southern California is full of crummy, small, crowded, fixer-upper million dollar houses. Want to see something insane?
This place is obviously a bit out of our reach, but do you think any place can appreciate by $51,000,000 in 8 years?! Yes, I counted the zeroes. I've seen countless others, that are in middle class neighborhoods, that ought to be reasonable, and yet they are asking for 1 and 2 million dollars more than they paid 1 year ago! I ain't buyin'. Which just plain sucks.

We've been calling this bubble and economic "down turn" for a long time, and if anybody isn't aware: It's going to get worse. Whether you turn to the White House or the Onion, for your economic forecasts, it's all laughable.

So, buy now? Over pay or settle for something too small, too remote? We could go far east in the county, but we would be out of our comfort zone, and deep in to heat, fire, drought and long commute country. We could go very far east and make a go of it in Wisconsin, but the job market makes that a risky proposition. I think of moving north; after what happened to my mom, I am very interested in closing the gap between our homes. We've thought about renting some place else, some place fun and cheap, or fun and cheap and different, while we wait for the market to correct itself. Theoretically, this is an interesting idea, but practically it makes me go in to a fetal position, hummingWest Side Story tunes...
There's a place for us,
Somewhere a place for us.
Peace and quiet and open air
Wait for us
Somewhere.
Some day!

If you made it this far, you're a caring friend, or a glutton for punishment... I'll throw you a lifeline, I'll open the same window of joy and hope that Aunt Carol sent me. Make yourself smile and watch these world dance videos and maybe, like us, you'll feel like dancing too!

noreply@blogger.com (Natalie) — Tue, 15 Jul 2008 02:02:00 +0000

Postcards From Our Local Vacation

Maybe "vacation" is too strong a word. It was more like... hey! Dad's home for a few hours. Let's go ride our bikes!" So, in the spirit of making the most of what you've got, we went out for family fun and our first test run of Maria's bike trailer.

Alex clicked and locked and fastened all the parts. Maria was too excited to wait on the outside, so she sat inside.

It came together easily, which is always a refreshing experience. The difficulty came when we discovered that William's bicycle went junk and the pedal completely snapped off. Shift: William took Geoff's new Costco special, and Geoff and I went back to sharing my ride, which meant someone would have to take turns walking. No biggie.

Helmets, sunblock, drinking water, camera, b-ball... ready, set, ride!

Max turns 10 in less than a month. Give me a moment. I'm getting misty. This boy is a treasure. Sigh.

This is hilarious, for me. It looks so well rehearsed and easy. Not!
Close toed shoes for 6, and no flip-flops.
No, no flip-flops. Why? Because.
Who has a helmet?
Where are the helmets?
I know we have at least 42 helmets in this house!
Does this look expired? Smell it. Does sunblock expire?
Everybody put on sunblock. No, we're out of the stick kind.
You inflate the tires and I'll find the basketball.
Do we have balls for Smashball?
Is there any Tylenol?

We were going to leave first thing in the morning. I think it was after 11:00 when we were headed out the door.

Ah, but we were happy and receptive. We were together. We even packed sandwiches and had cold grapes to snack on. And while it was neither rehearsed or particularly easy, it was fun and worthwhile. Think how much easier it will be next time. It's always a good sign when people are willing to consider next time.

noreply@blogger.com (Natalie) — Mon, 14 Jul 2008 20:21:00 +0000

Mmmmm... I Like Bad Coffee

I like the weak, mild, cheap coffee that the real coffee drinkers snub and scorn. I like Nescafe with cream and sugar. I like the stuff at the bagel shop across from Starbucks. Oh, and one more thing: It has to be decaffeinated. If it's leaded, it makes my heart race and I get anxious, nameless dread seeps into the recesses of my comfort zone. Yes, every few months I like to have a warm cup of lightly sweetened, slightly creamy, bad, unleaded coffee.

I like bad beer too. Don't waste fruity, dark ales and hopped-up lagers on me. Spare me the bold beers, the malt beers, the bitter beers, and hold off on the esters and wood aged brews. All of those beers, that the true fans of beer savor and extoll, leave me feeling just the way Bill the Cat looks... disarrayed, gagged and disheveled. The "good" stuff is wasted on my unrefined palate. On a hot day, in the company of friends, while grilling, or when enjoying salsa and chips, I'll take a cold can of Tecate, a chilled O'Douls, or a Mexican Coke, the Real Thing, for that matter.

In Fortuna, last month, when we were celebrating the Equinox at Eel River Brewing Company, I asked the waitress to please suggest a beer for someone who thought non-alcoholic beer was good enough. She looked at me and with confidence and the air of a doctor prescribing the right pill, she said, "Oh, you need a Clim@x."
Yes, well, who's going to argue with the doctor, or with a good waitress?
OKay. It was perfect. So, if a Clim@x could be considered a "good" beer, then count me in. I do like a good Clim@x.

Did you have to eat everything on your plate when you were a kid? I did not. My mom liked me try things, which was fine, but she never force fed me. She never made me stare at a plate of something that made me gag and tear just thinking of it on my tongue. I did have have the occasional run-ins with some know-it-all adults that insisted my "immature taste buds" would benefit from swallowing spoonfuls of overcooked green beans, and fatty hunks of undercooked beef. Like Scarlett O'Hara, only with less of an appetite, I made my own solemn vow. Defiantly, and with true conviction I raised my fist and pledged: "As God is my witness they're not going to lick me. I'm going to live through this and when it's all over I'll never eat anything yucky again. No, nor any of my folks. If I have to lie, cheat or spit into a napkin, as God is my witness I'll never eat yucky food again!"

I honor my pledge as best I can. I have sampled a great variety of foods, strange, good, bad, weird, tasty, memorable and forgettable. I appreciate vegan, raw, vegetarian and I like tofu, but it does not like me. I have had backyard chicken and wild turkey, and raw urchin that I plucked from the sea myself. And I always eat with gratitude, because food is a blessing, but I still adamantly insist that, given a choice, I will not eat yucky food and nor will any of my folk, which means I will not force my children to eat food they do not like. One taste is all I ask, and then another taste 6 months later. Tastes change, attitudes change, but I never believed those changes had anything to do with "maturity." Intuitively, I believed that adults had dead taste buds, and that it was children who knew bitter from sweet. In nature bitter = poison and is best avoided, so I presumed that children's taste was merely a biological imperative for survival. I also believe that garden fresh veggies, fruits and whole grains, lean proteins, beans and rice could make up a healthy diet that children will eat, and that eventually we can all find our way to balanced and varied diets...

But mostly I was really, really convinced that every overzealous adult that force fed me and smugly ridiculed me and my "lack of good taste" was wrong in their presumption that children are 'unsophisticated and need training.' I hated overcooked, limp, colorless veggies then, and I hate them now. Fatty, rare beef still gags me. I do not like lima beans or radishes. Too many onions is too many, thank you. My point is, I knew as a child what tasted bad to me and I know what I like now, as a mature, sophisticated adult. If I were force fed a plate full of mushrooms with bell peppers and liver, I would not like it any more than a healthy kid would. If I were really hungry, and I have been really hungry, I know that food becomes vital, and the want of food supersedes taste and emotion... otherwise, I will not eat, or ask anyone to eat, yucky food.

Do you know what is really fun? It is fun to discover that your intuitive convictions have scientific merit, in other words: I was like, totally right! Our children, clever, beautiful beings, have 10,000 alert, active taste buds. Adults have only 3,000 taste buds. We adults don't like things more or better than children because of maturity and enlightenment. We aren't detecting subtle flavors and appreciating sophisticated dishes... we are missing flavors. We are desensitized and tasteless. Adults are the ones who cannot appreciate that some things are bitter or over spiced, or simply too much. Adults who smoke have an even greater loss of taste. I have always wondered about Anthony Bourdain's sometimes questionable dining preferences... No matter. So long as we are eating to sustain ourselves, to celebrate and commune, then I will strive to serve healthful food, varied food, good food, and I will be respectful of your tastes and my own.

Geoff and I, with William, Alex, Max and Maria, went out to celebrate our anniversary at a favorite restaurant. We hadn't been there in 5 years. The green salad with goat cheese, strawberries and almonds was my favorite dish, but my favorite part of the evening was being with my husband and children, talking, laughing, sharing, walking, browsing... it was delicious!

noreply@blogger.com (Natalie) — Sat, 12 Jul 2008 18:16:00 +0000

Chicks Make Demands

"Equal air time," and "More time in the dirt," those are the sort of demands these chicks make. Negotiations are ongoing. If they start asking for a percentage of the $00.08 I made through blog ad revenues last year, it could get ugly. Besides, I don't think they are even in the Guild. I have every reason to believe we can settle this peacefully.

Buttercup is looking a lot less buttery, and a lot more peanut buttery.

Another difference we are noticing from when we first brought Fantam and Buttercup home, is that they are quite strong. They seem stronger, more willful and wilder than Amelia and Betty were.

Maybe funnier looking too.
And we certainly agree with Lesley, when she says, in the comments: "And can't you just see dinosaurs in their shapes and stances?" You aren't being "weird" Lesley. They are dinosaurs.

On more thing... an important note: Em, of "Em and the Gang," is fighting the good fight for chickens and city farmers everywhere. Please give her a round of applause, and a cheer, as she petitions to make backyard chickens a choice and freedom in her town. Em is a hero in our household. Be sure to see her air time, and let's hope all of her neighbors wise-up.

noreply@blogger.com (Natalie) — Fri, 11 Jul 2008 17:28:00 +0000

Chickens and So Much More!

"I have to say, for a chicken blog--I don't see many chickens. But oh well; it's all good.
--Kate, The Manic Gardener"

Do I need a disclaimer? Should I tell my story, the origins of "Chickenblog," all over again? Is it time to revisit those Chicas... Chicas of the past and present?

Lady Betty Orpington. She's a big girl now.

In the olden days, before iPhones and Blue-Ray, I gave up handwriting letters and started learning how to email family and friends. Geoff had always been computer savvy. He used to read me Internet articles back in 1990, which is only recent in geological time, but not in the context of modern technology. So, Geoff was hip and cool, but I was a total newbie and using email was a gigantic tech-step.

Amelia, The Test Pilot. She's got her wings now!

Anyway, I was writing emails to Hawaii and Wisconsin and trying to keep family caught-up with our growing family. And it never occurred to me to cut and paste, to send the same letter to multiple people... that seemed like it would be impersonal, like cheating, and besides, I could never remember the keys for cutting and pasting. In 2002 Geoff thought it was time to update the whole communication system. He thought web-logging would be the most efficient and interesting way to share news and explore a medium that was just starting to take-off.

Amelia's feet are spotty and her beak has a Groucho-'stache. I think Betty could stand in for Harpo.

Not me. No, I am a resistant, foot dragging, fearful, shy, reluctant kind of being. I still pop my corn on the stove top and I am suspicious of new fangled things, like yogurt in a tube and online banking. Microwave popcorn is not right. Bank tellers should be better dressed than me and alive, because that is just what I am used to. I just know I've told this story before. I wonder if I am telling it the same, or dressing it up?

I was kicking and screaming, but Geoff dragged me into the 20th century. Then he pulled extra hard, and managed to get me into the 21st century. My first assignment was to choose a name for my blog. Having never seen any blogs, and still not understanding what the point of blogging could be, I felt unprepared and indecisive. I didn't feel like a person with an agenda or something to sell. I did not have a hobby I wanted to share or promote. There was no creative impulse to drive me, and so no inspired, literary, introspective, artistic or appropriate names came to mind. We had just adopted 4 chicks, the most happy and daring thing had done since having babies, and chickens were foremost in my thoughts. They were new and funny and a source of pleasure for our family, as we were beginning a new chapter in our lives. Our Rancho lives, living in a fixer-upper in the country, learning how to operate a tractor and battle gophers. Amused and distracted by our 4 chicas, I chose "Chickenblog" as the name of the blog.

I see Kate's point. There aren't many chickens for a chicken blog. And, sadly, there were many years with no chickens at all. Chickenblog is about my dreams of having chickens, it's about the whimsy of chickens, it's about me feeling giddy and optimistic when I think of chickens. Chickenblog is my letter to family and friends, a family journal, a way to connect. It's about chickens of the past, like the one we bought for a dime, when we were living in Guatemala, or the ones Santa brought us when my brothers and I were really little kids. Chickenblog is about the chickens we brought home in May 2002, and the new flock we started this year. Chickenblog is about not knowing better and thinking my blog needed to call itself a blog. Chickenblog is about me and us and our stories and deep thoughts and other musings, and sometimes I think I write like a chicken... hunting and pecking at the keyboard, scratching the surface and looking for good things, crowing and noisily clucking when I feel good or scared or excited.

I am amused when I think of how reluctant and confused I felt when I started blogging... Almost like a headless chicken. Just kidding. Creepy, I know. Sorry. (lol) I could not see the big picture or where things would head. There is a lot we take for granted about blogs now, and there are almost as many blogs out there as there are themes and motivations... it's funny to me, thinking about the early days. 6 years ago was a long time ago in the world of web logging. I wonder where we will be 6 years from now...

I know where we were 19 years ago. We were catching our breathes, grinning, happily just married. Happy Anniversary Geoff. Still grinning. Still happy. It is all good.

noreply@blogger.com (Natalie) — Thu, 10 Jul 2008 18:03:00 +0000

Undeservedly Proud*

This morning I opened my email and scrolled down until I didn't want to scroll down any more, it was a random choice, and I began responding to emails and comments. I made 36 separate and personal emails. Some were solicited, some were not, most were long overdue, and I think my efforts represent something like 2% of what I should have done in the last, oh, let's say 12 or 13 months. And while I will emphasize my inadequacies in the department of "Prompt and Polite," I have to say I feel really super-proud of myself.

If you have not received an email or comment from me today:
1. The day is young (in California.)
2. I have to keep Chango's vet appointment.
3. I have every good intention of being super and effective and wonderful.
4. I may never get around to it.
Sorry about that last bit, but it's honest and honesty must count for something.

It's like I told my friend Tarie, I am sorry if I have neglected you, but consider: You are in good company. I have been neglecting everyone, especially me.

If our good deeds are sparks, then I hope I am starting a fire.

*Now, Maria has plenty of reasons to be proud... just look at this picnic she has set out for us. She made a layer cake. See the peas? She makes most of her cakes with peas. She's such a sweetie.

noreply@blogger.com (Natalie) — Wed, 09 Jul 2008 01:07:00 +0000

Thank You. Muchas Gracias.

Writing about Mexico and memories felt like a private memorial, that I had to get out of my head. Part therapy, part record keeping, so that my children could understand me and how I was feeling. I couldn't leave with 1 hour's notice, at 11 p.m. Monday night, to drive 16 hours for my abuelo's funeral. I was sad enough that he died, and I think I was even sadder to realize I was missing an opportunity to say goodbye, to share my story and hear theirs. Having always felt some uncertainty about my ability to write effectively about my memories and feelings, and being reluctant to commit to saying things out loud, writing this post was liberating and personal. It also felt as though I have barely crossed the threshold of a part of my life, of a hundred stories, of things I know and believe, but have yet to give a voice to.

Blogging can be a lonely business. I've been writing for a while. Some posts are nearly pointless, and some posts are full of my deepest thoughts and happiest musings. As much as I have wanted to be a good writer, to reach people and start a conversation, I have mostly resigned myself to the puzzled looks from family and friends, and feeling like a goof. Receiving comments is a relatively new pleasure, and it is wonderful. Bloggers, you know it's true: feedback, encouragement, connection, community, discussions and exchanges are the fuel and frosting that top the blogging cake.

Thank you for your comments. You may have convinced me I can say things, say them well enough to start a conversation that we can all share. But mostly, because of what you shared with me, I felt like I had kind and tender company as I sorted my thoughts and feelings and began to say goodbye to my abuelo, to chapters and days that in some ways are forever beyond my reach. I could not be at the funeral, where they say it rained for days, and the lightning did not wait for the thunder, but lit the night sky with every percussion. I could not be there to hold my abuela and to share the grief, and the healing that comes with company. I have been to too many funerals in the last year, and I have seen enough death and loss to understand that support and compassion are a tremendous resource for comfort and courage. Thank you for reading about my abuelo, about things I am trying to make sense of, and feelings I want to hold on to. Thank you for responding and encouraging me, for being supportive and compassionate... it helps. I feel less alone.

I think I have been afraid to post again, because I was pretty sure I wouldn't be as eloquent or interesting as I seemed to have managed in my last post. What? I'm not too proud to admit positive feedback felt really good. Really good. So, maybe I will slip back into mediocrity and obscurity. Maybe I have the rough draft of the next best seller, but writing is like surfing. Some days you paddle, paddle, paddle and never get a ride.

And some days you catch a wave.

Perhaps every post won't be an exhilarating ride, but I am hooked on blogging, and I love looking through the archives and seeing my children, recalling the things they've done and said. I love reminding myself that there have been good days and bad days, and I am still around to know the difference.

Independence Day was a good day. I planned a long day at the beach with the children, expecting Geoff would work, as he usually has to, but he exchanged this day for working the weekend (which he usually does) and he joined us for an entire day of surf, sand and ~~sun~~ fog.

Truthfully, I love the fog. It was overcast, but warm, and it made it easier to play all day, without feeling scorched. We dug a private pool for Maria. Max, Geoff and William did a lot of bodysurfing. The beach was crowded and happy. We had chips and dip. I love chips and dip. We ate strawberries, we walked, we built drip castles.

It didn't stay crowded. By late afternoon the beach was deserted, and we enjoyed a very foggy walk, collecting all kinds of treasure along the way. Suddenly I decided to tile our shower with the smooth stones that cover our beaches. Not the shower here, at Garage Mahal. The shower in our own, future, imaginary, hopeful, some day house. I walked back to our base-camp carrying about 15 pounds of shower tiles. It's a start.

Someone got hold of my camera. Notice my relaxed, at ease expression?

Nothing's ever as easy as I think it should be. This day, this no-stress day at the beach was days in the planning and took hours to prepare and pack for. I was totally absorbed in making an idyllic, classic sort of celebration. I even envisioned presenting one of those clever fruit decorated flag cakes. So, you know, I was scurrying around, gathering towels, finding swim shorts, hats, sunblock and anticipating every need and patriotic whim. And finally, we were ready to head out. Stop for gas, and pick up ice, then the beach, and our beautiful celebration of freedom and family time. In the market I grabbed an extra bag of corn chips and a magazine to read while lounging luxuriously, and I kept noting how terrific everyone looked. Cute T-shirts, red, white and blue details, and snazzy summer sandals. Everyone was looking dressed for a holiday. It wasn't until then that I realized I had forgotten an important detail... I was still in my pajamas. 'nough said.

I let the children decorate the Fourth of July Fruit Flag Cake.

It was beautiful.

It was a very good day.

noreply@blogger.com (Natalie) — Sat, 05 Jul 2008 22:34:00 +0000

Ma�z, Le�a, Agua y Memorias

I should have learned to speak Spanish. I wish I were fluent. My mother insisted it would benefit me. My tias and tios implored me to learn Spanish, and mocked me too. I absorbed enough to ache for more. I learned enough to know that I am missing entire stories and insights. I understand enough to feel a profound connection to phrases and concepts, to emotions and spiritual convictions that I am powerless to explain en espa�ol or English.

I believe I am as much a part of Mexico and my family, the piedras del campo, as I am a part of my own children, my life in a suburban home with suburban experiences, but I do not know it.. I have always wanted to write about Mexico, El Valle, about border crossings and crossing cultural borders, about tortillas de harina, Seris, Opata, iglesia, and being an outsider here and there. I never have, not significantly, because I was afraid of messing it up, getting it wrong, missing important details, overstating insignificant bits. My story might be false memory and lies. My story might not ring true, or it could be too true.

I used to dream of knowing enough Spanish to glean the truth, the whole story, and I knew my abuelo was the source I needed to visit for those stories, for the genealogy, the adventures and history of a family and region, for a time rich in intrigue and improbable truths. I used to dream of writing all of it down and knowing the stories so well, that no one could doubt that I belonged too. No border or barriers, no lack of knowledge or cultural missteps would deny me access to that elusive feeling of belonging.

When I was a very little girl I was taken to El Valle de Tacupeto, 2 or 3 times. I don't know. I remember eating oranges and my first recollection of the smell of a cut orange is standing at La Mesita, with my Mom, waiting to board a small plane. I was there for my 5th birthday and received a harmonica. What happened to my harmonica? My brother Bill was a baby, we went to church, there was a wedding and a death. The river was flooding the dirt roads that cold winter. It seems like the river has always been flooding the roads.

I went 3 more times when I was a bit older... 11, 12, then 14 years old. By this time my parents were divorced, and I was traveling with my abuelo, then my tia Magali, then my tio Elias took us. Those first times were by bus. From Tijuana we traveled through the night for 12 hours to Hermosillo. It was hard to wake-up for the check-stops. I was always fearful of the bus leaving without us. We would be alone in the Sonoran desert, which wasn't really any less familiar than that bus. In Hermosillo we would wait to board another bus. The first bus was like a tired, old Greyhound. The next bus was like a tired, old, dangerous school bus. Not yellow and swept, but blue and red and yellow, dusty, crowded. We sat on fruit crates in the back. Were there live chickens on the bus? Is that my memory or something lingering from an old movie? I think there were live chickens. There were twine wrapped boxes, which served as luggage and there were stops in the middle of nowhere, so we could pee in the bushes. There were hours of narrow dirt roads, and river crossings. The entire journey was at least 20 hours long. One trip finished in the bed of a large truck, when the bus came to one river it could not cross.

On our last visit to El Valle we drove to Nogales, Arizona, crossed and continued to Hermosillo. No more bus rides. No more Sonoran summers and Sonoran heat. We went in November. Where is the bridge, the one over the river? Is it Rebeico? Is that where we cross, where the bridge is like a passage back in time and memory?

The new roads cut the travel time down to 16 hours. It's such a luxury traveling in our own car. This long ride is one that my abuelo made by horseback. There were no roads then. There were Yaqui to hide from. On this trip to El Valle we faced nothing more daunting than cattle in the road.

My grandfather was a musician and he travelled with a band, playing from pueblo to pueblo. Music for dances. Music in the placitas, for weddings and festivals. His father had traveled too and came home with a Bible. My bisbuelo Gabriel gave his land for the church. The church that shares the backyard of my grandparent's home today. And when my abuelo Ismael gave up being a musician, he came home to herd cattle, to milk vacas and to plant the mule-plowed fields. I remember shelling peanuts for planting, eating watermelon from the field, washing potatoes, picking chiles. I remember chewing on stringy, sweet cuts of sugar cane and watching my grandmother grind corn for tortillas.

When I see cows, I see vacas and I hear a guitarra. I see the nata scooped from the top of a pail of fresh milk... fresh, sweet cream. I can taste the cheese my abuela makes. The white rounds of cheese, the salty cheese crumbled over a bowl of beans. When I see vacas I think of my abuelo walking to the family ranch, El Ojo de Agua, early in the morning, returning with a pail of milk for our breakfast. It's a song, words I cannot speak, but the tune is in my soul.

We ride through many towns to reach home. Bacanora, the town, not the drink... though they are synonymous. Sahuaripa. And Arivechi. We get closer and closer. We see the Cerro Cabez�n.

After Bamori comes El Valle de Tacupeto, and abuela and abuelo. There will be hugs and kisses and welcome. It is a comfort to find a familiar door and familiar faces, the same walls and trees, the sound of coros coming from the church, the certainty of a place that comes to me in my dreams.

November 2003. Alex in his abuelo's embrace. Home in Mexico, where we will cook by fire, and sleep on burlap cots. Where the doors are unlocked and every neighbor is familia or at least knows who I am related to... hija de... nieta de... sobrina de... Everyone knows the relations and connections. Home in Tacupeto.

They were married for 70 years. They have 8 children, grandchildren, great-grandchildren. I have never said it, but I feel a kind of pride and specialness, because I am the first grandchild. It doesn't matter, not really, but when I was a child it gave me tremendous pleasure to think of it. I held to a secret belief, unfounded by anything but my romantic imagination, that being first entitled me to something good, to a promise and security. Maybe someday I too would have a rancho and vacas, grind, corn, keep chickens, make tortillas. The clouded line between beliefs and knowledge can be untested, and now that I think on the truth, and not my childhood fantasies, I am amused and saddened. I am not sure why.

Catre. I wasn't sure I was saying this right... catre... cot. We slept on them for weeks at a time when we were children, spending summers in Tacupeto. My brothers and I each had a burlap cot to sleep on in the open patio. I remember we would pull thin sheets over our bodies, then turn on our flashlights to see what might be crawling across the ceiling. Think of the suspense and squeals as we lit a creepy crawly scene of overhead cockroaches, mosquitos, scorpions and beetles. We'd scream and pull our sheets over our heads! I do not miss the anxiety, the fear of something falling in the dark night, but I miss catres. I miss sleeping on the porch, hearing burros bray and abuelo snore. I miss waking in the morning to the music of crowing gallos, more donkeys, cows calling to be milked, and the beautiful rhythm of my abuela's hands making tortillas. There is more love, beauty and will, in the sound of my abuela's hands clapping masa for her wonderful tortillas, than in any symphony.

Her tortillas were never rolled out, but were formed between her soft, capable hands. My grandfather kept an ample wood supply available for cooking and baking, for heating water. And my abuela kept the fires burning so she could feed us tortillas, beans, enchiladas, gallina pinta, pozole, atole, empanadas. Food is more plentiful now, than it was in those summers when my brothers and I sustained ourselves with tortillas, beans, beans and tortillas, and either watermelon, or chiles or potatoes... whatever was being harvested at the time. And leche and leche con Nesquik. Markets and pantries are not what we are accustomed to here.

It is a strange gift to know hunger, or at least to know longing for something more. Now, when I cannot decide what to eat or what to buy, I can appreciate how ridiculous my quandary really is.

The summer that my tio Memo was growing chiles, chiles was all we heard about, saw or ate... besides the usual staples, and chiles were everywhere. We even tried our hands at picking chiles, a job whose appeal was lost very quickly. My cousin, RosaMaria and I were passing the hot, humid afternoon together, looking for places to be, for diversions. Times like these often found us down at the river, wading, or up to La Mesita just for the stroll, but on this particular day we were hungry. Having had fried chiles, roasted chiles, chiles con huevos, chiles con frijoles and every other kind of chile dish, we thought, "Why not raw? Crudos."

It was a good question, but not a good idea to execute. These chiles, mild, almost sweet when cooked, proved to be so painfully, fiercely hot when we bit into them, that we were overcome with the pain. It began on the tongue, a burning, like embers. Then we quickly realized that the sensation was moving to our throats, to our noses and up to our cheeks, so that our heads were blazing with cactus pricks, with fiery torture. Water only spread the fuel. We ran to the little store, and we stared at each another in painful sympathy when we came up to the shut doors... shut for siesta meant no chicle to cool our torment. I wonder if we told anyone. Our agony would have been a great amusement for everyone else.

My abuelos have a home in town. It is made of adobe, like all (most) buildings, and it has a walled yard. In this picture Geoff is walking toward the river, away from my tia Armida's home and towards my abuelo's home. This is the way RosaMaria and I travelled back and forth between our houses. With summer rain, the road can become a river itself, emptying out down the way, passed Ma' Juana and Pa' Chico's little house... where their little house once stood.

My great-grandparents, the ones that raised my abuela when she was orphaned as a baby, lived in a small adobe facing the church. I used to sit with Ma' Juana, in her cool, thick walled home. With a gourd she would draw cold water from a clay pot and serve it to me in a tin cup. The room where she cooked was dark from smoke, from years of fire cooking. In the corner was dry corn, and stalks of cane. I remember when she butchered a hog and was in the yard mixing soap. Soap that smelled of pork rinds and felt as greasy... eeew! I was so enchanted with her. She was small, her hair was long and still mostly black. She slept on a cot too, and had no more than 2 or 3 chairs, a small table. I promised her the moon and the stars. I wanted to bring her a prism, so she could have rainbows dancing on her bare walls. Pa' Chico was almost as small, but no less strong. He walked to his rancho too, every morning and it was further than Ojo de Agua.

In the walled garden of my abuelo's home is an orno, a clay oven, flowers, trees, and the pila where abuela used to wash clothes. I washed clothes there too. One side was filled with water and the other side had the lava rock that was there to beat the clothes upon, and water drained into the garden from the little hole at the end. Everything was hung in the sun and brought in before the monsoonal rains in the afternoon. My great-grandmother's soap was famous for getting clothes very clean, but with hunks of pork in it, one had to guard it from hungry dogs. It was poisonous of course. I like bacon, but I can honestly say I was never tempted to sample the soap.

When I was 11 years old, and my abuela did all of the washing, I loved to be by her side and watch her bale water over the sudsy clothes. It smelled good near the lemon tree, and felt cool with the water splashing. She washed and hung all of our garments and they dried quickly in the sun. They came very clean with her vigorous scrubbing on the worn stone of the pila. How many times had my dresses and p@nties been dashed and wrung by hand?

My abuelo brought us home on the 2 same busses we had ridden to El Valle, and we arrived in Tijuana so early in the morning that the sun was only beginning to show. We each had our own duffel to carry from the bus to the street, where we would await a ride from my tio. It took both hands to manage my duffel and besides this heavy load, I was really not all together awake. That may account for the fact that it took me a moment to realize that my p@nties were around my ankles, having slipped down. I hauled them up in a flash. I was confused and embarrassed, the bus terminal was mostly empty and I consoled myself that no one witnessed. And I resumed the task of dragging my bag, trying to keep up with my brothers and abuelo, and my undergarments slipped again. I caught them between my knees, shimmied them up, and shuffled carefully, keeping my legs locked together. Mine was a slow, awkward and mortifying gait, that I could not properly explain to anyone. It seems that 5 weeks of thrashing my underwe@r clean on a stone made of lava had completely undone the elastic in them.

Returning to El Valle with my own children, my husband, was one of the best times of my life. I happily found that very little had changed... some of the few changes were sad, like not being able to sit with Ma' Juana and Pa' Chico, or to chat with my tia Ventura... she and I liked to read Reader's Digest en espa�ol together. And it would have been a great privilege to visit Maria del Guero... she was one of the oldest woman I think I ever met and she sewed my clothes on a pedal machine. Her patterns for my dresses, skirts and blouses were in her head, she measured me with her fingers. I was keenly aware of the blessing that I could return to this place and still find both of my grandparents... still healthy, still smiling and eager to shower us with their prayers and affection.

I looked on this visit as a tremendous gift, for myself and for the boys. It was their second time in El Valle, and I loved that they were so receptive and enthused about all of the things and sights, the people and experiences that I held dear. We did and saw and treasured as much as we could.

We explored and hiked. We filled our pockets with flint and other pretty stones, crystals and pottery shards. Bits of our past.

We used to hike to this place, to swim. Oh my. The water was just as muddy and uncertain, but it was so hot and the walk home so far we drank this water too. It was delicious. I love how thinking about an event or place can lead to more curiosity. As much as I remember, I am aware of how little I know. How far is this place and how do I spell the name of it?

We sat together. We remembered other days, other nights, other faces and their laughter. I remembered how wonderful it is to sit together... just talking, just sharing each other's company.

I just got a call... everyone is back from Tacupeto, abuelo's funeral. There are many more memories I plan to write about, many more pictures I want to share, but right now I am going to my tia's house, where my abuela is.

noreply@blogger.com (Natalie) — Fri, 04 Jul 2008 15:23:00 +0000

A Post So Happy, It Bears Repeating!

Pulled from the archives and presented in all it's glory, I offer you:

From Sea to Shining Sea: California

Happy Fourth of July and Welcome to California!
This is a post about California, in conjunction with the "Pikes Peak Promise Project."

California is big. This isn't bragging or merely stating the obvious. This is a disclaimer, because I can hardly hope to write a post that represents or summarizes an entire state as large and varied as this state. If you need a history refresher, I offer this Wikipedia link for a California overview. My post is personal and reflective, a pictorial tour of places I've seen and people I have met in California.

California A-Z

A is for Apples

There are apple orchards in California. I've been to several in Julian, where we picked our own apples, and where they are famous for their apple pies. Last year we discovered Gizdich Ranch in Watsonville, where we saw apple trees and ate Olallieberries. While in Watsonville you may want to "Drink Your Apple a Day... Watsonville is home to world famous Martinelli's Sparkling Cider. I still enjoy drinking their apple juice and remembering how much I loved having it as a treat when I was growing up. Wherever you live, it's a treat to eat locally and discover what's growing in your state and community.

B is for Balboa Park

Balboa Park is a cultural haven located in San Diego. It's home to the San Diego Zoo, museums and theaters. It's the kind of place you can go and find something to do or see, something to appreciate, no matter the time of year, no matter your budget. I used to volunteer at the Old Globe Theater, where I could see live theater and enjoy evenings with my boyfriend. We were married in Balboa Park. Now we take our children to the museums, the gardens, the playgrounds and to this reflection pond. Walking alone can fill an entire day.

C is for Cannery Row
For me, John Steinbeck's writing evokes California, the beauty and the darkness, the promise of its fertile valleys and bounty of the rich coastal waters. I learned about my home state from his tide pool descriptions and my compassion for men and women deepened from reading his stories about Cannery Row. True, Cannery Row today is a tourist destination and souvenir shop-riddled-jumble, that Steinbeck would have scorned, but if you've read his books, if you've pictured the places he painted in words, you can still find his Cannery Row. I still find it worthwhile to visit.

D is for Daniel
Daniel cuts our hair, and he has been cutting our hair for 8 years. He knows our names and remembers our interests. He's one of those people that makes you feel at home, like a part of the community. I like to set aside time enough for haircuts and for visiting when I go to Daniel's. Someone always pops in and then we get to meet someone new from the neighborhood. There are cold sodas and water in his mini-fridge and he keeps a great selection of magazines next to the bench by the window. It's so nice to slow down and enjoy the company at Daniel's.

E is for Eureka
This quote is from the California State Library web page, where they describe all kinds of state symbols: "The Greek word "Eureka" has appeared on the state seal since 1849 and means "I have found it". The words were probably intended to refer to the discovery of gold in California. Archimedes, the famed Greek mathematician, is said to have exclaimed "Eureka!" when, after long study, he discovered a method of determining the purity of gold. In 1957, attempts were made to establish "In God We Trust" as the state motto, but "Eureka" was made the official state motto in 1963." I found our "Eureka" on the side of the San Diego Museum of Man building, in Balboa Park. I guess it's been there since the Panama-California Exposition of 1915.

F is for Flowers
There are a lot flower fields in California. These flowers are growing in Carlsbad. They're ranunculus, which bloom in the spring. It's amazing to be in the center of these fields, with acres of bold color all around. The California Poppy is the state flower. I can't think of a flower I haven't seen growing in California, from commercial grower's poinsettias and the beautiful floral bouquets that are grown organically to the backyard roses, zinnias, sunflowers and bouganvilla... I love the bounty and variety of flowers we get to enjoy.

G is for Guest
Maybe you have family or friends in California. It's so nice to be a welcome guest in someone's home. We've had the pleasure of being tourists in our own state and we once were overnight guests at the historic and beautiful Hotel Del Coronado. It was an anniversary celebration, and yes, we brought the children. The Del sits between the Pacific and the San Diego Harbor, and the sights are wonderful. We rented a boat and toured the harbor, where there are fishing boats and Navy ships. At Christmas the Del sets up a skating rink, so that it's possible to walk on the sand, then ice skate, then enjoy a sumptuous brunch in the Crown Room. Okay, so this isn't something to do every weekend, but as a special treat, it doesn't disappoint.

H is for Horse
How about "H is for Humor?" There's plenty of good humor in California, and I thought this was a particularly artful example. Last year the children and I were visiting the Central Coast and we stumbled on this horse on the porch. I never tire of the drive from Ventura County along the 1 or the 101, right up to San Francisco. In between the sight of small farms, the rugged coast, the majesty and serenity of Big Sur, the rolling hills dotted with oaks... it all inspires me. I marvel at the abundance and variety that is represented in this small section of California. I think how luxurious it would be to visit the entire state, driving and stopping as the mood hits... it would be a very long, very full road trip. It would take a good deal of humor to manage it with four children.

I is for India... The Star of India
The San Diego Maritime Museum is home to several historical ships, including Star of India, and from "Master and Commander," H.M.S. Surprise. We've toured these ships with the children... it makes for a fun explore. Grade school students sometimes have an opportunity to spend a working night aboard Star of India. I've heard it's quite an experience and one that teaches tough lessons in ship life. The times we've been aboard these ships we are always struck by the tight quarters and the challenging circumstances people must have endured during long sea voyages. After the discovery of gold at Sutter's Mill thousands of people 'rushed' to California from all over the world on ships like these.

J is for Juggle
I guess California has a reputation for being hectic... it's true for the big cities where people are juggling a lot of things, and staying wired. Probably places like Santa Monica are most notorious for a rat race pace. Traffic, cell phones, agents, personal trainers, life coaches, nannies... it's all there. It's fun to visit. It's fun to see the Santa Monica Mountains, Malibu, the Beach and the Canyon. There is a strange buzz there, an expectancy. There are paparazzi lurking, waiting, and then there are homeless people lurking and waiting. And then there are the People Magazine cover people slipping past in fast cars, strolling in dark glasses. Seen and unseen. Societal extremes are existing in the same square blocks, together and yet far apart. I get the feeling that if you could package Hope, you could sell it in Santa Monica.

K is for King
My apologies. I haven't got a king. I offer you a Queen: Niki de Saint Phalle's "Queen Califia's Magic Circle." We discovered this and more sculpture in a neighborhood park with winding trails, that went on seemingly forever. Everything was still under construction and we felt like we had discovered a magical land. They were building a fantasy of shapes and colors, all from the imagination of Niki de Saint Phalle. We haven't been back to see the finished park. I kind of enjoy remembering it in the twilight, when it was emerging and we were alone to unravel it's magic.

L is for La Jolla
The Jewel. Joya is spanish for jewel and this coastal community is quite lovely, especially from the water. We used to snorkel and dive here. Jumping from the cliffs was strongly discouraged then and it's illegal now. For a small fee you can climb the stairs from the Shell Shop that lead down into the cliff where you can look out the cave and to the sandstone cliffs of Torrey Pines and Scripps Institute of Oceanography. It's a marine sanctuary and still a wonderful place to snorkel and swim.

M is for Mariachi
California was once a part of Mexico, and it wasn't so long ago either, so the music of the mariachi is very much at home here. We like Mariachi Divas. The day we saw them performing our daughter, Maria, stood up and danced to every song. She was in love with their powerful voices, the rich music from the violins, guitars and trumpets. She danced and they played for her. Because children can be so enthusiastic, sincere and expressive, it became one of those unique experiences that is emotionally moving and happy.

N is for November
This is the sunset from last Thanksgiving. I can enjoy Thanksgiving anytime, anywhere. Like the 4th of July, it's one of those holidays that most of us, as Americans, can enjoy and appreciate together. We have our individual traditions and expectations, but for the most part the rituals are universal. For Thanksgiving it's all about the shared work of preparing a feast and then sharing our gratitude for all we are blessed with. Thanksgiving in California has all the usual trimmings. I know it's just as special in Wisconsin, and Ontario, Canada, Oregon and Hawaii.

O is for Oaks
A few years ago I bought a book all about oak trees in California, and as soon as we unpack it, I want to read it and finally learn all about one of my all time favorite trees. I feel like I am not doing the tree justice by merely stating that I really, really love oak trees. I do really, really love them though. They strike me as wise and weathered, enduring. They are not smooth and welcoming, in a "climb me" sense, but I do feel invited to sit beneath their broad and shady canopy. In noon day sun or in morning mist, they stir my soul with romantic notions of Old California, pioneers, and ranchitos. If I could fly, I would be over the rolling hills and visiting the oak trees.

P is for Pipes
If you come to California, make your way to the coast and when you get hungry talk to the surfers. The surfers know where to find affordable, tasty food served by people who understand Aloha. Surfers work up an appetite, they live to surf, so money can be tight and the aloha? Well surfing is Hawaiian, so I guess they just pick it up along with the waves. We like to go to Pipes. Everyone likes to go to Pipes. The service is always with a smile and sometimes with music too, and the food is tasty.

Q is for Quiet
Mountain quiet. Idyllwild is a place with mountain views and quiet forests. We like to go there in hopes of finding snow. When we haven't found snow, we've still enjoyed hikes, playing games in front of a cabin fireplace and walking in to town for dinner. We like to meet friends there and enjoy a long weekend of breathing pine scented air and wearing wool socks. It's nice to find a place different home, and yet not so far away from home. California offers plenty of choices when you want to enjoy something different.

R is Rocks
We take them for granite! All over California, there are a lot of big granite rocks. No, I don't really take them for granted. I love them. I love the bold boulderness of them and how much fun they are to climb, cross, jump, and sit on. When our youngest son remembers this county park, he always mentions the huge rock he climbed, without any help. I hope he always enjoys that sense of power and pride that comes from climbing something that seemed insurmountable.

S is for Swami's
Dude. All long the California coast are hot little surf spots, where the locals chill and the surf is superfine. Check the surf report before grabbing your board, but you don't need to surf to enjoy the view. When the tide is low, you can visit the tidal pools. Animals are protected here, so no souvenirs, but take plenty of pictures. Watch for dolphins, and in winter, gray whales migrating south.

T is for Tall Trees
These are the big trees of Calaveras Big Trees State Park. California is blessed with big trees and big, tall trees. On the Northern California coast are the world's tallest trees: The Coast Redwoods. They have been verified to be as old as 2,200 years old, and are as tall as 350 feet. Inland, around the Sierra Nevada Mountains are the big trees, where one tree, the Discovery Tree, was measured to be 24' in diameter! We walked across the stump of the Discovery Tree, where many years ago they used it as a dance floor. We hope these trees can be left to grow, protected and appreciated.

U and V for Unbelievable Views
There is a great little mountain I know of where the views are big. It's called Stonewall Peak and if you're lucky enough to know some climbers, or you are one yourself, then you can enjoy the added bonus of doing some rappelling. My brother has taken me twice, and though I have no natural inclination to drop from great heights, I have to say rapelling is an awesome way to spend the day. Not far from Stonewall is a place where you can stand on the mountain and look straight to the desert floor below. The views from there are quite dramatic.

W is for Wild Sage
If I closed my eyes I might still know I was in California, if I could smell the sage. It grows wild and the fragrance of it is spicy, herbal, almost pungent. It is a sacred plant and used in healing and cleansing rituals... I thought I'd include a link here, but all the sites I found were supposedly spiritual and yet they all too anxiously rushed the customer to the Paypal button. My mother taught me how to gather small, personal bundles of sage, not harvest it for commercial profit, and to keep it handy, for use like incense.

X,Y and Z are for California
This van was parked in Santa Barbara, and I dare say it must have an X, Y and Z on it somewhere. It had something all over it. California... I've heard we're like granola, a bunch of flakes, fruits and nuts! That's cool. I love it here. I love the people and the optimism. I love the creativity. I love that we are home to research centers, technology and development, that we make movies and music, and waves and we ride out the storms, earthquakes and fires. It's not just for this state that my heart feels a kindred tug. All these 50 states, each blessed with strengths and grace, are good and beautiful and home. We like to feel a sense of pride for where we live and grow, and I like to remember that our greatest blessing is our union, as a country, as a society. We are more capable and more beautiful when we unite... "America, America. God shed his grace on thee. And crowned thy good with brotherhood, from sea to shining sea!"

noreply@blogger.com (Natalie) — Thu, 03 Jul 2008 18:28:00 +0000

The Longest Day

Alex sitting cool, Summer Equinox, Fortuna, California. 7:19 p.m.

While I have managed to unpack the car and even finish washing, drying, folding and putting away the road trip laundry, I have not finished my travelogue... my snapshot-memory book of our travels to and from Oregon. The last days of our drive home got a bit dramatic, because of the California fires. Then we had a very short time with Geoff before he had to leave for Chicago. Events and passages, daily duties and life, have been swirling and bouncing, and I have not quite managed to catch-up. Catch-up?! Seriously, have I ever been "caught-up," organized, with it, on top of things, in control?

Max teaches Maria how to throw a shoe. June 20, 2008. 7:39 p.m.

About those fires... I should have calculated how far I would drive from Fortuna, the second day of our drive home. I should have decided on a reasonable stopping place and called ahead for a room.

We spent the night in Fortuna, and had a relaxing dinner and evening at Eel River Brewing Company, a place making my list of awesome road trip stops. And later that night William, Alex and I squealed and shuddered witnessing the sky cracking thunder storm and rain, seeing the lightning. It turns out this was the same storm that began all of the lightning strike fires California is suffering.

7:40 p.m.

The next day we were seeing CDF vehicles and personnel everywhere. Fire fighting crews from all over California and other western states were on the move, and it was disturbingly reminiscent of way too many fires and evacuations from our past.

Closure of highway 1 in Watsonville from one fire, rerouted me away from Bill and Alison's place, so I continued down the 101 through San Jose, and as we approached the east side of Watsonville we could see flames in the hills. Further south we began to consider stopping for the night, and we pulled over in King City, where we discovered every room was booked... just as it had been in Santa Cruz and Monterey. The parking lots were full of CDF crews and evacuated families.

7:42 p.m.

We called Geoff. We had already been driving about 10 hours and between the fire and the heat wave, I could tell we would need help booking a room. So, I kept driving south, while Geoff called every hotel/motel between Greenfield and Pismo Beach. By now we were witnessing the fires burning on the eastern slopes of the Big Sur coast, and Geoff was having no luck finding us a place to stop for the night. Everything was booked due to the fires, summer events and an inland heat wave.

The Eel River, Phillipsville, California. June 21, 2008. 10:19 a.m. For hundreds and hundreds of miles I would think to myself: "This is beautiful. This place, this sight, this moment, those flowers, the light, the water, the air. I should take a picture."

Maria needed facilities and I stopped in Phillipsville... a small, remote place in the middle of the Redwoods and we found a camp store. I helped Maria, and I gave the children a $20 bill and instructions: Buy something. A treat. Anything you want." Maria and I joined them in the store, where they were still pacing up and down the 3 or 4 aisles of the little provisions shop.

Max asked, "Anything? Even soda?
I was tickled with what was becoming a happy diversion, "Yes, anything."
Max again, because he has to be certain of all the rules: "Even ice cream?"
We had already done 2 full tours of the entire shop, carefully weighing the options. Maria was embracing a snack package of Oreos. 6 cookies awaited her rapt attention and grateful nibbles. William pulled a grape soda from the cooler. Alex was peering into the ice-cream freezer. My satisfaction and pleasure was in watching my children revel in the bliss of choices, freedom and the anticipation of a camp-store treat. Max and Alex chose Tollhouse ice-cream sandwiches, William savored his grape flavored soda and Maria's 6 cookies lasted a sweet hour or more.

Strawberry fields and road side stand. North of Hopland, California. The Redwood Highway. June 21, 2008. 1:06 p.m.

Our next stop, our lunch, came from this strawberry field...

1:08 p.m.
This would have been a good time to call ahead and book a room... maybe in San Jose or even San Francisco, so I would not have the crisis that awaited us later.

We pulled under a huge oak tree, rinsed the sun warmed berries and began our picnic. The berries were sweet. the day was hot. I gave the chicas more water.

I sort of get the saying "Money can't buy happiness, but I have never believed it. I understand it, but that's not the same as believing it. Money does not guarantee happiness, and having money does not prevent unhappiness. Money gives opportunity, security, options and freedom. It can save us from hunger and strife, from limitations and hardships. I think it helps to know life with money and without money, to deeply appreciate the difference. This is a topic that I appreciate merits more than a paragraph, but I am going to keep this simple: I am so grateful to have options and freedom, to be blessed with a reliable vehicle and gas money, to have cash on hand for a box of berries.

Cameras, cell phones, fabric for homemade dresses, chickens as pets, Oreo snack packs, tickets to see "Wall-E," clean water and time are wonderful luxuries. Strawberries, sweet and fresh, eaten in the shade of an ancient oak tree are happiness in fruit form.

Golden Gate Bridge trail-head parking lot. 4:12 p.m.

Hours before I knew how long the day would be, before finding booked motels, I stopped here. I gave the chicas more water, and called Ron and Delia. I tried to nap a bit, but couldn't.

Later that night, armed with the Internet and phones, Geoff finally did manage to find us a hotel room. I had to backtrack 10 miles, and by 11:30 p.m. we were in a safe, comfortable room, and pulling covers over ourselves. 13 hours of driving were over, and we were, finally, free to rest.

Did you read all the way through? Long day = long post...lol. In years to come, I think it will be nice to recall this challenging, fun, beautiful, long day. Our adventures and trials, the way we see the world, makes our lives worthwhile and meaningful. And our friends and family do too, so thank you. Thank you for your emails and comments, for sharing our deep thoughts and other musings. While I have not managed to catch-up, I am sustained and motivated by your thoughtfulness and kindness.

noreply@blogger.com (Natalie) — Wed, 02 Jul 2008 16:02:00 +0000

Last Night We Went For a Walk

Thank you for the support and kindness. Abuelo's passing is sad mostly because it brings to mind distancia... how far away I feel from family, from feeling at home and connected. And my heart aches for my Abuela... she lost a husband of 70 years. Thank God for her faith. I think it will sustain her.

Geoff has been gone since Thursday, and today we pick him up at the airport. He was going to shuttle directly to work, but I cannot resist seeing him, even if it's only to drop him off at the office. Thanks to our cell phones, I think we talked more while he was away than when he is home. Sometimes we didn't talk at all, but having him on the phone helped me get through the day.

Going to the car wash is one of my favorite... activities? Events? Pastimes? Something. I just get a big kick out of sitting in the car, and riding through dirty and coming out clean. No brakes. Put it in neutral. I turn around and watch the children's faces as water and suds and big rollers splash and spin. We wait for the 3 color foam soap and multi-tentacles of the dryer cloths.

And this time? Oh this time was awesome, because the triple foam failed to perform and we almost drove away crest fallen and rainbowless, but they hailed us back! They said, "Go through again. You didn't get the color foam." Sweet. Like finding $20 in an old coat pocket. It's your $20, but it feels like found treasure.

After the car wash we went on an evening walk. It was a good idea to get out of the house.

Another good idea was finally celebrating Alex's 14th birthday. We invited Adam and Jacob over for a double feature, on our big screen, with gooey cheese nachos, stove popped popcorn, cold grapes, lemonade and pizza. We set out all of the good eats, dimmed the lights and let the films roll. And Adam and Jacob brought Alex a huge Lego set. People are amused to learn that Legos are still at the top of Alex's wish list. Trust me, those Legos were a huge hit with all of the children living here.

As many of you know, I have been a rebel, an outlaw. I cannot deny my ranchera roots, my cowgirl spirit, and that is why in this manicured-Garage Mahal neighborhood, living in the landlord's columned rental palace, I have snuck-in chickens. First there were 2... Lola and Betty.
When we realized we ~~wanted~~ needed 3, we brought home Pip.
We thought this was our final line-up, but then sweet little Lola died.
Still committed to the idea of having 3 hens, we introduced Amelia.
And for a while we got to just sit back and enjoy the sight of our 3 chicas, Betty, Pip and Amelia.
And wow! did they start to grow fast!
And make us happy!
They have even inspired great works of art.

It was during our visit to Oregon, that my mind proved to my heart that we had a rooster in our midst. I could not be sure about Amelia/o, but it was painfully obvious that our dear Pip was growing proud tail feathers and a cocky stride. If we were in another kind of neighborhood, if our yard were wider, deeper and our own, then this might not have to be a problem. Some roosters are nice and capable of being fine pets, stately additions to a family farm.

I took all 3 chicas to the feed store where they came from and asked Martin to come to the car and see what he could tell me about our situation. Martin could see what I saw and confirmed that Pip is a rooster. He also admired his pretty plumage and unique appearance and he invited Pip to stay there, either as a permanent resident or possibly to be adopted. Some farmers want roosters, and he assured me Pip was destined for a good home. Sigh. You don't think this was a *the dog is living on a farm now* kind of story, do you? Don't tell me. I don't want to know.

All the way home, Maria sang "Pip don't be a rooster. Come home Pip. Pip don't be a rooster. Come home Pip. Pip don't be a rooster. Come home Pip. Pip don't be a rooster. Come home Pip. Pip don't be a rooster. Come home Pip." It was a very sad song. Thinking of it generates endless wishful thinking.

Naturally I called Geoff from the parking lot of the feed store. I had to tell him the sad news, and promote myself... the responsible cowgirl, who can make the tough decisions. And I was ready to drive home, move forward, take my losses, but it was Geoff who said, "But we need more than 2 chickens. There's no sense putting it off, if there are chicks available now we should just go for it." That's the honest truth. See? I'm not the only outlaw in the family.

We will have to raise these day old chicks separately from the teenage chicas, but I think they will catch-up and adjust soon enough. This dark chocolate baby is a Dark Bantam, and the boys were awestruck with the breed name and immediately and simultaneously declared: "Her name has to be Fantam the Bantam!"

And this little Buttercup is a is a Golden Wyandotte. Considered a friendly breed and certainly very pretty... she and Fantam look like peanut butter and chocolate together.

I just love the markings on these 2. They are very sweet together and we are enjoying their smallness... now that we are so *experienced,* we have a greater appreciation for how quickly this little chicky phase passes.

It's hard to get good pictures of chicks. They move so fast. Peck, scurry, peck, peck, peck. The camera captures dozens of fuzzy blurs, little feathery somethings, lost in the big picture.

Amelia can be almost as hard to capture. She and Betty are on the move and big! Amelia fancies herself a parrot. She loves to perch on shoulders, and she has no trouble flying up or down.

"Ooh arggh, Amelia!" She's setting a course for a patch of green grass.

The best times of this week have been in the garden, watching Joe and Amelia and Betty free range, while we keep very watchful eyes on the new chicas. The weather has been pleasant, comfortable. We have no big plans or commitments. Our carrots and tomatoes are getting full and plump. Lola's garden is abundant with blooms.

Even with a good camera, I cannot always get the picture I want, but these fuzzy farm photos are a happy reminder that we have had some good days, some enjoyable times... amusing and tranquil.

There are plenty of cold grapes and crisp nectarines to feed us the flavors of summer. I talk to my mom almost daily and she is making some progress, managing as best she can, and I am glad that her Mommy is with her this week. I finished 2 blocks worth of hand quilting on Ruth's quilt. One day at a time, recognizing the pleasures and blessings, appreciating what is good. I look forward to more evening walks and double features.

It's almost time to head to the airport. More joy ahead!

noreply@blogger.com (Natalie) — Tue, 01 Jul 2008 04:46:00 +0000

Con Dios

Gracias abuelo.

Recordando d�as y noches en la iglesia...
Mas crecer en la gracia, y en el conocimiento de nuestro Se�or y Salvador Jesucristo.
A �l sea la gloria hoy, y para siempre. Amen.
2 Pedro 3:18

Recordando su voz, y su cari�o. Recordando el campo, El Valle, Ojo de Agua, y su poder...
Te adoro abuelo.

noreply@blogger.com (Natalie) — Mon, 30 Jun 2008 16:24:00 +0000

Tempted to Machine Quilt

June Jamboree at Starry Night Hollow was not only fun, it was an inspiring place to be for anyone who loves fabric. I love fabric.

I love how the seasons change light and colors, reveal shades undetected. And with nature's changes my preferences change... sometimes in ways that surprise me. I have favorite colors, but looking through my fabric stash, I doubt you could guess which are my favorites. Most colors are well represented in my collection of fabrics, but citrus tones are the colors I have the fewest of.

I thought orange was a favorite color of someone I want to make a quilt for, but it turns out to be a little too much like pink, or something like that. Orange definitely qualifies as a color I don't gravitate toward, but I am loving the Fresh Squeezed collection from Moda Fabrics. It's sweet and tart, it's sharp and refreshing... it's an idyllic summer.

So with some complementary fabrics from my stash and a charm pack from Starry Night Hollow, I got busy designing and piecing. And I wasn't the only one enjoying the new color scheme... Alex, Geoff, William, Max and Maria offered layout suggestions and expressed appreciation for the Fresh Squeezed theme. It's extra fun to work on something that everyone likes.

I bought extra yardage to sash the charm pack squares, and more for the backing. It has to be finished before the end of summer. It's definitely a take me on a picnic kind of quilt.

Under blue skies, near shady trees. The colors of the quilt are so invigorating, so reflective of summer... maybe it could brighten a dark winter day, when one is beginning to think wistfully of lemonade and garden beds.

So, how soon before we can take it for a test run? How many days or months will it take me to hand-quilt this quilt and the special quilt I am trying to finish for Ruth? The truth is, my fingers and shoulders will give out before I can finish either quilt, especially if I push myself to finish both before the end of summer. Hand quilting is so slow, so hard. I am emotionally attached to the traditional ways, to the look of those dear stitches and even to the meditative leisure of sitting with a quilt on my lap, a needle between my thumb and fingers.

But I already have new quilt designs I am aching to try, and I really would like to make use of my fabulous fabric collection, so I have this irresistible urge to try machine quilting. Machine quilting has it's own challenges and limitations, and I'm not sure my machine is even up to the task.

I need to learn more about my machine, and more about machine quilting. I am hoping I can learn to do something pleasing enough to be worthwhile. Certainly it will be faster than pulling a thread and needle by hand, but I don't want to compromise the hard work and integrity of the quilt top just to finish faster.

I am simultaneously worked up about this issue and pleased... in truth, it is a blessing to have these kind of minor dilemmas to ponder.

**************
This just in:

As a 1930s wife, I am
Very Superior

Take the test!

Thanks to Sara for the fun link. I cannot account for my results.

noreply@blogger.com (Natalie) — Sun, 29 Jun 2008 15:24:00 +0000

House Hunting... From Chickens Who Blog

Riding home from Oregon, we couldn't help but do a little house hunting. We should have asked to ride down some country roads, because we think it's farm houses and off the beaten path kind of places we are really attracted to. However, if offered a home in town... say a place with integrity and character, something with history and interest... we could be persuaded...

Big enough? Likely, yes, but a bit ornate. Besides we don't think that fence would keep the riff-raff out. Pass.

This may be too small, but it does have its charms. We wonder how far back the yard goes? Is there room for a workshop, a pool, veggie beds, goats, an orchard?

If there's no yard in the back, then forget about it. Otherwise We kind of like the side by side aspect. One for us and one for guests? Wonder if we could modify them and create a secret passage between them? Secret passages, attic rooms, gables, window seats, built in shelves, natural light... bonus points for all of the above.

Hmmmm... too many floors. We know very well those extra floors would be an unwelcome obstacle on cleaning day(s.)

Next.

Modest. We like the colors... very fresh and cheery. Looks well built, but not over built. There's still room to add our personal touches. Secure, snug... good and good.

We'll take it! Love the kitchen, the yard, the open floor plan... the whole look of bringing the outdoors in... we love that look!

Oh, and it's mobile. Unexpected, yet practical. Somewhere the grass is always greener and we'll have the option of moving there. Hard to believe this was a picnic table. We really must thank the architect and the builders. Our new home is just right.

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Playing a Meme with Anne.

A. List seven habits/quirks/facts about yourself.
B. Tag seven people to do the same.
C. Do not tag the person who tagged you or say that you tag "whoever wants to do it."

Here goes, and mind you I have decided to really let it all hang out... it's what girlfriends do.

A. Habits, Quirks and Facts
1. Even though I am fat, I secretly feel happy and comfortable. Why secretly? Women are trained to be small, admonished and ridiculed for being bigger than they are... When I forget that I do not look like a supermodel or like the many residents of our body conscious neighborhood, I feel just fine, curvy and capable, strong and full. When I see that clothes made for the masses do not fit me, when photographs of me do not match airbrushed celebrity faces, then I feel ashamed and low, and very small.

2. My chickens blog. Actually they have to tell me what to say and I post it for them. They make a mess of the keyboard, otherwise I'd let them take care of the whole thing.

3. I am censoring myself, because a surprising number of habits/quirks and facts about me, at this time, are not happy. I am trying to avoid these facts, but I will acknowledge that it's an issue.

4. Every time I type "chicken," it comes out cchiekcen, chikcen, or chckine. It never comes out right the first time. Same with "because." "Because" always comes out becuase.

5. My highest Tetris score was 154,000 and I love it when the rocket launches.

6. I have 2 beautiful quilt tops waiting to be quilted.

7. I wish I could fly. Me. Over hills and along the coast, just flapping my arms or floating magically. I dream of it. I know what it would feel like, as though I am missing something I used to do all the time. My second wish is to be able to sing. I imagine singing would be like flying.

B. 7 People to Play Along
1. Tarie
2. Amy
3. Em
4. Pam... She did it!
5. Carol. Carol, you should have a blog. I think you would have such excellent things to share.
6. JenniferYes, she did it too!
7. Cristina

C. I do tag "whoever wants to do it," becuase I am a rebel.

Looking back... 6 years ago today.