On the brink of Fall ~ A Day in September, A Tree, and Childhood Memory

I sit here at the laundry mat, propped up on one of the swivel chairs, looking out the window, homework spread out, diligently writing out the questions that I will later fill in the answers for. Music plays in the background, I have caffeinated myself with a decaf mocha and though it has less caffeine, it still packs just the right amount of zing.

A group of pigeons…the movement in the tree brought my gaze back outside. I look out at the hills, the variety of tree species, one beginning to show its autumn foliage. And I think to myself how much I love trees, how amazing they are, how vacant I would feel without them. I think of my childhood pine tree that I used to climb and sit comfortably atop its large trunk-like branches; that tree is still there, and its also inside my heart. And the beautiful palm tree that shot up so tall, the large palm branches that jetted out; and the large umbrella-like tree that offered shade and a place to read.

The pigeon settles himself on a branch, his gray tones stand out against green and splashes of red. There one moment, gone the next.

It’s a busy laundry day…I see a mother walk by with two toddlers–a little girl entertained with a wad of newspaper, she walks by on her tippy toes, peering in, giggles.

Amongst the chores, the homework, a peaceful start to the morning–the mountains and trees a welcome backdrop.

(Photo was actually taken at sunset yesterday, November 12, 2015)

I Remember: Stationery Stores and Childhood Stickers

"The most wasted of all days is one without laughter."

–E. E. Cummings

I don't feel complete unless there is laughter and smiles in my day. Even on days when I'm feeling cranky, am unreasonable, and shout because my moods have taken the best from me, I can count on laughter setting me right.

A few days ago I wandered into a stationery store. I didn't wander aimless, though. I had a simple mission to buy a single postcard for hubby. I had told him that I had seen it when I was searching for other postcards. I described it to him and he said why didn't you get it for me? I shrugged my shoulders and told him that I wasn't sure if he'd actually want it. Now he has it.

Ever since childhood I've adored stationery stores. I remember when my mother would take me for tea and a sweet pastry after ice skating practice or one of her doctor's appointments. After seeking her permission, I would wander over to the stationary store just across the way. I would look through all the stickers, turning the stands in search of the perfect set. I collected them. I had a book full of wonderful stickers of all kinds: stickers that sparkled and glittered; puffy stickers; hearts, bears, flowers–all sorts. I don't remember her ever going into the store with me. I would run back and ask her if I could buy some stickers. She didn't give in right away. She might take a sip of her coffee, ask me if I really needed them, and she would end up pulling out a few dollars from her purse and hand it to me. I ran back as quick as I could and I would return giggly–happy to have new stickers.

There were other stationery stores too. It wasn't always stickers. Sometimes it was miniature calendars, pretty paper, pens. But always, she stayed outside in the car unless we were at that one breakfast shop where she could wait inside. She was dying, and as the cancer progressed, she was in pain more often; but as a little girl these realities register in the mind differently. 

I realize, too, that my mother didn't like being home, even if no one else was there. She preferred being out and about. As the cancer took its toll on her, these were some of the ways that we were able to spend time together, knowing that her life was drawing to a close. So, I see now that she not only needed me as her little rock, but that she also relished the last moments that we would share–and those moments I remember with the core of my being, with joy, and a hint of sadness. But what would life be without both?

She was serious and angry a good part of her later life, but right now in this moment, I can remember...I hear her laughter and see her smile, and it fills my soul with blue skies, sunshine, and the happy chatter of birds.

My Grandmother's Garden

Driving down the road, I peer over at the progress of the new retail building. A man on his hands and knees tends to the soil, where the grass and flowers will be. He has a garden pick in his hand, that I see as he raises it, before bringing it down to the earth.

I was transported in that instant to my grandmother's garden.

When I visited my uncle this past week–like a child–I asked if I could go outside. I took the dog with me. He went his way; I went mine. I walked over to where my grandmother's garden would have been, nestled in the corner near the fence dividing the neighbor's yard, past the rabbit cage where Sylvester used to live. I took notice of how wild all the trees had grown, how the almond tree and walnut tree had been taken down, along with the clothes line that spun. I remember waiting for the almonds, the soft fuzzy skin that would eventually yield, revealing a beautiful almond, and how I would sit at my grandparent's kitchen table cracking open almonds and walnuts that grew from their trees.

I remembered how much fun I had exploring in this backyard, playing hide and seek and running around like cowboys with my cousin and swinging on the swing set. And I remember the pool table that used to be in another large house-like shed where my grandfather kept his heavy duty carpentry tools and machines; and the pool table that we would play on and how I was told that when I was little–I had my own mini pool stick–I would hop up on the pool table and try to whack my cousin on the head because I seemed to think it was funny. I don't remember this, but I can imagine this curious and mischievous side of me.

When I got older, I'd rummage through the far back shed, looking through my mother's old clothes that my grandfather had stored for her. And I remembered those tall eucalyptus trees that I adored, that had burned down because of some careless kids playing with fire. My grandfather was lucky the fire didn't reach his house. How my heart sank when I arrived on that day to find his home surrounded by fire trucks.

How I love the memory of my grandmother in her garden, tending to the soil, as she tended to all of her children and grandchildren, how she loved us and nourished us and provided sustenance for our bodies and our souls.

And now she nourishes me still, from up above, always with me.

One of my Treasures

It feels good to be awake early this morning. The past few weeks I've wanted to continue sleeping; and I have, waking up later than usual.

Saturday has arrived bringing with it a calm and sense of relief.

I wanted to share a photo that I took about a month ago. It's one of those faces I was talking about yesterday. A nearby library that I enjoy visiting has a drive thru book return. I've gone through this book return countless times. On this day, a month back, I must have been in a slower mode, so that I could step back, see the book return from a different vantage point. I usually have to get out of my car because it's a long stretch to push the buttons and place the books on the belt that pulls the books through to their destination with other books, waiting for re-shelving. As I began getting out of the car, I saw a face looking back at me. I smiled, then I laughed. Finally, I had to take a photo.

One of the beauties in life is that simple moments like this can bring such unexpected joy.

As I look at the photo this morning, I realize that the face is a familiar one. One of my father's–my real father–used to build me beautiful creations out of wood. A cabinet maker by trade, he was a true craftsman and artist. Looking at this face, I remember a family of wooden dolls that he made for me. They were beautiful wooden blocks that he had cut, putting together a family, all with smiling faces, moveable arms and legs, and a rich coating of wood stain that brought out the beauty in the wood–a human family that brought me comfort and joy.

Whenever I smell sawdust or freshly cut wood, I think of him in his wood shop, creating.

I wish I still had those dolls. Even though they are gone, and he is gone, I remember the love that he put forth in all the creations that he built for me. I was able to keep and take one item with me, and it rests in my closet where I can see it. It's a small wooden treasure chest that my father built for me, where I store my special treasures.

 

GIANTS & A Clown

My brother, who is twenty years older than I am, took me to my first baseball game when I was a young girl. It was the Oakland A’s. He didn’t know it, but I had a crush on Jose Canseco. I remember how shy I was. I remember wanting the free bag that the stadium was giving away, but we didn’t make it in time. My brother said to go ask someone if they didn’t want their bag. I clung to him. He nudged me. I started to walk towards someone, and then turned back. Then, he came with me, approached someone and they gladly gave up their free bag for that shy, very timid girl. Those were my first memories of baseball.

Friday night I was watching the Giants game. I’m not a big sports fan, but I have watched baseball on and off over the years and have tuned in to the Giants, especially the past week. My significant other is a huge Giants fan and last week he said he wanted to go see them play on Sunday (today) if they made it. I said I might be interested. I’ve been to one other game this year with him, his father, and one of his cousins. It was fun. Last week at work, for our team meeting, the boss wanted to go somewhere that we could watch the Giants. They won that day!

So on Friday, I watched the game, hoping they would win—and win they did. Barry Zito did an amazing pitching job and all the other players did their part.

During commercials I had a small blank canvas in front of me, along with my Sharpie markers. I wanted to draw out a fall scene, but couldn’t get my ideas out. I didn’t want to be defeated by the blank canvas, then a clown popped into my head. I’ve always liked clowns and have been a clown for Halloween on a few occasions, so from my imagination, I started drawing directly on the canvas without worry. I started to color him in. I decided to keep him like that for now, but plan on filling in the color later. I like how simple he is and feel that he has a lot of color already with only the four places that I filled in. Maybe I should make him a Giants clown.

Today, we’ll be at the GIANTS game. It will be an exciting day at the ballpark!

Go GIANTS!

Climbing A Tree

About a month back we went on a short hike. A break from the noise, quiet and vast views was just what I needed.

Corn colored grass glistened with the sun’s rays, swayed in the wind, calling for me to run through and fall into its soft cushion.

The views are always spectacular from up high. I can see why birds and crows always find themselves on the uppermost part of a tree or building. It’s the perfect lookout and it feels liberating, close enough to everything, yet in solitude amongst the clatter.

On our way back down the hill, I stopped at the oak trees and took some photos and then I got the bug to climb up the tree and sit in the crevice that you see here. My significant other said he could push me up by my bum, while I leapt up to get hold of the trunk. I said, no, no. I don’t want to go up that way. I’d rather climb it from the fallen branch on the backside. It looked easy enough. However, when I started to amble up the large trunk, I realized that I could still fall and I had to steady myself. It wasn’t quite as easy as it looked. I took my time. It wouldn’t have been a long fall, but it wouldn’t have felt good either and may have knocked the wind out of me. Who knows, I could have sprained a wrist. I went slowly, straddling the wide trunk, and then bringing my feet up the center once I’d found my balance. I was nervous, but I kept going on all fours, hugging the tree until I reached the spot. I had to negotiate a large clump of dried branches as I climbed over a large branch in my way. And then I made it.

My childhood home had a large pine tree on the side of the house. I used to love climbing to the crook and sit there for a bit. I was more daring in my younger years. I would swing and climb. I especially enjoyed climbing onto the chimney of our house and up to the roof. I jumped off the roof a few times. My older boy cousin was probably the instigator. We’d play with toy guns and go up to my grandparent’s, and again we’d find our way atop a roof; this time, though it was the roof of the little house my grandfather had built to store tools, antique furniture, and other odds and ends.

I was a bit of a tomboy growing up and at the same time I loved my dolls and play oven and other girl things. And mom dressed me up in frilly dresses and she also dressed me in horrid boy suits. She may have only done this once or twice. I was humiliated going to school in a boy suit.

I still have an adventurous side. I’m more careful now because I’m not as flexile as I used to be and I’m mindful of the creeks and crunches in my bones. I’m glad I climbed the tree that day, while I still can.

Visit with Uncle and Ponchito

When I visited my uncle two days ago, before I left I asked him if it was alright if I went to the back room—to my grandmother’s old room— to say hello to her cockatiel, Ponchito. The room now belongs to her beloved bird. My uncle has the large cage propped up high, so that I have to walk up to the top of the stepladder to peer into the cage. The whole house is different. It’s my uncle’s house now.

My grandmother used to speak with Ponchito, whistle to him and blow kisses. Ponchito was shy with me at first, since it had been a while since I went back to visit him. I said, “Hello Ponchito bonito, mi Ponchito bonito.”—Hello pretty Ponchito, my pretty Ponchito.—And I would say it over and over and whistle and kiss. My uncle said if I put my face right up to his cage so that I was practically touching my nose to it, Ponchito would come down; and he did. We were talking back and forth and he was dancing on his stick, side to side. I would turn my head and he would turn his, as though he was looking in a mirror.

Ponchito has outlived his two canary friends and his cockatiel friend. He is now a solo man. All of his body feathers are in tact. His head feathers are missing, so you can see his baldhead and his cheeks. I told my uncle he reminds me of my grandfather because of his bare head, his tough spirit.

Ponchito came into my grandmother’s life by accident. She was merely taking care of him for her niece while she was on vacation. It turned out that when the niece got back from vacation, she didn’t want the bird back because of her busy schedule so my grandmother adopted him.

My uncle and I were trying to figure out how old Ponchito is. We had to base it on how long my grandmother has not been with us, and also how long the niece has no longer been a part of the family. We had to do some family math of what has transpired in between and when we stopped becoming a family. I think that makes Ponchito at least 25 years old, maybe a few years younger. I turned my head from speaking and whistling with Ponchito and said to my uncle, “Ponchito is going to outlive all of us.” We laughed. “Probably so,” he said. There aren’t many of us left and we are split up anyway. It’s difficult when the foundational pieces of a family die—when the only hope of glue to hold them together is gone. I’m all right with it. It has been a reality for many years—too many years. I’ve seen the pillars fall down one by one.

And then I remember when my grandfather was alone and I’d catch him teasing the bird, poking a butter knife through the cage, riling the bird up, making him run back and forth, flapping his wings—running for his life. My grandfather had some peculiar ways about him and looking back, I love him all the more for it. I miss his whiskers scraping against my cheek when I would kiss him hello or goodbye and the smell of Aqua Velva after-shave when he’d shave those whiskers.

Ponchito is quite a bird—quite a cockatiel. He is very much an extension of my grandmother, as he says her words and whistles her whistles, blowing us her kisses. He also has a bit of my grandfather in him too. For all that Ponchito has been through, he is still very much alive and it’s a somewhat surreal feeling to stare into his cage, into his eyes—in my grandmother’s room—hearing her words.