Stormy Weather

Last night as I was watching the Ken Burns special on Prohibition, which was excellent, the heavens opened up and the Bay Area was visited with a thunder and lightning storm the likes of which I have never seen here before. There were over 750 strikes in the bay area. It reminded me of a canoe trip down the Missouri in Montana. Lee and I were alone, sleeping on a small island in the middle of the river. No tent even. Suddenly the coyotes on both banks started a steady wailing, and in ten minutes the sky was white with lightning. That was mighty scary. Last night’s only matched it in the volume of the thunder. I was fortunate to not loose power like many did. I retired early with my kindle and a flashlight and a last word to Kodi that he was nuts to insist on staying out in the storm.

Both my sister and I were born during the period of Prohibition, (1919-1933), and I wonder: “Did it have any effect on our upbringing?” Were folks more cautious and inhibited? I suppose fewer babies were born with fetal alcoholic syndrome, for one thing. That would be a bonus. On the other hand, I think most Americans were either brewing their own or finding illegal means of obtaining it. Crime was rampant as Americans rallied against the restrictions.

I remember my mother telling the story of her first drink, and I think it was when I was one or two, which would have been ‘31 or ’32, and she would have been in her early twenties. My uncle Bill, her sister’s husband, had experimented making bathtub gin, which was literally in their bathtub. Bill gave my mother some and she probably guzzled it. She promptly passed out. It’s a wonder any of them survived.

In my own twenties to forties I imbibed cocktails nightly, and more generously on weekends. I think if the government had passed a law outlawing booze I would have protested madly and gone the route of my uncle Bill.

Times change and now I have been clean and sober over thirty years, for which I have gratitude. It’s been so long I have lost count. Still, I think I’d be picketing in front of the Supreme Court if the government restricted my right to decide myself.

Its kind of like what the Republican Party is trying to do now about restricting women’s rights to their own bodies. Here’s a toast to personal freedom to decide.

Ironic isn't it that I've been practicing painting storm clouds. like in the rural setting above which I did Wednesday. I can see I have a lot to do to improve the presentation. representation.

Feeling Less Like A Goddess

While many of my friends celebrate Passover or Easter, I try to celebrate the Goddess within, an exercise in which I am not being very successful this year, even though I am joyfully having ten for Easter brunch, including Andrea, shown with me above.

My lower back pain which has diminished my positive outlook the last couple of months has now, through the magic of magnetic imaging , been diagnosed as arthritis throughout my spine but especially in L5, where the disc is both deteriorating and bulging. Here I thought it was only my tummy that was bulging. I'm being referred to a spine doc, where the usual treatment is steroid shots. Not sure I want to go that route so any suggestions are welcome. I hope it does not mean giving up pilates, my favorite exercise.

When Catherine and Mary celebrated Christmas in their second home in Santa Rosa they bought a living Christmas tree that turned out to be too large for their living room, so they planted it in the front yard. Now every holiday Cath, ever the romantic, decorates it in objects of the season. Many neighbors walk by and cheer and giggle. I hope it has the same affect on you. Hence the Easter tree pictured above.

The mythological viewpoint is that one year Ostara, the Goddess of Spring, was feeling guilty about spring arriving so late. When she arrived the first thing she saw was a pitiful little bird who lay dying his wings frozen in the snow, so she cradled him in her arms saving his life. Later she transferred him into a pet, or in some versions her passionate lover. Realizing later his sadness that he could not fly, she turned him into a rabbit who could run like the wind. She also gave him the ability to lay eggs, but just one day of the year. Happy spring!

Goddess Ostara and the Easter Bunny

Yeah. The world is awakening and in bloom. Since my new lightweight cannon digital camera arrived I have been out practicing quick draws. Its harder for my fat arthritic thumbs to maneuver but the ease of shooting and carrying is addictive. This week I had coffee in a place next to a nursery and, though windy, grabbed the flowering blossoms above. Because I live on top of a hill, things often bloom later here. But I was delighted yesterday on a tour of my garden to see the persimmon tree showing green leaves and some of the newly divided iris taking root.

Catherine, who just returned from DC where among other things she picketed in front of the Supreme Court, informs me that Easter is all about women's power and fertility and that it was evolved from pagan symbols. Ostara, for whom Easter was named, was a goddess of fertility. The female word estrogen is derived from her name.

When I was a little kid we really celebrated Easter, but not in the religious sense. Why? My glamorous Mother's nickname was "Bunny" and that was the name we and everyone else always called her. It was her day and in a way we regarded her as a goddess. I still have some of her ceramic bunny collection, and they will decorate my Easter table.

Sacramento Adventure

Crazy weather. I hear it is 82 in Portland ME where my great niece Darcie is studying to be an RN, and snowing in Portland, Ore, where I know no one any more. In our bay area rain is predicted for the next five days after a particularly dry winter.

We need it, but not in one big splash. My tulips bloomed a month early and I think my iris will be a month late. The daffs got schitzy; half bloomed in early February and the other half are opening this week. We underestimated the deluge accompanying us on our trip to Sacramento last weekend. My friend Beth negotiated the puddles in her snazzy blue Toyota to get us safely to Morella's tranquil stucco and tile home in Folsom where we were spoiled for two days while taking Sandy's watercolor class on Aquaboard. Even Morella got lost in the storm. Folsom has certainly grown up in the last two years since I have been there, as has Morella's garden. The shopping centers are incredible. as well.

Such continuous sheets of rain remind me of the northwest or summer storm in Montana, though I am reading a book about trekking Siberia (The Long Walk) and I am led to believe Northern California is not unique in freakish storms.

Aquaboard will never be my medium of choice but it was fun to learn, and the class was delightful. On Aquaboard, versus paper, the painter can make mistakes and then just wash them off. That is a plus. The negative is that the magic is not there; paint does not blend nor easily granulate. The colors are opaque like oil. I miss the transparency. When a painting is complete it must be spray varnished three times which gives it a glossy finish. Great for tropical flowers. I chose to do a sunflower grouping on one, which is pretty ugly, and rendering of my friend Little Stacey's boots on the other. The boots have sentimental meaning; Stace was a fire captain and these are her professional boots. Both boots and girl are retired now, but both are overflowing with memories. The painting is almost finished but not varnished as yet.

Strategic Patience, Hmphhh

“Strategic patience” according to Robert Genn, an artist who writes a popular newsletter I read, is in vogue these days. Strategic patience is the process of believing, given sufficient time, that most things will take care of themselves. I plead guilty to that one big time. It is synonymous with my old friend sloth.

For several months various workers of the male persuasion have been in and out of my kitchen. A refinishing job that was supposed to take two weeks has dragged on over four months. Thoughtfully when nature called the workers have availed themselves of the half bath in the laundry room, rather than either of the two main ones adjoining my bedrooms.

It never occurs to me to even enter that tiny room unless I am out of toilet paper, which I keep on the rack above the w.c. So occasionally when I detour there to restock my supplies I have noticed the toilet running. If the door is closed, as it always is, I don’t hear the gurgling. When water flow is discovered I frown and jiggle the handle, and it stops. No big deal. This may have happened four or five times in the last three months. Surely no woman would walk off and leave a toilet running, would she?

I shrugged it off as inadequate male toilet training. The thought did occur to me that the next time I had to hire a plumber for a REAL problem I would have the plumber check the toilet. Here’s where strategic patience comes in.

One day last week I found a notice from the water company taped conspicuously to my mail-box. It was ominous and jarring to my psyche.

“Occupant: Your water meter was read today and registered in excess of your average usage. It is suggested you check…..etc. etc.”

As luck would have it my niece and her hubby were visiting from Washington. At my request they scoured the outside property looking for leaks, and found none.

So, I put off calling the water company until I had time. Then yesterday’s mail brought a water bill of over $300. Yikes.

This is winter. I must have a river running somewhere. I speculated and obsessed. Patience exhausted, I called this morning. I was advised to do the following: “Make a pot of coffee. Pour one cup in the tank of each toilet. Wait twenty minutes.” If the water in the bowl is colored, I was advised, you have a leak. Then you call a plumber.

The surly clerk did not seem to care that my toilets are fifties vintage and come already colored pink and yellow. Nor did she suggest if the coffee be regular, decaf, expresso. Pete’s or Starbucks. The whole concept may turn me off coffee for life. A friend at art class today (the irony being I was in charge of making coffee) advised me she had a similar problem. She had an undiscovered outdoor leak that was only disclosed by a huge bill. When the plumber repaired it she was able to submit the plumber’s bill and get a reduction on her water bill, though it hardly made up the difference.

Now my horoscope sign is cancer, and that makes me a water baby. For years I was a Water Safety Instructor. Canoeing is one of my passions. I can manipulate class 3 rapids, but do you think I can diagnose a petulant water closet? Squirming around in toilet tanks is surely not my idea of aquatics.

My friend Dottie in Nevada informs me that in an old house even an earthquake can set a toilet to squirming. Help! I want a new house. One with a plumber living next door that will trade me toilet inspection for persimmon cookies.

Women On My Team

My dear niece Cheari and her hubby pulled away in their jazzy motor home yesterday morning after another wonderful visit in which Cheari pampered her old auntie and her husband fixed various broken appliances around Rancho Lebon. I wrote recently about Rachel Maddow and how much her contributions to information and honesty mean to me. On a more personal level, so many older living women inspire my daily routine and outlook. Another International Women’s Day passed yesterday without me saluting just a few of them who continue to help me in my life, especially since Lee died five years ago. Another day I’ll plan to salute the men! Meanwhile, here’s a tribute to a few of the women each of whom inspire me in a unique way: Andrea Charvet, once my waterfront assistant at a YWCA camp, whose friendship spans nearly fifty years and who survived an aneurism five years ago with such courage and humor and is now writing a book; Arlene Frederickson whose friendship goes back to my college days when I often visited her folks’ dairy farm, and whose whole family more or less adopted me. She lives in Bothell, Washington and is cussedly independent and funny as a crutch; Beth Bourland, my younger painting friend who recently survived lymphoma and a career change and who unfailingly encourages my artistic efforts, no matter how lame; Catherine, the daughter of my deceased best friend, Eva, who has been in my life since she was a child and who calls me every day of her work-packed life, no matter where in the world she is; Cheari Westling, my niece who cherishes and nurtures me long distance and is the emotional and genetic link to my dear departed sister; Jan Hagan, my photography/computer friend who helps me not only technically but with physical and emotional glitches in my life. I could go on and on, but I would probably jam the internet. Thank you, powerful, loving women of the world. Top to bottom: Cheari, Andrea, Beth, Arlene (and Ilsa), Catherine (and Teddy), Jan (and camera).

Republican Onions

In my watercolor class this week we have been experimenting painting fresh vegetables. First I focused on some French beets I picked up at Whole Foods. I was drawn to their soft yellow-orange color even though the root parts were fuzzy and hairy, and to the dramatic yellow-green of their stems. Besides that I know my niece, Cheari, a vegetarian, loves them and she is due to arrive Sunday for a visit. Then I moved on to painting two onions, donated by my friend Jan Matsuoka. I’ve come to the conclusion they are not just any old onions but republican onions. Why? Artistically I am drawn to them. On the surface they appear so fresh and polished and firm, but the very outside layer of skin is tissue thin. Onions are deceptive. For one thing, they resemble parts of the male anatomy, though granted this is not my area of expertise. Curiously they are one of the oldest vegetables known to man, and were cultivated by the Chinese over 5,000 years ago. They are rooted in an old old culture. What is deceptive is their colors are intense and in fact they almost glow. It takes a strong knife to cut through even the outside layer. Their heart, though, is hidden under layer upon layer of bitter tasting leaves that take forever to peel off. And to get to the heart, if indeed there is one, the explorer must shed many, many tears. Sometimes the heart is even rotten. I’ve thrown many an onion in the garbage for just that reason.

Yesterday Virginia governor and would be Republican vice president Bill McConnell signed the bill he has long proposed mandating vaginal probes for women seeking abortions. To me that means if you were raped and sought help you would first have to be raped again. Will hypocritical white men never give up control of women's reproductive rights? What does any man presume to have the power to dictate this? Virginia’s Lt. Gov. Bill Bolling is just as bad if not worse.

A couple of years ago because of severe anemia and suspected abdominal bleeding I was directed to have a vaginal probe. Surgery was not an option because of my atrial fib. Everything turned out fine, but from one who has experienced it, it was not a lot of fun. And mine was voluntary.

I think all the males in the legislature in Virginia should be required to have an involuntary penile probe to remain in office, don’t you? Likewise the prerequisite for viagra prescriptions should be a rectal exam. Tit for tat.