Pet Love

Its not that I don't love pets, just that I don't have one right now, highly unusual for me. Frankly, I don't know if I could manage it. I've just started back at the gym, encumbered by portable oxygen. To relieve my boredom on the treadmill, I call up in memory all my beloved pets, starting with Black Mike Crockett Crosse, the pit bull of my childhood. Mike was my bud for many years, his back fitting snugly into the curve of my knees each night. Next were my mother's dogs when I lived with her the last two years of high school: Duke, Prince, Lady Jeanne, the latter once having sixteen puppies. From her second litter I adopted a blue Merle collie, Skye Blue, my companion the last year of college and early years of teaching. A Siamese kitten, Kitty Roo, completed the pack. Then came Hallo, a stray calico, who appeared on the window ledge of my classroom on Halloween. At the right, me with Sky Blue at 21.

Moving with Lee to California in the wee bungalow in Berkeley three kitties came with the package: Junior, Mister, and Cindy. Later they shared the address at our first Oakland home with our first canine, a miniature schnauzer named Christopher Robin LeBon. Chrissie lived to sixteen, and surely was surrounded by love. A dozen more pets followed, but you get the idea. Calling up in my mind the memories of these pets gets me through fifteen minutes on the treadmill.
Nowdays I entertain myself with my Oakmont friend's pets. Probably two dozen dogs are walked by my front door daily, and all love to be greeted. Recently my friend Karen adopted two teen-age kittens, Shasta and Pixel. They are great characters, as you can see of this photo.

Wearing of the Green

So the story goes, my maternal great grandfather was pure irish, six feet tall, with flaming red hair. This may have been another figment of my mother's imagination, for all I know. Still I celebrate that little part of me that is supposed to be irish, and though I no longer chugalug irish coffee, I proudly wear as much green as I can muster on St. Patrick's day. Here I am with my book group Tuesday night at Cafe Europa, where we all gulped corned beef and cabbage. It was pretty good, too.

CLIVIA and Marianne

Even when she takes a big breath, Marianne, also 84, only comes to my chin, but like this clivia in her garden, her presence makes a big statement. She's been my friend for a couple of decades now and was one of the reasons I moved to Oakmont. She has been a true friend, and often the one sitting in the hospital waiting room while waiting for me. We've gone on several photo shoots together since I moved here. Tomorrow the "Open House" sign goes on her front lawn. Barb's health is going down hill, and they have decided to move to Lincoln Hills to be closer to family. Its a wise move for them, but a loss for all of us at Oakmont. Good luck, sweet ones. I know you will bloom wherever you are.

Steering Through Life

My book club having just finished embracing Boys in the Boat (my choice) it was with some interest when starting east across the Richmond-SanRaphael bridge yesterday I craned my neck to better see a shell with not nine but six rowers. In profile with the sun behind them I couldn't make out the sex of the rowers, but in today's climate, it could have been either. All were paddling on the same side which I found curious, and they were struggling against the incoming tide.  I hope they made it without crashing into the bridge. In the comfort of the book club discussion, I realized I keep choosing books set in Seattle. Almost sixty years since I lived there, and yet my unconscious keeps drawing me back.
In Oakland to do my taxes, I was once again aware of what I miss most in Santa Rosa: Lee's energy is there, not here. It was there in the Rockridge cafe, (yum) where I had brunch yesterday. It was there in Montclair, where I quickly purchased two bras in a store we knew by heart. It was even there on the busy streets and freeways. I wish I could bring it up here, alas. Even though some of her cremains are scattered in my new back yard, nothing has yet taken root in my being. This is not to say that I don't cherish my new community, for I do, but just that it will never be where my heart is. Like changing direction when the tide comes in, steering through life is a challenge.

From the look on her face, you can tell how seriously
we all take each assignment. Goodness, I had forgotten what its like to follow rules.

Living Flowers

Ikebana, the Japanese art of arranging flowers, comes from ikiru (to live) and hana (flowers and branches), thus meaning living flowers. When there was a teacher showing interest in teaching a class here, I jumped at the chance, and scheduled him quickly. Oakmont abounds with flowers, and learning something new is always good for aging brain cells. Usually the class meets in the Art room, but today there was a big PGE project shutting down all the main buildings so t the class met at my home for our third meeting. Its hard! We are still working on the basic upright, Shogetsu.
Ikebana is also a do, a path or way of self-realization. "To take up ikebana is to embark on a journey of self exploration" says the book  donated to me by my friend Steve, here." Am I ready for that? Hmm...
Every time I think I have it right, Ron gently pulls the flowers out of my frog, clips many more branches, and replaces them at a slightly different angle. I'm surely not used to following such precise rules, and not even sure if I want to. But I must say, the finished arrangements are stunning in their angles and simplicity. Today I worked with iris (Safeway) and privet (my back yard).

Rolling the Climate Dice

I snitched the title from the subject of last Sunday
morning's symposium. The scientist presenting predicted that in 2070 the climate of Santa Rosa will be like that of Santa Barbara today.
It seems that everywhere I turn the climate is changing. When Catherine visited today she shared that Newsom, having officially announced his candidacy for governor of California next time, has changed his posture on California High Speed Rail, now opposing it. I suppose its a political gamble, but I think he errs.
Anyway, six of us watercolorists spent three days at the Delehanty ranch in Fairfield last week painting whatever our hearts desired. It was unseasonably warm, and so it continues this week. I delayed this blog until I had something to share,
With the inspiration of my painting buddies I am trying to learn "abstract". The pouring is fun. The design is beyond me. No matter how I turn this it looks like Felix the Cat with a giant hangover.
Oh well, I had fun, and so far no nightmares. As the Minnesotans say, "It could be worse." On the other hand, maybe "Oof-dah" is a better sentiment. I see a few fish in here, do you?

In The Larger Scheme Of Things

Just as some 200 Oakmonters were filling the auditorium last Friday morning for our Celebration of Arts, (of which I was co-chair) the heavens opened up and our 36th day of winter drought came to a slippery, sloshy end. Three esteemed watercolorists, of international note, simultaneously painted the same model. I assured them, in the introduction, that the finished paintings would look nothing like one another, and my prediction came true, don't you agree?  This photo was taken by a friend of Jan Matsuoka. Yours truly was too busy thinking she had to run the show to take many pictures.

Artists Christopher Schink, Myrna Wacknov, and David Loberberg volleyed for the spotlight.
Myrna's was painted on prepared textured paper with many layers of gesso and tissue paper. The audience were invited to photograph and sketch and ask questions while the event was in progress. When it ended at 3pm, following a luncheon and power point presentation by each artist about their personal journey and how their art evolved, we were all in an altered state. I paint nothing like any of these three, but respect them all. I found myself most drawn to David's (far) right for capturing the model's expression.

Some fifty volunteers rallied to the call when we got the word that our application for a grant to do this was awarded. How impressive is that?
In the days leading up to the event I fretted: Would all the artists and model and volunteers show up? Would the predicted storm keep people away? What should I wear? What if I forgot my speech?
Then I remembered the program at Sunday Morning Symposium last week, a lecture on outer space by a brilliant physicist. It was there I learned the unrefutable evidence that not only are there millions of galaxies in our universe, but that there are millions of universes. So I said to myself "How important is any of this in the larger scheme of things? " At the end of the day all that was left was to clean up the mess, and volunteers scurried around like little chipmunks making everything near as a pin.
Above, Christopher Schink's palette on closing. You can see he's not stingy with the paint.