Green, Gone

It’s February and Northern California has turned green again, as green as the Emerald Isle. Only four months ago in October, the hills and ditches were a crisped brown in the fifth year of severe drought. Small animals like birds and squirrels seemed to move quietly, conserving their energy. I imagined them in the hot summer, tense with thirst and stoic with resignation, staying close to water sources until they went dry.

But now the bare hills are green, green. Ditches and flat valleys brim with water, buoying trash and breeding bugs. House cats stalk the tall grass at the verge of new ponds, between the hotels and fenced neighborhoods, poaching frogs and mice. Crows and robins are plentiful. Frequent rains have turned the surface cracks in all the paved roads dark with moisture, and many trees are bright with new leaves.

On the bus near Novato, CA.jpgIt is 8am, Thursday before Super Bowl 50, and I’m on the airport express bus from Sonoma County to San Francisco, at the start of a travel day heading home.This route has become familiar to me from visits over the past two years. Off the 101 between Petaluma and Novato, cattle meander bright pastures, relaxed in a world of plenty. The sun rises through blurred cirrus clouds, and white birds crowd a distant, shallow lake. The morning traffic becomes dense near San Rafael, where we make a stop before crossing the Golden Gate and threading our way through the city to the airport in South SF.

I think of all the repetitive roads and airports that have led to family over the years, strung behind me like beads on a string. The 250 miles of highway and 2-lane roads between Ithaca and Fairfield County, the college town that became my home and the place I grew up. Later, Ithaca to several towns in Florida: Vero Beach, Orlando, St. Pete. More recently, the complex itinerary of flights and taxis booked to get to Boquete, Panama, where my mother, sister and brother-in-law lived for 2 years: SYR to MIA, then, not one but two airports in Panama City (arrive at Tocumen International and get a connecting flight from Albrook International), finally arriving at Enrique Malek International in the city of David on Panama’s Pacific coast, not far from the Costa Rican border.

Closer to home, I think often of the the two-lane roller-coaster roads in the Catskills between Ithaca and Big Indian, NY, where for the past four summers I have have spent a week with a tribe of musicians. And I think of all the domestic air travel done over the years requiring transit through US hubs, mainly Philadelphia, Pittsburgh, New York, Newark, Charlotte, Detroit. And ATL, the grandmother of them all — Atlanta, my mother’s birthplace, where some of our family still live. I wonder how many more times will I travel this particular route between Ithaca and Santa Rosa, the scene of my mother’s decline.

Dorothy is a resident the senior facility that my mother lives in. She is white-haired, thin, and sharp-eyed. She was a Rockette during the second world war, hired in 1942 at just 17 years old, below the minimum age requirement, but, as she says, “It was war.” She has a smile that is both devilish and sad, and, in case I mistake her for an old woman, she is quick to offer me a profile of who she really is, inside — young, adventurous and risk-taking, at one time a mother and matriarch of a country house full of dogs and children. Now she’s a widow like all of the women on the assisted living wing, carefully walking the well-lit halls of invisibility. My mother walks here, too, but she is quiet, reserved, inward-looking, and seldom offers any insights into her feelings or thoughts. Perhaps this is her advancing memory loss, or perhaps it is her true nature.

Traffic is heavy on the 101, and the ride to SFO will take two-and-a-half hours this morning. But I’m not anxious about missing my flight. I will have time to get something to eat before boarding the long flight to DTO on a 737. After a one hour in layover Detroit, I’ll take the one-hour-plus flight to ITH on a Canadair jet, arriving about 10pm. Home.

I’m obsessed with my travel details: times, distances, signage, countdowns, gate numbers, terminal letters. Every fifteen minutes I check the contents of my large, heavy purse: iPhone, iPad Mini, wallet, passport, lip balm, liquids in a quart size ziplock, handkerchief, hand lotion. I read every highway sign overhead on the 101, hearing the words inside my head: Lucky Drive, right lane closed, Tiburon Blvd. The big names of myth and magic: Blithedale, Tamalpais, Alcatraz. But there is so much monotony, too. Miles of big box stores, car dealerships, generic houses crowded into every available bit of real estate. Cars, cars, cars. Whatever is beautiful and fine must be shared by so many. There are no private experiences, everything is reduced to a common denominator, from affluence to working class to poverty.

My travel OCD is more pronounced as I age. I repeat these numbers and names to myself, over and over. Delta. Gate 41. One dollar tip for the bus driver in my right pocket. Passport. Boarding Pass. The unbelievably blue ocean and bay under the Golden Gate distract me briefly. The unimaginable breadth and depth of the Pacific Ocean bordering this coast threatens to unmoor my travel thoughts. It almost knocks them from the top spot. Almost.

I could never live here. It’s too dense. The green is too thin, too transient. There are too many people, too many cars, too many houses. I feel that my mind could not survive the constant onslaught of stimulation. There are too many numbers, names, and times to track and memorize. Street names, addresses, amounts, garbage pick up days, new routes to necessary places, intersections, mental maps, instructions. People’s names: doctors, neighbors, instructors, caregivers. Too many homeless, panhandlers, crazies, drug addicts. Perhaps I would adapt, if I chose to or was forced to. Necessity is the mother of adaptability. But for now, I’m gone. Just a visitor anxious to leave, conveyed passively with the conviction of deliverance. I visit California as the green only visits. We make our long arrivals, recessions and departures. And then we fly away, again.

 

Spring Haiku 2011 – Part 2

a single egg fell
from the nest in the pine tree
doves in grey mourning
4/17/11

sometimes when I ride
i want to close my eyes and
let the horse rein me
4/19/11

having a kitten
means going through bandaids
like a house afire
4/20/11

on May twenty-first
at precisely twelve a.m.
rapturous moonrise

as the clouds were limned
just before the moon came up
i heard coyotes
5/21/11

The Ahni Memorial Tree

Prairie Fire is the name given to the flowering crabapple tree that my neighbors, Michael and Jane, found for the Ahni Memorial Tree. It took a long time to choose one although we had agreed on a crabapple months before during the previous Fall. Michael was in charge of finding the tree but he just couldn’t find one that he liked until this past week.

My view of the Ahni Memorial Tree
My view of the Ahni Memorial Tree

Because it would be in my yard I selected the exact spot on the south-west facing slope just on my side of the willow fence the three of us had erected earlier, in the Spring. The tree would be visible to Michael and Jane from their second-story back porch overlooking my yard, and visible to me from my kitchen windows. In the coming years we hoped it would attract bees and birds to the flowers and fruit, especially roving flocks of Cedar Waxwing.

In October we organized the hole digging. At the time, I didn’t know this would be the Ahni Memorial tree. It was just a neighborly project. The three of us stood in the yard contemplating the site and I was thinking about Ahni, who in past years was always in the yard with me. But her arthritis, dimming eyesight and hearing loss were closing her off from the life she had loved so much. It seemed everyone in the neighborhood knew that Ahni was fading. It was Michael who suggested we plant the tree in her honor.

I have deliberately blurred my memory of the exact dates, but as it turned out we dug the hole within days of Ahni’s passing. There was snow on the ground when we dug the hole but it was actually a mild day. When I took Ahni to the vet for the last time it was a cold night and there was ice on the ramp leading up to the entrance of the vet hospital. I think it was early December.

So we dug the hole. We ran into so many large stones – 10 pounders – that it was very slow going. Below six inches of fine soil were clay and rocks, rocks, rocks. But Michael loves to play in the dirt — he says he will be a gardener in his next life — so although it was hard going he rallied Jane and me to persevere, and finally we marveled at the really deep, really broad hole we had dug.

Michael and Jane and a stone dug out of the the tree hole
Michael and Jane and a stone we dug out of the tree hole.

All winter long the hole stared back at me from my kitchen windows. It was a long, cold winter, a winter like winters used to be in Ithaca.

But now it is peak Spring, the time when the leaves come out, the thrushes return and all the flowering trees, shrubs and plants are burgeoning.

Michael, Jane and I planted the tree yesterday, a warm, windy day with passing showers. As we worked the sun would go in out behind clouds and brief showers would pass over us. I looped a bit of wire loosely around the lowest branches and strung Ahni’s collar tag on it. I didn’t plan this, in fact I had planned on burying the tag in the hole — but I forgot! Then, before we staked in the deer fence, I put in those tulip bulbs (the ones I had neglected to plant last fall) around the base of our little Prairie Fire. There was one serious shower just as we were finishing the fence, but then the sun came out again.

The collar tag
The collar tag

I believe the lives of animals are brief and bright, like candle flames. A veterinarian who treated my horse once said, “They are beasts, not men.” For a long time that bothered me because I was experiencing my horse and my dog as my children, fulfilling the nurturing part of my nature. But I think what he meant is that animals have animal nature; unlike men they live in the moment and do not regret. Regret is for Man, and certainly women like me. Good neighbors are a support and constancy who can carry you through it, riding along as time flows around us.

Prairiefire crab apple. just planted
Prairie Fire Crabapple (Malus Prairiefire)

Next spring I hope the  bright orange bunching tulips I planted will announce the Prairie Fire‘s dark purple-red blossoms and we’ll enjoy them all as the brief, bright spring passes, reminding me of my little candle, my star, my lighthouse, my Ahni.

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