Leaving Weaving

I parted with an old friend today. As I watched my Cassandra I weaving loom drive away in the bed of Carol Bingaman's truck, I heard a sad whisper. Like the news of the death of a neglected relative I'd been meaning to visit more often but never found the time to see. I had ordered the loom in 1978. It was one of the last of its kind, as Thought Products, Inc., the company that manufactured it went out of business between the time I ordered the loom and the time it was delivered in 1979. Made of solid cherry wood, the loom's design anticipated the advances that computerization would soon bring to weaving. I requested all the special options offered and could not wait to try them out. When the loom was installed at my house in Fillmore, it took up half of the living room. I promptly dressed it and began to weave. The loom and I were pictured in an article in the Fillmore Herald about my hand weaving hobby.

We had a few good years together before I was drawn into raising natural colored wool sheep and began hand spinning wool from my own flock. Compared to weaving, spinning was like learning to swing dance after sedately waltzing with a dull partner for several years. Spinning was portable and you didn't have to commit blocks of hours to do it. You didn't have to worry your mind with mathematical calculations relating to threads per inch or yards per pound. You could tell pretty quickly whether your product was pleasing or not, unlike weaving where you might not know until you had invested several days in a project. Gradually the loom became invisible. It was literally like the elephant in the room: everyone noticed it, but no one commented on it. It sat silent, taking up space and gathering dust. When I moved to Ventura in 1989, the loom came with me to take up space in the garage where my car should have been parked.

I didn't even look at the loom when I decided to list it for sale. Gathering together books and magazines on weaving that were also stored in the garage did not kindle even a spark of desire. I felt a sense of pure relief when I put the word out to a few friends that the loom was for sale. When I didn't have an immediate inquiry, I listed it on Craig's List. I was a bit surprised to have three inquiries within the first day. The first person wanted to see photos, so I pulled down all the fleeces that were stored on the loom and dragged boxes away from it so I could get some shots. As I emailed the photos to her, I began to feel nostalgic about the loom. I thought that if I didn't sell it, I wouldn't mind starting to weave again. The second person simply asked if the loom were still available. An odd opening question, I thought, since it was posted about four hours after I had sent in the listing at 9:00 p.m. Carol's inquiry wanted to know about the loom's history and how it had been cared for. After talking to her on the phone for a few minutes, I felt that if she wanted the loom, it would have good care and give her the pleasure I had enjoyed.

Carol and her husband, Bart, drove up from San Fernando Valley to look at the loom this afternoon. I was embarrassed to show it to them without having had a chance to remove the dust, polish it off and see if it were intact. They examined the loom and all its parts closely. A private airplane pilot, Bart showed an impressive knowledge of the engineering and technical aspects of the loom. Carol wanted to understand how it was different from the looms with which she was familiar. I was basically no help, as I had not touched the loom in over twenty years. We examined the instruction book, made some guesses and experiments about how parts moved and worked, and then I left Carol and Bart alone with the loom.

In the end, Carol decided she wanted the loom, and the three of us worked together to load it onto the truck. When they drove off with my Cassandra I, it was like the end of a finely woven dream. While I had always wanted to believe that I would return to weaving one day, the reality was I never gave it a thought for many, many years. As Bart described the garage they had converted into a large studio for Carol, I could see that the Cassie would get much better care than I had ever given it. Anyway, I can't really return to that part of my life again. If I feel the urge, I can finger a few woven pieces I still have to remind me of the hours in which, long ago, I would happily lose myself in counting threads or swaying with the rhythm of throwing the shuttle.

--
Donna Hamer
Ventura, California
My Blog: gardenofdeedee@blogspot.com

Bread Production

On a recent visit to Sunnyvale, I enjoyed a breakfast of pastries and hot chocolate at Le Boulanger. Customers at the bakery can watch the mechanized process of mixing the dough, forming the loaves and buns and conveying them to the ovens. Workers in hairnets and white uniforms move briskly about, stabbing and cutting dough, tossing it into giant mixers and punching it down. They weigh pieces of dough and send them into the loaf-forming machine, grabbing out the odd ones to start over again. It's hard and fast work and riveting to watch. I recalled scenes in the movie "Mon Oncle" where Jacques Tati creates havoc in an industrial plastics factory by flipping an odd switch and lending an unwitting hand here and there, oblivious to the consequences of his actions. I couldn't help wondering what Uncle Hulot might have done if he were to wander through the bakery factory.

The hot chocolate was thick and rich with a dollop of heavy cream on top and my cinnamon pastries were yummy. I purchased a loaf of the LB's award-winning sour dough to take home with me. As I watched the production of the bakery products, I couldn't help imagining the thousands of stores and restaurants that would be the recipients of these items, and the myriads of people who would buy them, take them home and enjoy them. Each loaf exactly the same in taste and texture, every bun perfectly formed and baked to perfection. I thought of all the jobs the bakery supports: people who design, manufacture and service the equipment, creaters of recipes, bakers, sales and delivery personnel and administrative staff. It's a giant step from great grandma's two small loaves rising gently on a breadboard in the kitchen.

When I was young, one of the best treats -- better even than ice cream -- was a slice of fresh baked bread dripping with butter. There was, of course, the anticipation during each stage of production. I watched my great grandmother measure the ingredients to form the dough, waited for the yeast to grow and form a sponge and saw her punch down the sponge. She then added flour, kneaded the dough, placed it in a warm corner of the kitchen and let it rise. Several hours later, she kneaded the dough again, shaped it into two loaves and let the dough rest under a dampened muslin cloth. I would check in regularly, barely able to wait for the loaves to rise high enough to go into the oven. The aroma of yeast bread baking would bring me in from wherever I was to peek through the glass of the oven door and watch the bread brown.

My own bread making experiences were not as satisfactory. The idea and process of making the bread were always so much greater than the final result. Often the yeast was not really fresh enough to give good results.  I was always uncertain about how long to knead the dough so the texture would be light rather than brick solid. My kitchen never seemed to have the right cozy spot to keep the dough warm enough to rise properly. I would anxiously watch my two loaves baking in the oven, begging them to rise up over the edge of the pans and form the rounded top I so much wanted to see. In the end, buying bread from a bakery turned out to be my best option. Bakery bread has everything going for it. Everything, that is, except the exquisite taste that my great grandmother's loving hands imparted to the loaves she made.


--
Donna Hamer
Ventura, California
My Blog: gardenofdeedee@blogspot.com

Demented States

I was sharing with my favorite massage therapist, Jo Young, on a recent Saturday about how difficult it is to visit a loved one with dementia, especially when you have to drive several hours one way to see someone who no longer recognizes you. It was my suggestion that when she makes her next trip, Jo look for something fun to do after her visit, so that she doesn't come away with a sad heart.
I have had several experiences visiting relatives who didn't clearly recall who I was. When I asked my Great Great Aunt Eva if she knew who I was toward the last days of her life, she said "Aren't you the one they found in the bullrushes?" I remember being at a loss for words when this vibrant woman, who had lived just beyond her 101st birthday, fell into a mental world that I could not follow. I joked with her and answered back, "I guess I am." We held hands and I stroked her cheek and forehead until she fell asleep.

Another relative I requently visited slipped into an unresponsive state and stopped eating a few weeks before she died. Although she had been fully aware of where she was, what day it was and who was president up to that point, it seemed to me that once she realized she would not be going home again, she drew inside herself and drifted away. I found that by holding her hand and telling her about my comings and goings and asking her questions once in awhile, I would get an occasional squeeze from her hand that made me feel like we were connecting.

The fun things I found to do after these visits did not cost a lot of money. Sometimes I picked up lunch from an exotic restaurant or a sweet treat from a bakery to take home with me. I would go window shopping or wander through a bookstore I had not been in before. If there was a view to be seen, I drove to it and spent time enjoying it before heading home. Once I found a small shop where I treated myself to a pedicure. This place was inexpensive enough that I could return several more times after my visits.

Medical professionals have said that when someone is in a "persistent vegetative state" there is no real brain function anymore. This may be true, but I like to believe that during this transitional time before death, I can still give and receive comfort through touch and words. It somehow makes saying goodbye to these special people easier.

Meerkat Society

Standing just 12 inches in height, meerkats are industrious little mongooses. They get up in the morning and everyone helps with the "housekeeping" by clearing sand out of their burrow entrances. Lookouts are posted to keep an eye out for birds of prey. They assign babysitting duties to different members so their pups are cared for while the others go out foraging.

My daughter-in-law thinks the meerkat pups are cute. My son thinks they are hideous. While I don't find them as hideous as, say, a Jerusalem cricket, their appearance does not strike me exactly as cute. It's their eating habits that I find hideous. Meerkats like insects, scorpions and millipedes in particular, and the Animal Planet's "Meerkat Manor" episodes devote plenty of video time to their foraging behavior with close-ups of crunching down or ripping apart live meals. They generally do not share their food, and adult meerkats don't hesitate to steal tasty morsels from the young ones as an easy way to fill their stomachs.

Meerkats spend part of their day grooming themselves and each other. The dominant female (DF) gets the most grooming by all in the group who want to stay on her good side. She is the one who makes the major decisions and drives out rule breakers. Since she has the power to kill or expel a member, everyone makes sure to give her plenty of attention and offer quick apologies for any bad behavior. They all sleep cozily together in their burrows at night to keep warm.

The meerkat teens, like their human counterparts, are irrepressible and irresponsible. They enjoy playing and roughhousing more than standing watch or minding the pups. The group can also harbor one or more trouble makers who create chaos with their ill-conceived acts. There appears to be considerable tolerance for these behaviors, although some individuals can be shunned and isolated for their actions.

Whether they are trying to drive out a reluctant adder or attacking their meerkat neighbors, meerkats stick together in a fight. They raise their tails high in the air and kick out their hind legs to make themselves look bigger when they attack another group or are themselves attacked. They take turns making aggressive spit-barks at an embedded snake until they determine getting the intruder to leave is a lost cause. Then they turn on their heels and get the heck away.

The DF is the one with breeding rights. Other females in the group that become pregnant face her wrath upon delivering their pups. The DF can choose to kill pups that aren't hers, as well as punish or drive out their mother. However, pups by mothers other than the DF that are not killed get the same mindful care as the DF's pups. The other females in the group will actually lactate and nurse the DF's pups when they have babysitting duty.

These are just a few of the facts I learned while watching "Meerkat Manor." Based on research by Cambridge University, the documentary series is every bit as compelling as any soap opera. Each episode ends at a critical moment where you must tune in next time to get the rest of the story. It was amazing to me to learn that there were researchers who have devoted more than ten years of their life to observing meerkats in the Kalahari Desert. After watching the first DVD of this fascinating documentary, I could see why. The social structure of these little animals is quite complex. While the popular "Meerkat Manor" emphasizes the very appealing cooperative behavior of these mongooses, the study's research has also exposed a darker side to their behavior that needs to be further explored. I can't wait to see what secrets are revealed next.

Pet Parade

I saw my first Halloween pet parade last Sunday morning in Sunnyvale. I used to believe that such activities were too silly for me to participate in or support by watching. However, now that I've seen what is possible in pet dressing, I won't miss another opportunity to share in the fun. The parade started with a troop of Boy Scouts and their trusty black labrador friend, followed by a policeman and his K-9 partner, tense with the uncertainty of whether he was out for a stroll or actually working. Next came a big, red fire engine blasting its sirens to alert us that the parade had officially begun. Then a community marching band of older duffers in Halloween costumes passed loudly and briskly by.

Most of the nonhuman participants were dogs, but other pets were also represented. There was a tree-limb size boa constrictor hanging languidly around its owner's shoulders that tolerated a plethora of petting from several small children. An especially unique entry included tiers of terraria on a rolling cart whose occupants were too small for me to identify from where I stood. A few horses and a pony, riddenby young girls of course brought up the rear of the parade. One of the horses appeared to be dressed as an elongated pumpkin with its orange neck- and saddle-cloths and a burst of green netting at its tail. The placement of the equines at the end of the parade was a thoughtful planning move by those sensitive to the other participants.

Three small dogs twirled along as bunches of green grapes, while their vintner owner pulled a vat full of fake grapes on a Radio Flyer wagon. A stout American bull dog marched along placidly in its sleek blue dragon costume dotted with purple spikes. A little, long-haired dog fluttered by with its owners, the threesome all in matching, sparkly purple capes. There was a fawn-colored pug that looked like a half-peeled banana, and a bundle of bee costumes on several different breeds. A weiner dog with the obvious stuffed hot dog buns on either side of its body trotted by, thankfully oblivious to the message it was carrying. My personal favorite was a black mini dachshund creatively dressed like a red lobster sitting in a pot of simulated water with paper flames rising up around it.

I have noticed the trend at my local pet store to carry not only decorative collars and leashes but actual dog and cat clothing, games, toys, and, yes, costumes. While I never really gave much about purchasing a costume for any of my pets, I did at one time consider buying a raincoat for my dog, Max. The $40 price tag dampened my enthusiasm. Out of necessity, I fashioned a workable coat using an old dish towel duct-taped to a custom-cut black garbage bag and embellished with red ribbon ties. This worked so well that I have never replaced it. I once purchased and encouraged my Welsh corgi, Katie, to wear a headband with reindeer antlers for Christmas. She would have none of it, and the antlers ended up dragging the floor, like the wings of a sad albatross.

I have to admit that I thoroughly enjoyed my first pet parade. Aside from the purple cape wearers mentioned above, I have no recollection of what the other human participants wore. I was too busy chuckling about the animals to notice. The cleverness of the pet costumes and the unabashed way all participants had such a merry time was impressive and infectious. It turned out to be a great way to start the day: a bit of cheerful jollity with no purpose other than to create and spread smiles.

Designer Fish

The first time my mother became interested in tropical fish, I was astounded. While she had tolerated my cat, an assortment of frogs, lizards and horned toads and a parakeet, my mother never seemed to me to be a person who cared much for pets. One Friday evening I was sitting home mopey because I didn't have a date and had to spend the evening at home with nothing to do but watch TV. I was 16. My mother danced in after work with a water-filled plastic bag in one hand and a small aquarium in the other. She commandeered my help in setting up the aquarium.

We carefully read all the instructions together and decided to place the aquarium on top of the TV. The plastic bag contained a tiny blowfish and miniature seahorse. These were saltwater fish, so we had to add salt and check the salinity of the water until it was at the optimum level for the fish. Then the fish in their bag had to float in the aquarium water until the bag water and the aquarium water temperature was the same. When the fish were released into the aquarium, they explored their new home cautiously. My mother could not stop exclaiming about how cute they were, and she relayed every movement each fish made with all the excitement of a sports announcer. I went to bed several hours later with the image of her eyes, distorted through the water, staring intently at her new darlings.

Every night when my mother arrived home from work she would go immediately to the aquarium to study the fish and see what new tricks they were up to. The blowfish became quite friendly and would stare back at my mother and follow her finger on the glass with equal interest. The seahorse, on the other hand, attached its tail to the stem of the green plant and bobbed blandly back and forth among the upright leaves, its tiny eyes constantly scanning for food. Once in awhile it would break loose and float about, the tiny fin on its back whirling like a small fan. It's true these fish were incredible creatures. Although I preferred furry pets you could touch, I have to admit that I grew to enjoy watching the fish, too. There seemed little need to turn on the TV for entertainment. I'm not sure how it was for the fish, but watching them had a soothing effect on my mother and me. It was a sad day when I returned from an overnight with a friend to learn that the seahorse had passed on to happier trails. The blowfish did not last too much longer. We kept the fascinating seahorse skeleton as a memento for many years. 

Although I never had the enthusiasm for fish that my mother had, I and my youngest son have had various fish pets over the years. There was Bright, my son's pearl scale goldfish, that he found floating belly up one morning. We held a meaningful funeral service for Bright by scooping out a place at the base of the rosebush by our front gate, carefully placing Bright in it and covering the pet gently with dirt. I said a few words about how Bright would now provide important nutrients to the rose bush. My son shed a few tears before bravely announcing, "Bright, you were a good pet," and then we rushed off, he to Kindergarten and I to work. And there was Alpha, the first in a line of several blue Bettas I owned. Alpha survived one especially cold winter in his small bowl wrapped in a sweater under an incandescent light and went on to live for three more years. I found him one morning, a dry blot on the bathroom floor where he had fallen after jumping out of his bowl.

My interest in fish could not come close to that of my ex-husband's aunt and uncle. We visited them once in their Sacramento home where the kitchen and family room were stocked floor to ceiling with fish tanks full of fancy guppies. They spent every moment we were with them catching fish in small nets, moving them to other tanks and changing the water in still other tanks. Conversation was challenging, but they never dropped a tank or spilled a fish. When I inquired about why they had so many, they said they had started with just a few which had quickly had babies and the babies had babies and now here they were. The guppies were fascinating because of the variation in tail color that occurred within just a few generations. I could see why they had trouble getting rid of any. It would be hard to flush them down the toilet, and the pet stores could not purchase enough to keep up with the birth rate. I was sure that by the time we came to visit again, there would be no room left in the house for us.

This afternoon I attended a meeting at the home of Tom Berg, President of the California Literary Arts Society. Tom has two huge aquaria in his home, and each is different. One has lots of leafy plants and colorful fish in it, and the other has few plants with an interesting assortment of black and white fish that have red on their snouts, fins or tails. These fish have models of classical ruins in which to move about and hide. I was immediately impressed by the cheerful busy-ness of the more brightly colored fish and the aura of calm the black and white fish with their red highlights projected. I could imagine myself, depending upon mood, buoyed up with enthusiasm by the interaction of fish and plants in one tank or brought to deep reflection on the meaning of life by the ruins and placement of red on the fish in the other. Television cannot offer anything to compete with this.

A House of My Own

From the time I was five years old until I graduated from college, I had mostly lived in apartments. There was a four-year period where I actually lived in four different homes. I first spent two years living with my maternal grandmother and great grandmother, followed by another two years (what I fondly recall as the "Cinderella years") living with my father, stepmother, stepbrother and half sister, first in their cramped tract home, then in an even more cramped rental home while their new house was being built and finally in the spacious dream house for a few months before their marriage fell apart. By the time I left college I had recorded 12 different addresses.

After college, I shared a small house with two other girls in San Francisco. When I got a job in Woodside for artist Walter Keane, I moved to a studio apartment, and soon moved again to a one-bedroom apartment where I comfortably remained until, in a fit of temper one morning, I stood up and quit my job. I had been at work just nine months at that point and had saved no cash. This left me with few options. My grandfather convinced me to return to Long Beach and take a course in shorthand. Although he had willingly financed my four years at Mills College, Papaw never believed that I would go very far with a college education. Secretarial training, he predicted, would be my true gateway to a good job. So, I returned and reluctantly moved in with my father and his new wife.

Despite the attraction of sharing not-the-dream house with my father, a different stepmother, a black Great Dane named Valhalla and Kee Soo, their Siamese cat, I longed for a place of my own. Even riding in my stepmother's Mark IX Jaguar or driving my Dad's 1946 Cadillac Coupe was not enough to keep me there. Within a few months I had learned all the shorthand my fingers could absorb and struck out again for the Bay Area.

I briefly lived in the closet of a huge two-story Victorian house occupied by a college classmate, her husband and an assortment of transitional folks. I found a job in the University of California President's Office in Berkeley, and moved again into a tiny apartment just two blocks from work. I was thrilled to be there and mistress of my own time and space. I recall earning approximately $150 a month. On that salary, I could keep my own apartment, feed myself, maintain a car and have money left over to spend. I was very comfortable in Berkeley for several years until I gave up the single life.

My husband and I moved several times after our marriage, usually over Memorial Day weekend so we wouldn't miss any days from work. We first lived in a charming Ben Lomond, California rental. Then, when the Air Force intruded, we moved to Biloxi, Mississippi. Our residences there included a slave shack where slime mold grew with impunity under the claw-footed bathtub, a room in a shirttail relative's home that had survived Hurricane Camille on Highway 90 and then to a miniature concrete block house where foot-sized roaches shuffled about at night.

After Biloxi, there was North Little Rock, Arkansas, where we bought our first house for $24,000. I loved this modern brick house. It was the first house we owned together, and it had three spacious bedrooms, two bathrooms, kitchen, dining room and living room -- all with air conditioning! We were able to use the money I received from my UC retirement funds as a down payment. And we got a good deal on the house because the white owner was anxious to sell and move into a neighborhood where his children would not have to attend public schools desegregated for the first time. We had very little furniture, but we enjoyed sitting on cushions on the floor in the dining room eating our meals on a door I had set up on concrete blocks and painted a glossy black to serve as our Japanese-style table. It broke my heart to leave our lovely home and return to California three years later.

Back in California, we moved in with my husband's parents at their orange ranch in Fillmore for six months before buying our own place just down the road. Our new ranch didn't have much of a house. It was just a small, board-and-batten affair with a shake roof, but  it had an ivy-covered porch and the property included a screened-in barbeque house, a huge cement-floored garage that the previous owner had used to house his farm labor workers, a tractor shed and a chicken coop. There was lots of room for the three horses we had trailered from Arkansas and a place for the mare and foal that would be shipped out later from Fort Smith. After the Sespe Creek flooded in 1978 and washed out five acres where our alfalfa field had been, I was eager to find a property with higher ground. For years after whenever it would rain heavily, I would lie awake at night listening to the boulders crashing and rolling down the creek unable to sleep. We were lucky to purchase a much larger orchard up the road that was safer from creek flooding, but we sometimes had flooding from the road. We lived in this house for a bit more than ten years, and it was here my children spent their earliest years.


After I divorced, I moved to a house of my own in Ventura. I have lived in this house for more than 20 years now. It has been the perfect place for me to raise my two boys among friendly neighbors, close to good schools, and just a skip to the freeway to head north, south or east. I can walk to the Post Office, grocery and drug stores. I am just minutes away from downtown and the beach. During the time I have lived here, several relatives have passed away, and I have brought their precious items into my garage. I have stacked boxes of photos and an entire wall of books in the garage. The garage also houses my 8-harness loom, boxes of fleeces from sheep raising days, spinning wheel, tack box with my English saddle and boots, none of which I have been able to part with.

While I have to say that living in a house is superior in many ways to living in an apartment, it does have its drawbacks. It seems that no matter how large the living space, I am always able to fill it to overflowing with items I can't live without. In the past, moving from smaller to larger houses only enabled me to pursue this lifestyle. Living in a house makes it easy to take in and collect things that apartment living won't allow. Gone are the days when I could pack all my possessions into the single bed of a pickup truck. Now, looking ahead to retirement, I am faced with the problem of how to get rid of items that have a lifetime of memories attached to them.

I have never been good about getting rid of things, mine or those of deceased relatives and children who have moved away but are not yet settled. Neither am I any good at getting rid of something that has not completely outlived its usefulness. I have joked on occasion that I would welcome a cataclysmic event that would sever me from my possessions. I imagine how freeing it would be to start out again fresh and new. An earthquake, a fire, even another flood would do. The time is now for me to make those bloodless decisions about what to keep and what to get rid of. I can no longer continue bringing things into my house and garage: there's simply no room. I fear becoming the kind of person people read about in the newspaper who dies in her home and the firemen have to tunnel in to find her surrounded by every magazine she ever subscribed to.

I have recently made a start and am encouraged by actually being able to throw out the half-empty bag of rat food belonging to a pet long since departed. I even donated to charity a gift kite my eldest son never flew. I just hope I can move from these simple gestures to more significant sacrifices that will allow me to finally throw off the oppressive blanket of possessions and their burden of care. I can only imagine a future wondering what I will do with my time. I might even be able to mark off some of the items on my "Things To Do Before I Die" list. One of those things is to be able to park my car in a well-organized, clean garage.

Default Soloist

Bolstered by the belief that anyone can learn to sing with practice, I joined the church choir five years ago. I was gratefully accepted into the choir, and no one visibly cringed when I sang. I began in the alto section and then moved to the soprano section, where I had always dreamed of being. At my Sixth Grade graduation, our class sang "You'll Never Walk Alone" for our graduation ceremony. I resisted my placement in the alto section and sang the soprano part whenever I could get away with it. No one ever encouraged me to sing. Not my Sixth Grade teacher. Not even my mother, who herself would often break into song. When I warbled as a child, she would invariably roll her eyes and say, "Oh, my! You couldn't carry a tune in a hand basket."

For most of my life, I avoided singing in public and rarely sang in private. I recall hearing a story about Barbara Streisand as a youngster belting songs down the stairwell of her apartment building. And Pavarotti saying in a radio interview that the way to learn to sing is to begin by screaming and then learn to control it. I wondered where they got their nerve to begin. I couldn't imagine singing where others could hear me, yet alone screaming. Streisand and Pavarotti surely had an inborn passion to sing that could not be squelched.

I was well past middle age when I worked for an arts organization that offered an inexpensive series of group voice lessons. I observed the class a few times before I could bring myself to sign up. At the first lesson, I was thrilled to find that there were people just like me who were so inhibited by past experience they could not bring themselves to sing out loud. The student with the best voice was almost brought to tears whenever she was asked to sing for the group. We limped along together, leaning on each other and gaining courage. With practice we improved. But it would be several more years before I felt ready to join the church choir. By the time I did, I knew that if I ever wanted to sing before I died, I had better get at it.

Joining the church choir was a good move. I did not have to audition, and everyone was glad to have me. I could safely learn to sing where I felt like I was contributing to a greater cause. The first Sunday we sang, I was just one of two in my section. Although I was pretty shaky, my partner soprano had a beautiful, strong voice, and I did OK. It really felt good. After a few seasons with my church choir, I took a Summer school course in choral singing and then added Gold Coast Concert Chorus to my activities. The chorus had approximately 100 singers, and I absolutely loved being part of it. The second performance I did with the group was in the Oxnard Performing Arts Center with the Master Chorale of Ventura County and an 80-piece orchestra. This was my absolute dream for being a singer! I thought that if I never sang another note, I would have accomplished all I had hoped for.

Several years have gone by since then, and I was feeling pretty good about my singing. That is until last week at church choir practice. Our soprano section had increased to a robust five voices, and I was really happy about that. However, at last week's practice, I was just one of two. When we were called on to sing, we sounded pretty thin, and my fellow soprano dropped out on a piece she didn't know and was having trouble sight reading. So when the choir director said, "OK, sopranos only," I was the only one who began to sing. At first I was just painfully aware of how flat I sounded, but as I continued on, my voice wobbled, cracked and refused to respond. In trying to give more support to my voice, I failed to reach higher notes well within my range. Even remembering how several of our really fine solo singers often sounded pretty bad during reheasals, didn't help me. I was walking alone through the storm and it didn't feel good.

Later, thinking about how things had gone at practice, I realized that I had gotten sloppy about working on my music. With others in my section to depend on, I had stopped practicing every day and, more often than not, would simply breeze into rehearsals thinking that once a week would be enough. I knew that if I really wanted to contribute as a choral singer, continuing in this manner would not get me there. So, while I'm not quite back to square one, I've realized how much work it takes to sing well. Now I've got to get back to putting in the time to warm up before singing, learning the pieces and practicing like I really mean it.

Organic

I recently purchased Washington Delicious apples from a local health food store. I was excited to find  beautiful, true red apples that I could actually recognize. They all had stickers applied to their skins. One apple had four: three that said "Organic" and one that said "Washington Delicious, Grown in USA." By the time I peeled all the stickers off, the apple looked wounded, but it was delicious. I can remember a time when grocery clerks knew what kind of fruit they were selling. Admittedly they didn't have to distinguish between organic and non-organic back then. But now even I have to read the sticker to know what I'm buying. Is it an Organic Pink Lady locally grown, or a non-organic Braeburn from New Zealand?

I choose organic produce because, despite the higher cost, I feel I am protecting myself in some small way against chemical fertilizers and pesticides. But the most compelling reason is simply to satisfy my palate. I have been stung more than once by buying melons that looked perfect only to find they are pale and lifeless inside. When I lived on an orange ranch in Fillmore, I discovered that blemished or disfigured oranges tasted better than the picture-perfect specimens in a supermarket. My experience in Arkansas, where I had only Texas oranges available, taught me that greenish oranges, while unappealing to look at, were actually ripe and good to eat. Now, when I buy fruits and vegetables, I want scrumptious taste more than I want an ideal still-life specimen.

Several years ago I volunteered at a local food bank and brought along several shopping bags of tangerines picked from my backyard tree to donate to the cause. The next week when I came back, I saw my lovely tangerines at the bottom of a bin designated for hog farmers. Admittedly, the fruit was small by commercial standards, and it had seeds in it, but the flavor was the best I've ever tasted. I was disappointed that my donation was going to feed animals that probably had no appreciation for a  tangy taste. While it was my wish to help feed the needy, I realized that other people don't always see things the way I do.

Last week I stopped in at the McGrath Family Farm in Camarillo to pick up some veggies for dinner. I was greeted by a young man who offered me a deal on some pretty sorry looking corn. Not only did he offer me a cash discount, but he said he would husk the ears and cut out the worms for me. I could not pass this up. I came home with a bag of fresh corn that provided me a succulent dinner with almost no effort. The corn was great straight, after just a few minutes in boiling water -- no butter, no salt -- just luscious summer-corn taste. The helpers at McGrath's 101 Highway stand don't need stickers to tell them what kind of apples they sell.

Although I no longer live the farm life, I do have three vegetable boxes in my back yard. Nothing pleases me more than to step outside and gather a handful of curly parsley or pull Kentucky Wonder beans fresh from the vines. And if the slugs have slurped a notch from a strawberry or two, I simply cut it out and rejoice in the unbeatable flavor.

White Teeth

When I was 11 years old I went to live with my father and stepmother.  My stepmother, who had a barely concealed crush on her dentist, took this chance to schedule me for a series of appointments with this man. As a result, nearly every tooth in my head received a filling whether it needed it or not. A particularly grueling session occurred when the dentist filled both of my upper lateral incisors. I still recall the painful injections of novacaine with what looked to be, and felt like, a horse syringe. After two hours of drilling, packing my teeth, mixing and applying the porcelain, then waiting for everything to set, the dentist removed my cloth bib and allowed me to get up. He then led me to a side room where my stepmother was waiting, and poured himself a tumbler of gin. My legs were trembly and I felt like fainting. I stood quietly waiting for the dentist and my stepmother to end their jovial banter for what seemed like another two hours.

So when my current dentist, some 50 years later, suggested that he could replace the now discolored two front fillings, I hesitated.

He said, "You have such a lovely smile. You don't want to have it marred by these old fillings, do you?"

I flashed him my imperfect smile and said, "I'll think about it."

As I handed my credit card to the receptionist, she asked if I wanted to set up an appointment to take care of the old fillings. I responded that I needed to pay off my current charge before I could do that. I'm still thinking about it, and cost isn't the real factor here.

What I'm thinking about is whether or not I'm willing to redo fillings simply for cosmetic purposes. I'll admit that dental practices are considerably more humane since I was a child, so pain is not an issue. Rather, there's a little voice buried deep down somewhere in me that whispers, "You're fine just the way you are."

Outside there's the dentist's and his receptionist's voices shouting, "You could be so much more appealing with more perfect teeth."

And, there are the ads for strips, gels and secret formulas screaming that if I only had white teeth, I would be irresistible. I saw a color photograph in the Ventura County Star the other day of an elderly Queen Elizabeth, the Queen Mother. She obviously had not whitened her teeth. They were distinctly yellow.  Still, she was the Queen Mother, and she looked perky and beautiful nevertheless. I recall when my dentist first whitened his teeth several years ago I was so startled that I was unable to look into his eyes and wound up staring at his teeth. Is this what I want for myself?

The stepmother mentioned above did not think I was fine the way I was. In addition to having all my teeth filled, she signed me up for braces at a time when each metal band nearly covered an entire tooth and the wires painfully grated the inside of my cheeks when I chewed. My orthodontist, an old man well beyond retirement age, no doubt found that straightening children's teeth provided him with an endless source of income. During our sessions together, his hand would occasionally slip with a tool and gouge my gum, but he never seemed to notice. Each week he would tighten up the wires that pulled my teeth ever closer to proper alignment. Just about the time I was comfortable eating solid food again, it would be time to have the wires re-tightened. Despite the discomfort of having loose teeth for a year and a half, I was actually glad to have my teeth straight. My front teeth were well aligned, and I could close my lips easily over my teeth. Kids no longer imitated my buck-toothed upper lip behind my back. And throughout the years, I have received plenty of compliments on my smile.

Now, apparently, my unsightly old fillings are a significant blemish that makes people uncomfortable. I will probably succumb to the forces pulling me to look my best and have the fillings replaced. I may even go for the teeth whitening.  That way my tombstone can say, "Here lies Dee Dee with the beautiful teeth."

Weeds

Working in my garden has become an event I have to think carefully about. I can easily become so engrossed in clearing out weeds and making everything look its best that I ignore the pain in my neck and aching back. I lift heavy sacks of potting soil, vigorously pull out stubborn grasses, and haul wheelbarrow loads of rocks until I can barely stand up straight. Dripping with sweat and sometimes crawling with ants, I stagger indoors for a cold drink and a tasty snack. In my eagerness to control what should grow where, I ignore my own body's warning signs and forget to look at the greater plan.

Because of illness over the last several years, my gardening efforts came pretty much to a standstill. Now that I'm feeling better, I'm back out in the yard and finding that I do better if I limit the time and effort I put into the work. I go out early in the morning or an hour before dusk when it's cooler. I actually prefer the dusk time to work because, as dark approaches and I can't see well, I am forced to go back inside. If I work in the morning, I can find myself ignoring the aches, ants, and increasingly hot sun to dig out just one more weed.

I've been working on a bed at the back of my house where I had planted tomatoes, basil, and artichokes in the Spring. The bed was overrun with volunteer white alyssum, several types of grasses, dandelions, and some nasty spreading plants that had relatives throughout the bed. Volunteer tomato plants had sprung up from last year's crop. I had let everything grow because I liked the white alyssum and enjoyed the surprise of finding hidden sweet cherry and low-acid yellow tomatoes. Eventually, the basil bolted, the artichokes got choked out, and it was pretty hard to find the volunteer tomatoes among the mass of vegetation. When a neighbor asked permission to look in the bed for basil and couldn't find any, I knew it was time to take action.

Last weekend I worked three mornings and made significant progress in clearing out the bed. I discovered partners in crime:  volunteer marigolds growing alongside a volunteer cherry tomato plant. I was amazed by a large orange-colored grasshopper. I learned that ants really like to build their nests and tunnels under alyssum.  I soaked the ground so I could dislodge the tall stubborn grasses, and I drove my metal digger beside the center of spreading plants with seemingly endless roots. After finishing work on Sunday morning, I proudly drove my spading fork into the ground, pleased that I was able to walk away after only one hour without breaking a sweat.

Last night I couldn't wait to get out into the garden and continue weeding. I turned on the drippers and went inside to change my clothes. I took my time feeding the dog, opening the mail, and checking my voice mail messages. I knew I had a full two hours left before dark. I decided not to eat dinner before going out, so I would have a reason not to work too long. When I pulled up my spading fork, I heard the sound of gushing water. I had pierced the plastic pipe that fed the dripper lines in the bed last week when I planted the spading fork! Oh, well. I turned off the water and went to weeding. It was incredibly easy because all the plants were well soaked. The orangey grasshopper greeted me, and I wondered where he would go after I took his weeds away. I was careful to avoid the ants. I piled the weeds up and left them on the brick walkway overnight.

This morning was beautiful with a few wispy clouds in the blue sky and a slight breeze tousling the tree leaves. The soil was still damp and removing most of the weeds was as easy as moving my computer mouse. I could not avoid the ants.  But I saved their most infested section for last. I found that if I kept moving instead of kneeling in one place on my foam pad, I could avoid most of them. It meant that I had to bend over more, but at least I didn't have ants racing up my arms and inside my pants legs. I didn't see Mr. Grasshopper, but two of his normally colored friends (females?) were hiding in a clump of allysum I had left next to the house. I decided to load up the wheelbarrow with the weeds before clearing out the last two sections. As I lifted bunches of the rejects into the wheelbarrow, a whole host of critters jumped to the brick walk.  Several types of beetles, spiders, snails, and other insects were suddenly looking for a new home.

I dumped the weeds in the yard waste can and thought about how the soil where the weeds had been was loose and rich, unlike the hard clay in which I had planted the vegetables. The weeds had provided good cover for the insects that brought the little songbirds hunting and scratching to my yard. I went back and looked at the remaining patches of allysum. I decided I would leave them to hide those bugs that would now be looking for a new place to stay. I also thought it could do no harm to let the white allysum and their weedy friends have a place to grow next to my vegetables. Just so long as they don't hide the basil and smother the artichokes!

Third Cousin Once Removed

It was Steven's 18th birthday, and I couldn't think of what to get him for a present. I had met him less than a handful of times since our first meeting when he was around three years old, and I had no clue what his current interests were. What do you give a kid who has been undergoing treatments for brain cancer that make prisoner torture sound like a cake walk? Steven had complained of headaches and vision problems. His mother, Rebekah (my third cousin), knew something was really wrong, despite assurances from his doctor and optometrist that Steven was fine. Steven was rarely sick and never complained. Rebekah persisted until Steven's pineoblastoma was finally diagnosed. Close to graduation from high school, Steven took a sharp turn into aggressive treatment, including surgery, radiation and chemotherapy. It has been a rollercoaster ride that I've been able to follow thanks to Rebekah's postings on www.carepages.com. In his last two check ups, Steven has been cancer free. Now that he was turning 18, it was time to celebrate.

As I drove to Visalia Saturday morning, recalled events that kept our families close. I remember a photo of my grandmother and Steven's great grandmother, Miriam, sitting on a potato planter in a field in Oregon. The first cousins were both laughing. My grandmother (Polly) always looked for the fun in things. She later took her sunny disposition with her to Oregon to be a comfort when Miriam's first husband was killed in a train accident. Miriam had two young children to support (Freddie and Barbara), and she and Polly talked about going into business together as seamstresses. Instead, Miriam went on to become a schoolteacher, and Polly returned to California. Polly shared Miriam's joy when she married Porter and had a daughter, Sue, and a son, Steven. Polly was there for Miriam when she lost Freddie during the Vietnam War, Porter to a brain tumor, and Steven in a crop dusting accident. Miriam came to help my family when Polly suffered a terminal stroke and stayed on to keep me and my mother company. After my stepfather died, Miriam was there to give solace to my mother. Over the years, Miriam would invite me and my family to share special celebrations and holidays with her. I could always count on the love and comfort of this branch of the family tree that shared the pioneer spirit of our common ancestor, Granddaddy Hoy.

After a 3-1/2 hour car trip, I was now at the front door of Rebekah's friend Glenda's beautiful new home. I was apprehensive about going in. I had no idea how I would find Steven, and I imagined he might be propped up in the middle of the living room in a hospital bed. I was grateful to have Sue greet me and say that Steven was outside with friends. After making a stop in the bathroom, I went outside to the birthday buffet and collected my plate before sitting down. I could see Steven sitting across the patio in a circle of young people. 

I was thrilled to see Miriam again after several years. Despite her Alzheimer's, Miriam immediately knew who I was. Her bright eyes and huge smile let me know that she was glad to see me too. She asked about my boys and squeezed my hand. "It's so great to have all the family here," she said. Miriam has always been in the midst of things, although her role as manager is now over. She is content to sit and reminisce, which we did over lunch, and we had a wonderful place to do that. Sue and her friend Mike sat with us. Rebekah said that most of Steven's friends were away at college and couldn't come to the party. She also expressed disappointment that people have stopped coming by to visit. "It's awkard," she said. "They don't know what to say." I suppose it doesn't help that Rebekah, Doug and Steven live in a pretty remote area. The heat of the summer day was softened by a gentle breeze. The lovely yard, clearly designed for easy entertaining, had a patio filled with sunny and shady places to sit, a barbeque, a thatch-roofed bar, and a rock waterfull that spilled into a pool where the younger ones splashed and bobbed about.

Rebekah's husband, Doug, and his band amped up and began to play, but it was a false start. Steven ambled by saying that he needed to sit away from the full sound. He has lost some of his hearing because of the radiation and wants to protect what he has left. He took up court across the grass with his young folks around him. I went over and sat down on the grass at his feet, and we caught up on news. At just over six feet tall and weighing about 120 pounds, Steven looks like a stick replica of himself. His complexion is a tannish gray with tinges of yellow. His bald head is perfectly smooth, except for the bulge at the top where he has a surgically implanted shunt, and he has a serious, dark scar running from the base of his skull down his spine for several inches. I told him I was glad to see him up and about and that I appreciated his courage in sticking with his treatment. He admitted there are some things he just doesn't want to do, one of them being having a gastric tube installed again. I asked about graduation, and he said he hopes to take the GED test sometime. For right now, he has difficulty reading and can't concentrate enough to remember much. We agreed there would be time later to do the GED. He told me his Make-A-Wish Foundation request is a trip all the way down to the tip of South America and back up the other side. I asked him when he thought that would happen, and he said maybe next July. He asked me if I had seen the movie "Motorcycle Diaries" which had been the inspiration for his request.

Doug and his band got ready to play -- this time for real. And Miriam and I sat there smiling not able to understand the lyrics over the heavy bass guitar and drums. Sue encouraged us to go inside where it was quieter, but both of us insisted on staying out and enjoying the scene. Steven and his group came closer and gave their request to the band. It was glorious to see Steven, ramrod straight and rail thin, in his saggy white T-shirt, baggy black shorts, white socks and black Nikes, singing and playing his air guitar with all the gusto of any 18-year-old.
 

It was such a fine day. Everyone was friendly, hospitable, and we were all there to celebrate the day with Steven. Ian, Rebekah's dad, took photos of the festivities. He had also helped Steven put together photos of Steven's 18 years. I enjoyed finding my picture with my two sons, David and Daniel, with Steven at Cyrus's (Rebekah's brother, Steven's uncle) graduation. We were invited to write something on the commemorative photos, which I did.

I enjoyed seeing the photos of Steven. I first remember meeting him has a toddler and noticing the green of his eyes and the flash of his white teeth when he smiled. I last saw him at Cyrus's wedding in Montana three years ago. At the reception, Steven came up behind me, tapped me on the shoulder, and asked me to dance. His green eyes were twinkling and his smile was ear to ear. That wide smile is still there and the teeth were flashing all through the day.

Then it was time for birthday cake and ice cream. Everyone gathered around where Steven was sitting and Glenda attempted repeatedly to light the candles. Although there were only 18 of them, she never got them all going. The gentle breeze we had all been enjoying was not her friend. Steven was winded after blowing out the candles that did take. After a brief rest, he rallied and we went inside for the presents. There was a headset from Doug and Rebekah, an iPod from Grandpa Ian, and a fistfull of cash (Steven's request) from other well wishers. Then Steven pulled a green baseball cap out of a birthday bag (my gift) and put it on his head. The hat said: "Ventura, The Real California" and it matched Steven's eyes. As I leaned over the back of the couch to give him a hug, Steven said, "I'll put on the hat whenever I need to feel better. It will be my Feel-Good Hat."