From a Twitter feed:
For years now, I have returned to the first chapter of Dr. David R. Hawkins’ book, Letting Go. In that chapter, he provides a step-by-step process of how to surrender to all things that we cannot control, which is just about everything.
In the San Francisco Bay Area, those of us who grew up here have been asked to let go of and tolerate the tremendous change we see everywhere.
Seven million people now live here. The weather and technology are to blame. Is the weather changing? Some might argue yes but I think no.
Is techonology going away? Not unless Shallow Alto, Cupertino, and San Francisco fall off in a massive tectonic shift. The population density will continue to grow.
We now live in a multi-cultural sardine can where those 7 million people, speaking 100 different languages, strain infrastructure to its breaking point.
In Fremont, where I live, our mayor tells us on Twitter that we are the new “funnel city” as a way to explain the complete gridlock that occurs between 2:00 pm and 7:30 pm every weekday. He, along with the city council, also seems to agree that every single undeveloped piece of land should have vertical expansion, zero lot lines, and multi-family inhabitance.
In Warm Springs, once a quiet district of Fremont, Mandarin is now on the storefronts instead of English. What happened to the American Dream of coming to your new country and assimilating?
I’m trying to picture 50 American families moving to Dubrovnick and suggesting to the town fathers that we put English signs in the downtown of the old city.
In our post office, the old “hello’s and how are you’s” have been replaced by…well… I was going to write…by “nods” but most of the time, people do not even nod.
For those of us who are still friendly and still like people (moi), these circumstances are disappointing.
Some of us will surrender to the traffic, to the Whole Foods parking lot at noon, to the hundreds of people with cell phones trekking up to Mission Peak…
I am not sure I will.
Back to Dr. Hawkins’ book.
Averell Harriman, Chairman of the Union Pacific Railroad from 1932-46, brought many celebrities, including Ernest Hemingway, to Sun Valley where an elegant lodge had been built in 1936. It was a way to let the world know that a special lodge and ski area were open for business.
Hemingway would return there when seeking solace away from the demolition derby that was his life.
In fact, he wrote the last chapter to For Whom the Bell Tolls in Room 206 of the Sun Valley Lodge. He was, according to the concierge who graciously offered to show us the room (now Suite 228), superstitious and visited Room 206 to ink the final sentences of many of the stories and books that came afterward.
Sadly, when the Sun Valley Resort was entirely updated two years ago, the Suite itself was updated.
But I thought you might like to see the room where his desk was, the deck outside the room, and his grave at the Ketchum Cemetery.
We left Ketchum, drove up Highway 75 and through the Salmon Valley, which is bordered by the Sawtooth Moutains.
We arrived in Boise, one of the most civil cities we have ever visited. Alas, it was a Monday and museums were closed.
“I know what we can do, Cheri! Let’s drive to Baker City, Oregon.”
A man with more stamina for his age than any other man I know, he coaxed me into the car for another 2 hour (4 round trip) drive and off we went.
Have you ever seen Baker City, Oregon? All I know is that it was on the 2017 Solar Eclipse path of totality. After walking around this small town, I tried to imagine what it was like when 20k people descended on it last month.
Can you believe another building there was named after my family?
And then back to Boise.
On Tuesday last the temperature was 85 degrees. We turned the noisy AC on in our room.
On Thursday last the temperature plummeted to 32 degrees; we found ourselves looking for soup and crackers in Livingston, Montana.
Akin to Texas weather, Montana’s (evidently…) can change like a high school girl’s latest crush.
On our way to Southern Idaho, we headed out through small towns like Twin Bridges and Dillon.
I took a picture for our good friends from high school, the Dillons.
Then, the driving became serious and long. The terrain–sagebrush, sagebrush and sagebrush took me back, once again, to those brave souls who forged the West and traveled here on horseback. Invariably, when traveling in Montana, Idaho, Oregon and Washington, you cannot help but think of the Corps of Discovery.
Here is Beaverhead Rock, where upon seeing it as Sacagawea traveled with Lewis and Clark, she remembered it as a summer childhood home and reunited with her brother, the chief of the Shoshone, who then helped the Corps of Discovery. This fact, in itself, has to be one of the most serendipitous moments in the entire story!
We have now reached a place which reminds us (unfortunately) of the PC California lifestyle: Ketchum, Idaho.
Don’t get me wrong: the surroundings are stunning! But I will have to look through the spandex to see the trees.
I do plan to see Ernest Hemingway’s grave (and his 4th wife, Mary’s, as well) and conclude the lazy day by wandering the downtown and watching all of the beautiful people.
by cheri goodkind block
On my way out of Helena, I noticed this stout historical building that bore my maiden name Block. I wondered who Misters Goodkind and Block were. After consulting the Helena history of this building, I learned that Mr. Wise and Mr. Goodkind ran a wine, liquor, and cigar building in the late 1890’s on this block.
On to Bozeman, Montana, and a morning of fly fishing.
We left Helena for the short drive to Bozeman down Highway 12. I’ve visited Bozeman before but had entered from the North Yellowstone direction. Always on the photographic lookout for horses, I saw in the distance behind a large cattle truck, behind a large Swift 18-wheeler, behind a chubby silver Airstream pulled by a ginormous black Dodge duelie, I saw….a herd of black horses grazing on the hillside.
Oh Goody-Goodkind, I thought and rolled the window down so the bugs that had met their smattered death on my side window would not spoil my photograph. The driver, my husband, immediately rolled his side down to adjust the air pressure in his inner ear. As you can imagine, it was a noisy, smoky din in the car.
I snapped a burst of photos and Miss Block-Wisely said, ” Those horse aren’t moving.”
That’s because they are sculptures, Miss Block.
We entered Bozangeles (unfortunately, the California zeitgeist has begun to permeate Montana) in time to find our lodging and prepare ourselves for some serious river fishing.
I’d like to note here, for the record, that I caught a 7 inch baby rainbow. How I hooked it, I do not know.
When one travels to a place like Montana, where for the most part, people are in the minority of living things, one begins to wonder about so many different things.
What was this place like when Meriwether Lewis and William Clark came through the area in 1804 with the Corps of Discovery?
What would it be like to go to the store without battling traffic?
Will the massive immigration from within and without that is clogging the West Coast from Vancouver, Canada, to San Diego, California, continue on like an invasive plant, eating up open space?
Will there be trout in the Madison for my great grandchildren?
Battling the traffic and crowds at all Bay Area airports has become a way of life for those of us who live there. So much so that we are jarred into a mindset which tells us that this jam-packed insanity is the new reality.
Not so in Idaho.
The Boise airport was a throwback to the early days of air travel. Few people walking to and from their gates; no line at the car rental agency; a pace conducive to civility.
Like any large city, Boise had its share of “traffic.” Out of the city in 20 minutes with a stop-and-go similar to local city auto movement, we headed up Highway 55 towards McCall, Idaho where we would spend our first night.
Up the gorgeous Payette River Scenic By-Way we traveled. At about 3000 feet elevation the river became a torrent of whitewater rapids as the snowmelt injected voluminous mass. The narrower the river, the more tumultuous the whitewater. And then the river widened to look like a glassy lake. Small islands, similar to Jackson’s Island (where Huck and Jim hid after Huck staged his own death) sprouted up at places on the Payette.
The smoke from the myriad fires burning in Oregon and Idaho sullied the skies and my photography.
Perhaps the most exciting moment for me was the surprising presence of a small herd of horses and one mule flying down the dusty mountainside on their way to the beach on the Payette.
Imagine their surprise to find that humans were occupying their secret spot.
Looking through my camera lens was like what I imagine it is to have a cataract.
All scenes, muted and colorless, were also accented by a faint smoky smell,
Up in McCall, Idaho the first night, we escaped the haze. A sweet lake and, we understand, a robust ski season, around which this town’s economy seem to be dependent, was a welcome cooling vision.
We wandered down by the beach, reminding ourselves of the small children’s beach at Chamberlands in Homewood, California, where we had difficulty last month finding a patch of sand on which to locate a blanket, we stood in disbelief at the crowds on this children’s beach.
And then there was this image:
One lone wasp tried to invade our dinner last night.
The owlets have fledged.
The dry grasses on the California hillsides, once long and wavy, have been eaten to the nubs by the Angus cattle grazing across from our gate. Angus calves are being born each night.
The squirrels have snatched every last walnut off our trees. The locust trees are dropping their dollar-shaped leaves. The rattlesnake I killed last week has been eaten by the buzzards.
I’ve switched from short to long yoga pants. My windbreaker is on the floor of my closet.
The yellow, blue, and orange umbrellas on our patio are arguing with me.
Dinah is beginning to grow her winter coat.
The ivy on the house is turning color. All the rats must be disappointed.
Everyone is settled into school.
I become sentimental this time of year.
My gratefulness increases like the soup cans in my pantry.
I’d rather talk on the phone than text,
for reasons you might fully expect.
I’m human with feelings and eyes,
my language, expressive, such that I’s
certain to use the wrong word,
thus rendering our conversation absurd.
On Yellow Labradors:
My rugs went to the doctor for cleaning,
Leaving the hardwood exposed to the preening
of licking and scratching, of flicking and latching
onto it hundreds of yellow hairs, dropping and plopping,
Until I in a fit of vacuuming rage, I scream out “Stop”
shedding you miserable hairy, to which the hairs
said, “Let go, Miss Cheri.”
On Barn Owls:
Alone in my house late at night, I
hear the sound of the barn owls in flight.
A grating, a satiating, a Natural restating
of the obvious–a waiting
for meaning in a world
as the talons
that pierce the rat’s head
in the night.
by cheri block
I am trying as mightily as a yoga master to stay in the present moment.
It’s hard when your inconsiderate neighbor’s yappy dog continues to bark.
Bark. Bark, Bark. Pause. Motorized vehicle. Pitched irritated bark. Another motorized vehicle. Hammering. Bark.
All on a Sunday.
The shattering of calm amidst the wistful breezes of my late-August reverie.
I know. It’s 1967 and I am frisky and quick like a little filly looking for a colt. Its “going back to school” time. Cheerleader practice in the cool cement shadows of the amphitheater, walking home through the football field, its carpet of freshly cut grass like catnip to an impish feline. My new school clothes- tweed and wool- to be worn in November, laid out on my bed in my powder-blue room, freshly starched blouses, my mother’s fragrant kitchen and my father’s fun. My jeep.
This Sunday afternoon, I lapse into unremitted sentimentality and loss. Mainly loss of quiet. G-d Damnit. I now see how ranchers resort to shooting wolves after their sheep.
“Let it go, let it go, let it go,” I tell myself in soothing internal language.
Even my own dog Dinah, who only barks at an occasional rustle in the night, is annoyed today.
Henry David Thoreau wrote in Walden that one could suffocate on too much courtesy, but I wouldn’t mind trying to come up for air.
Oh God of the Eclipse, of Cosmic Justice, of Just Desserts–please bring upon my noisy neighbors the curse of the Carmelite Nun.
And now, to a Chardonnay.
by cheri sabraw
I called Irv the other day.
Irv, we are being overrun with rodents! I know I was the Pied Piper of Mission San Jose High School, but the rats, mice, vols, and gophers have taken my reputation to a new high!
Irv, also known affectionately as the Bird Man of Sunol, constructed and installed our owl box four years ago. In return for his Four Seasons of owl boxes, Irv requested a good bottle of zinfandel, one that sold at least for $10.00.
Regular readers of this blog know that after three years of vacant housing, a delightful barn owl family inhabited the box in March of this year. Needless to say, few rats or mice are carrying on across the creek. Templeton and Ratatouille! Leave town.
On our side of the creek, a different story–one of Camus’ The Plague (without the plague)– is unfolding.
We have been Rat Zapping (aka electrocuting) rats the size of small loaves of bread in our attic, Dinah’s dog run, wood piles, our pump house and the upper garage. While trying to run his legal business, my husband is also serving as pest control agent. The animal control company that finally herded our bats off the property last year is booked up for weeks.
Ive called back.
Cheri, you are in luck. I made a perfect box for the Superintendent of the Sunol Regional Park and he refused it, so it is YOURS. When can I come up to inspect the old box, clean it out, and straighten it up? Irv generously offered on the telephone.
Gosh, Irv. Come as soon as you can. We need a new box in our lower meadow ASAP. But I do not know if the owls across the creek are out of their box.
Irv assured me they had probably left this late in the season.
Irv and Hizzoner pulled and pushed to straighten the owl box.
Then, they lowered it. Irv planned to install a pulley system and clean out the box. He can tell how many owl “clutches” have been using the box based on the depth of the owl poop.
As you can see, Irv is opening the trap door, ready to clean out the flooring.
Oh God, Irv mutters.
Hizzoner cradles one egg, two 2-day old owlets,and an egg whose inhabitant is trying to emerge.
I stifle any of my concerns and just keep photographing.
But then the BIG surprise. Out of the box flew the mother barn owl–out into the bright daylight and into the dark wood. It all happened too quickly for me to snap a picture.
Hizzoner cradles his new Grand Owlet in hopes that Irv would quickly install the new gadget.
Irv and Hizzoner stop for a little refreshment brought to the site by the photographer, still stressing about the little ones without their mother.
The new gizmo finally on, Irv demonstrates how it works. No more articulating arm to lower and raise the owl boxes.
Cheri, do you want a green or yellow PVC handle? Irv asks.
And yet, I fretted about the three babies and an egg most of the afternoon.
Would their mother come back after all the ruckus to her house? All the noise, the talk, the scrapping and drilling?
Irv figured that the last clutch was made up of five chicks and this one, four.
Cheri, thanks to you and your husband’s insistence on an owl box, the world has nine more barn owls. Take joy in that accomplishment.
My joy was complete when, after sitting in the darkening olive orchard later in the evening, waiting for owls to emerge from the forest, we were heartened to hear and see at least five owls circling the orchard, clicking and calling in a sound other-worldly. Almost like radar.
And then, by the light of the moon, the mother flew to her box.