Oh Redwood Tree Please Let Us Under

I started to use "Tippecanoe and Tyler Too" for this blog but, this paddle on the Eel River really cries out to be recognized by Van Morrison.  My second time joining the "Interpretive Paddle" offered by State Parks and led by two Park rangers.  I truly enjoyed the rag-tag fleet and its total lack of pretentiousness.  Once again, my cohorts piloted a variety of vessels from short river kayaks to inflatable canoes and everything in between.  Skill levels were also varied, from the experienced guys who would get distracted by the eddies and play to those of us simply trying to AVOID the obstacles.  Lacking experience, there were several exciting episodes, one on the very first river bend past the start.  It was a "Tippy Canoe and kayaks, too" with three vessels sucked into the snags and flipped over.  I had benefit of a river guy in front of me and I rode the current carefully, following his example to "dirt track" around the turn.  We hung for a while waiting for bodies and belongings to be collected and placed back in their boats before we continued on.  One of the first things I learned about paddling is "dress for immersion", clearly not a lesson learned by all.  To their credit, they were back on board and we continued - I'm not sure that I wouldn't have gone back to the start and called it a day after that.

This would be Robert, one of our Park Ranger guides (not very tall apparently but the dude walks on water!) guiding some onto the river bar where we made a stop at Canoe Creek, the location of the 2003 

wildfire that ripped through the old growth forest.  The trees and meadow are coming back nicely and it was wonderful to be standing in a spot that is seldom seen. 

On these forays, I have to remind myself to look up once in awhile.  If I don't, I miss things like this osprey nest perched on top of a tree.

For a day that started out pretty chilly when we were standing in the parking lot at 8:30, it reached into the mid- to high-70's by the time we pulled out around three. I call the day a success, my first with the boat on my new car.  I managed to tie it down properly and it stayed put both directions.  Twas both an exhilarating and exhausting day.  I learned more about reading the current and recognizing that where the river wants me to go is not always where I should be going.  As always, it was great to be back on the water.

Home is Wherever I'm With You

Dear Santa Cruz,

I have said, and will say again, that I miss you. Last year was the milestone when, I realized, I have been gone as long as I lived within your silly walls.

Yesterday morning, however, I saw a girl with VERY purple hair jogging along the roadside. This in and of itself is not unusual in Eureka although it wasn't particularly pretty purple hair which is unusual. She was running behind a young man who I believe was wearing a fox tail attached to his pants....at least I think it was just a pretend tail attached to his pants.

This morning, a man sat in the driveway of a boarded-up Jack-in-the-Box, flying a sign trolling for contributions to whatever his daily needs have become. This man wore a hat with ram horns attached....at least I think it was a hat with pretend ram horns.

So, Santa Cruz, thank you for sending your minions to make me feel at home. While I still miss running into school mates in the Alpha Beta or seeing the names of people I grew up with in my morning Sentinel, I miss it less every day and every day feels more like home in Humboldt.

Love,
Debbie

Wanna Go Back to My Hometown...

...though I know it'll never be the same.

Santa Cruz is not the same as it was when I left more than a quarter-century ago but parts of it are the same. At least in my mind those things that remain will take me back as if I've never left. Like us, our families moved from Santa Cruz years back and few friends remain, giving us little reason to return ..... except for the inevitable draw of the hometown.

When I learned of the death of Lieutenant Tom Marketello, one of my bosses from my short stint at dispatching for Santa Cruz PD and the father of a former classmate, I felt that draw. The thought of seeing co-workers I hadn't seen in more than thirty years was a little unnerving but irresistible. Law enforcement relationships are strong owing to the fact that you hold lives in your hands, those of the callers as well as those of the men and women you ride herd on each shift. It felt good to see those faces again - most of them anyway - and to remember the life of this man who was important to so many.

We spent a little time wandering the old stomps, neighborhoods and hangouts. Grabbed pastries at Gayle's Bakery in Capitola and carried them to Steamer Lane to watch some surf action then played tourists wandering the wharf, laughing at the barking sea lions. I had never, in my years growing up there, seen the "rafting" of the sea lions, together as if bound as they bobbed around the pier.

We headed north on the coast highway and made a stop we'd made many times before and I have a stack of snapshots to show for it but Pigeon Point Lighthouse is such a pretty tower of rusted metal, I had to stop yet again for a couple more shots.

After spending the night in Half Moon Bay, we headed inland, spent a few hours fighting the detours in San Francisco before deciding to save paying fifteen bucks to park so we could wander the ferry marketplace on the Embarcadero for another time. We made a brief stop at Golden Gate National Cemetery to visit with Mark's grandparents and Uncle Bud.

I leave you with this last shot: When we were in Half Moon Bay, I dragged Mark to the edge of the world to watch the sunset. We drove to the end of a road, parked at a barrier close, but not TOO close, to DO NOT PARK HERE signs and ran to the cliff, seemingly alone, to watch the sun drop into the sea. Once down, and my breath released, we hurried back to the car and found six or eight people right behind us. We had not been alone but had been surrounded by others seeking that same peaceful delivery of the sun over the horizon where she would be rising to the joy of those on the other side of the world.

Throwing It All Away

A robin is NOT a sea bird. The robin gets the worm, right? What could this guy possibly be looking for in the sand? Perhaps he was just there to greet me as I headed out from the parking lot on the South Spit.

The beach at the south end of the spit is great for driftwood hunting and these would make great focal points in my garden but there was no way these would fit in my car or even on the roof rack. What must these have been like floating down the coastline? What must it be like for a fishing boat to encounter a floating tree on the water?

I found two floats on my short walk along this lonely stretch of sand. I also left with a bag full of bottles and caps and various other scraps of trash including a bleach bottle and a big 10-gallon pot that had likely held a substantial "plant" of some sort up stream.

Some of the trash was clearly left behind by beach goers, beer bottle left to mark the spot they held while enjoying the beauty of the sunset. Other detritus washed up on the night's high tide, flushed from hiding spots on the rivers or dropped from boats. We must learn to take care of our ocean so she doesn't have to regurgitate our trash from her bowels.

Hello, Bonjour - Happy Birthday Girl Scouts

Happy Hundredth Birthday, Girl Scouts.

Michael Franti might be surprised that his song, "Hola Bonjour", reminds me of Girl Scouts. "Hola. Bonjour. Guten Tag. Konitchiwa...we are glad to meet you. We are glad to greet you." Just one of about a billion songs I sang in Girl Scouts. As part of World Friendship day each year, we would celebrate cultures. As a Brownie, Junior, Cadette and, eventually as a leader, I taught those same songs to my troops. "Make new friends and keep the old...one is silver and the other's gold".

For me, Girl Scouts conjures memories of guitars, wood smoke and campouts... and singing...and s'mores. SO many memories. Memories of my Junior leader in Santa Cruz, Jackie Shea, who was a truly awesome lady. She (and her husband, Ludd, who always seemed to disappear after set up until it was time to pack up again) took us camping a lot! Most memorable was getting rained out at our big campout at McCrary Ranch when we had to tear down camp in a hurry in the middle of the night, tossing soggy sleeping bags and ground cloths in the back of a truck to be sorted out later, being dropped off at home well after dark. Guitars were as required as s'more fixins in those days so, whether campfire or trip in the car, we played and sang. We cooked hobo stew in little foil pouches over the coals. We had mess kits and dunk bags. We roasted marshmallows for s'mores. I was the master at french toast and I cooked a lot of it over the fire. We never slept in tents but under the stars and I woke many a morning to the squawk of a Stellar Jay. SO many memories built in that troop and riding through the redwoods on a chilly morning will bring back those memories quicker than anything. Did I mention, we sold Girl Scout cookies?

Our "Troops Own Badge" was a butterfly badge which, among other requirements, involved tagging monarch butterflies at Natural Bridges Beach. With my new-found interest in photographing headstones, I often remember our regular trek to maintain the gravesite of Louden Nelson, a former slave and pioneer in Santa Cruz educational history. We would climb the hill in Evergreen Cemetery which at the time was sorely neglected, and cut brush and pull weeds. I also remember wandering the rows and, every year, visiting one particular grave of a small child whose headstone was ornately-carved marble..was it a lamb? Or a baby carriage? I just remember visiting her each time we were there. Again, something in my world that began with Girl Scouts and probably the reason cemeteries fascinate rather than frighten me. I bridged (did we Bridge in those days?) from Juniors into Cadettes and a troop led by Dolores Pound where I continued to gather memories of camps and outings. Whenever I have the chance to trudge down a dirt trail, recognizing miner's lettuce and avoiding poison oak, I realize how much I learned through those years.

I took those memories forward when I became a leader to Monica's troop in Nevada. I joined with her leader, Audrey Frazee for a bit and, among other things, we planted trees at a new neighborhood park and we led a neighborhood trash cleanup for Earth Day. I like to think that we introduced those girls to interests and opportunities just as Jackie Shea and Dolores Pound did for my peers. And we sold Girl Scout cookies.

Velynda Wiley and I took on that troop after they Bridged into Juniors. Already friends, both having come from active Junior troops, we couldn't wait to share it ALL. We made stuff. We sang songs. We went places. She and I went to leader trainings and learned MORE songs and more stuff to teach our charges (Girl Scout leaders in "training" mode is a high-energy weekend!) High point had to be loading our entire platoon into her Camaro and my Volvo and making the six-hour trip from Minden to Sacramento to Sutter's Fort and the Zoo to do work on three badges. I would wager the girls STILL talk about Living History Day at the Fort. A hundred and five degrees, standing in front of the beehive oven watching the woman in the long wool dress shovel wood to bake her bread, gave us all an appreciation for the niceties in our world. There were the unruly trio of mountain men who ask how much we wanted for "the tall blonde one" and the shocked settlers who wondered why we were running around in our "bloomers". After we got into the spirit of the period we were experiencing, it was easy to blame the lack of skirts on "the mountain men". Knowing nods followed.

Velynda and I experienced our own camp rainout when we were preparing couscous and kebobs for a Greek exploration, to be shared with the parents due anytime, and it began to rain. Then it began to hail. By the time we loaded soggy gear into cars and got the girls home, we were soaked. Girl Scout traditions come in funny places! And we sold Girl Scout cookies.

When we moved to Humboldt and Hope was small, and her troop was in need of leaders. I helped with her Daisy and Brownie troops. Our cultural food explorations for World Friendship Day were legend - try making gnocchi or baklava with twenty Brownies! As she advanced into Juniors, I once-again joined with the leader Cathy Martin, and we began to set our sites on the dream pilgrimage to Savannah, birthplace of Juliette Gordon Lowe. We plotted and planned the trip as badge work and we sold Girl Scout cookies like we NEVER sold them before. Once there, we visited Juliette's grave and many of the homes and buildings prominent in Girl Scout history. We tried on hoop skirts and learned to serve tea as Juliette would have. My life as a Girl Scout came full circle.
And this year, Girl Scouts celebrate a century of celebrating girls. And teaching girls. Honoring girls. Encouraging girls to be strong and to do anything they want to do. Hopefully, someday the girls in those troops will write something like this blog because they have become leaders because THEY remember the fun they had in OUR troops. Here's hoping you bought enough cookies so you don't run out of Thin Mints too soon and so that Girl Scouts will continue to teach strong girls in our community.

"Day is done...gone the sun...from the lake, from the hills, from the sky.... "

Like A Boat Out on the Ocean I'm Rocking You To Sleep

Really? Finally! I’m going to be a Grandma. My first-born is having her first-born. Mark and I have watched with a bit of envy friends who have grandbabies. Mark does love to hold babies. For ages, long after our babies were no longer babies, he would come home from work and tell me “I held a baby today”. Maybe a co-worker brought in a newborn or a customer needed a hand to hold that papoose while they paid their bill. I always found it amusing since, and I don’t think he’d argue this point, he was never REALLY ready for parenthood.

We got married very young - at least I was very young. I wasn’t yet 18, he was 20. We were even required to go, along with my mom, to meet with a counselor at Juvenile Probation to be sure we were aware of what we were getting into. Of course at the time we were SURE we knew. After more than 37 years, I can tell you we didn’t have a clue! It should be noted that we were NOT pregnant at the time - just wonderfully, blissfully head-over-heals in love (and perhaps lust). In fact, it was more than five years before Monica blessed our lives with her arrival and I still remember the deer-in-the-headlights look Mark had on his face when I told him about his impending fatherhood. Even after five years, it was a shock.

Out of fairness, he was not raised with younger siblings nor did he babysit as I had. He did a fine job but I believe he was often overwhelmed, and perhaps still is, though dealing with adult daughters takes a little different skillset and he is probably a little more equipped to deal with grown up issues. But babies....they smell nice, except when they don’t. They love you unconditionally, kinda like a puppy. And best of all, we get a chance at do-overs but DON'T have to be the disciplinarians. I suspect I wasn’t the most patient Mom even though I would have liked to have been. But we did read to our kids. And we made them nap (for their sake and our sanity). And we used a play-pen so they could play and we could get something done.....sometimes the playpen would be in the yard while I gardened. Sometimes Mark’s daddy time involved a baby in a play pen at the wrecking yard while he worked on his race car. Some people see play-pens as baby cages but, when I see parents trying to wrangle a kid, I see a play pen as a little rubber room to keep us all sane. We didn't beat our girls but, in fact, were often asked how often we beat them to make them so good. In hindsight, we did okay and you'll never find those welts!

And now we have a grandbaby on the way and have to, once again, think of baby-proofing. And replacing carpet that just won’t NOT smell. And think about my bowls of seashells. And plants on low tables. And stairs...yikes, I forgot about the stairs! And, what do we want to be called? Granny? No! Nana? Nona? Gramma? I so look forward to sharing tidepools and gardens and chickens with this baby. And sharing smooshy cute, chubby little baby cheeks and (personal fave) baby feet to EVERYONE who follows my Twitter feed and Facebook. I can't wait to do the spoiling and have secrets just between us. I can’t wait until July (or now, June) when Monica and Gabe's little Peanut arrives and I am "Grandma". Let the spoiling begin, huh Papa?

In A New York Minute, Everything Can Change

Oh how I wish I left work just a moment earlier. Instead of that one...last...thing.... Even so, as I headed home from campus, I could see the glow in the western sky. I had been warned all day by the flashing red of my Weather Channel desktop, alerting me to the heavy surf (and the "recommend you stay away from the beach" admonishments...HA!).

The spit is so FAR. It's so close I can SEE it but so far away when you want to BE there. I have to drive north to drive south again. Not sure I'll make it but I'll try. Traffic is in my favor as I go around the golf course and through town. Turning on to 255, towards the Samoa peninsula, I can see I'm not alone. I'm not the only one heading that direction, taunted by the warm glow in the winter sky. Not the only one for whom those "High Surf Advisories" is an invitation. Driving over the bridges, I sneak quick glances to see the enormous orange ball. Dropping. Too fast! Slow DOWN! Wait for me PLEASE!

As I sit at the stop sign waiting for the seemingly endless line of (four) cars to pass, I stow my purse and pull the straps on my shoes. No time to make it to the far end, to the harbor mouth where the final drop would surely be most spectacular. I pull into the parking lot at Samoa Beach, finding a spot easily, tear off my shoes and grab my camera. The howling wind convinces me to grab the raincoat I had taken this morning. I run. Through the cold sand, over the rise, JUST in time. The ball has dropped halfway into the water. The heavy surf roars but I'm sure there must be a loud sizzle as the cold water quenches the sun. I can't draw my eyes away from the orange sphere slowly.....slipping....

..under. The few of us at the beach watch the sky change from orange to dark, muddy blue. No doubt others were farther up the beach - this is a show not to be missed. We wrap our coats around our bodies, breathe deep. And head home. Lord I love this place!