Doors at the Crossroads

It’s been too long since I’ve been Doorscaping.  And so today I stopped on my daily walk to take a picture of a few historic though rather plain doors.  

This is the door to my town’s oldest restaurant, Casa Orinda.  It’s been in the same location for 84 years, predating the freeway through town, the tunnel that leads to the town and the town itself.  It’s founder, John Snow, was a cowboy from Montana and thus it’s interior boasts of a mahogany bar, hand-carved reliefs and an antique gun collection.  Although the ambiance has been described as “spaghetti western,” their signature dish is Southern Fried Chicken.

Even the storage unit at the back of the restaurant sports an antique lantern.

Across the street from Casa Orinda sits the De Laveaga Train Station which is only a landmark today.  However from this spot, the short lived California and Nevada railroad hauled produce from the valley over the hills and to the docks.

It’s a very tiny structure but then the railway only catered to passengers in its final years.  Today it remains locked.

However, someone put a welcome sign in front.

I’m sure you’ll all be welcome over at Norms’ Place for his weekly #ThursdayDoors challenge. 

 

Mom Saying Goodbye

I was going to blog about the best cars to buy to survive the coming Zombie Apocalypse but then a friend of mine sent me this beautiful poem which seems much more appropriate for this Memorial Day weekend.  Those of us with elderly parents can easily relate.


Mom Saying Goodbye
by Carol Teltschick 

I call my mother everyday
California to Texas
We talk and laugh

Around and in between the spaces
of a disease in her brain
We talk and laugh

Of things she knows but can’t remember
We know she loves
We talk

I remind her she combed lice
From my hair for
hours

My hair was thick her hands grew tired
Always home for the daughter
who traveled to wild places

Still so much easier than
hanging up a phone
today

How do I turn this thing off, honey? What do I do with it now?
Ok, that’s the end of it.  Do I push anything down? Does it go there?

It’s always something going. I don’t know why.
We’ve got to get this thing going down.

Honey, can you help me? Gosh, she sounds so sweet.  I have to get it…

She’s gone? She’s gone.
Ok, it’s bye…

California to Texas: expect delays and alternate routes
We talk and laugh
With love

Morro Bay, March 2019

Oh God, where are the tears?

I’m in a strange way today.  My stepmother passed away, almost the same time as Doris Day whom she resembled when they were both a lot younger.  You’ll have to believe me as I have no photos of her.  She hated having her picture taken as she aged and grew plump and would threaten anyone who pointed a camera in her direction.
I’m not weepy.  In a way, it’s a relief.  For the last few years, she’s lived in diapers, bedridden and often incoherent … too heavy and brittle of bone  to be transported for family dinners or holidays.  With the exception of my brother, anyone who cared about her either died or moved too far away for regular visits. So there are no tears but I am not okay.
I was living in Europe when, without warning, I got the news that my father had remarried. The announcement was hidden in a rambling letter filled with weather and ski conditions and other of life’s mundanities, a somewhat innocuous little sentence between “your brother bought a motorcycle” and “the dog has fleas” and there it was:   “By the way, Mrs. Hindley and I got married the other day.”  I broke down with a resounding NO that probably wasn’t heard on the other side of the world but blew my uncle off his perch at the bar and into the arms of his boss’s buxom, boozy secretary.
At that time, I didn’t knew my stepmother well, but I knew her children.   Her poor broken children. The eldest, a girl, spent  her teen years in and out of the psyche ward until she dropped out of school and ran off with her boyfriend.  The two boys also dropped out, married and ended up in the Navy.  Did I mention that my stepmother was a kindergarten teacher?
I suppose I should say kind words as the woman did me no real harm.  She was in general, generous.  I have many trinkets from her numerous trips.  Until recently she remembered everyone’s birthday and she adored my father.  Okay, she pulled him farther to the right politically than was sane, judged people by their pedigrees and thought African Americans were out to get her because her ancestors owned slaves.  But she adored my father; almost worshipped him.  Even when he accidentally shot Beauregard  (her beloved basset hound) to death while on a hunting trip.  She forgave him.
I don’t know what’s going to happen now. My stepmother died in Reno, Nevada.  One of my step brothers lives in Denver, the other in Houston and the only granddaughter who cares lives in Alaska.  Reportedly they all need money which she supposedly had.
Oh God, where are the tears?

Homicidal thoughts on a lovely Spring day

Ah spring.  Warm temperatures, gardens in bloom, nests filled with robin’s eggs . . .

Every day the chance to glory in the return of foliage to bare trees, seedlings popping through the moist soil, apple blossoms in the orchards and …

… poison ivy

Woe to those who do not see
your evil coven in the tree

Such a wicked curse
made by itching even worse.
cured not by the ablest nurse
Or any amount of purse
woe to who’er conjured thee
from my wrath you shall not flee.

My salvation, hopefully …

I wish I could say my homicidal instincts ended with poison ivy extermination but

Who invited these dudes to my yard?  And who gave them permission to pig out on my cyclamen?  I have asked them nicely to party elsewhere.  I have threatened to fatten them up and sell them to the French restaurant but no.  And so regretfully, slimy dudes, eat shit and die! 

But this spring, winter has arrived. Bloodsuckers have breached the walls of Castle Kitty and forced King Kitty into the crypt. He thinks he can escape the final, prolonged agony of itching but Bloodsuckers, well they can smell warm blood.  Duh. (apologies to Game of Thrones – which has become a soap opera don’t you think?)

Can you see him?  We couldn’t as the doors to the cabinet were almost shut.

 

Those of you who are pet owners have probably guessed who is after the cat.

Mister Flea who bears a stunning resemblance to Beetlejuice in both character and elusiveness.

And so this year, Die Mr. Flea!

It’s really not fair because the cat never goes outside and probably picked up the infestation during his last stay at the Kitty Motel.  It will be his last stay there.

 

 

 

 

 

 

#ThursdayDoors — Good Intentions

My gal Joey on Good Intentions…. so true

joeyfullystated

If I only had a door…

Okay, I have a lot of doors. I may even have hordes of doors, as I have been hoarding them, because

If I only had the time…

Well I just don’t. I mean, we all get the same amount of time in each day, but I’ve been working over a lot, some because work is crazed and some because I have been out for appointments, and if you can imagine, while I’m off seeing doctors or hauling kids to doctors, no one does my work.

Every day, Moo tells me stories and Sassy spills the tea. Can’t miss that stuff.
I must affectionate my beloved, the children, and the animals.

Bitches gotta eat, and sometimes they gotta cook. If there’s enough goin on, a bitch may even have to do dishes. Sometimes a bitch does a random chore a day. Sometimes people come to…

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The Mighty Truckee’s Finer Ladies

Spring is really the best time to visit Reno Nevada.  The snow is just beginning to melt, meaning that the Truckee River is wild and dangerous and beautiful.

Above is the RiverWalk, a popular place on a sunny day.  As you can see off in the distance, there’s still plenty of snow to melt on the Sierra Nevada Mountains.

These two kayakers wisely chose to paddle to shore instead of attempting to run the set of engineered rapids downstream used for professional kayaking competitions.

Along the river some of Reno’s older and more interesting houses have managed to survive the ravages of the Mighty Truckee.


The building above was once an elementary school and now serves as a art center.

The Lear Theatre may not look like much but it has an interesting history.  It was designed by Paul Revere Williams who famously lamented that most of buildings he designed he could not enter. You see, he was the first African American to be honored by the Architectural Institute.

Before it was a theatre it was a church attended by the Moya Lear, the wife of William Powell Lear of Lear Jet fame. Besides being the wife of a brilliant man, she was also the daughter of vaudevillians and apparently thought the need for theatrics more important than the need for church and bought it. Unfortunately this building is not in the best part of town and they’ve had to surround it with a chain link fence to prevent vandalism.


Across the river and high on a hill sit decaying mansions once owned by the town’s prominent citizens. A few have been extensively remodeled but today people with money prefer to live far from Reno’s squalid old town with it’s pawn shops, casinos and bail bondsmen on every corner.

Above, for Norm Frampton’s ThursdayDoors extravaganza, is the one door I was able to get a clear shot of.

This rather gloomy building always brings bittersweet memories.  It is Saint Thomas Aquinas Cathedral where for years my best friend’s mother attended Mass every single morning and then wandered the streets ministering to the drunks sleeping it off in alleyways.  She spoke for God whose language she alone knew.

Here’s a better shot from Bing Images. It’s not Notre Dame, that’s for sure but then it’s not in Paris.  It’s two blocks from the El Dorado Casino and the heart of Sin City North (Reno’s nickname).

Snakelessness

tin hats

In the bridge beams the swallows tended to their nests full of chicks as he knelt down on the jut of a rock and dunked his head into the murk of the creek, half wondering if he’d see the rusted remains of his BB gun lying on the bottom, a relic of the day he reckoned with his darkness for the first time.

Having saved up enough paper route money, he bought himself a BB gun on the one year anniversary of a life-changing event, and right now I can’t tell you anything more about the nature of this event, other than to say that you will soon be following him into a forest, where he will spend the night beside a fire, and at that point, I will address the matter thoroughly. For the time being, however, we need to linger beneath the bridge, where he’s in the process…

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