The only sign that life remains are in the moments just before dawn somewhere down near the creek … the children playing called quickly indoors before the smoke returns and suffocates
I linger over apps that promise relief, which never comes. The first day of triple digits, I close the windows before the sun comes up, the house stays bearable until late afternoon. The second day, I draw the blinds, the house stays bearable until noon. the third day … I pray the power stays still on.
Currently it’s hovering between 108 and 110 with an air quality fluctuating between Unhealthy for Certain Groups and Unhealthy, period. The weatherman keeps promising a break but I know what’s going on. They just don’t want to admit that California has become a pizza oven. Guess what suckers – welcome to your new reality.
Even my funky penis plant is suffering. I had expected the blossoming to have climbed to the tip of the stalk. But then it stopped.
I’ve actually come to love this funky plant. I think I’ll grow a whole garden full of them.
Jan’s Future Squill Garden
Only they prefer an arid landscape and it does rain in California. Sometimes. I hope. Soon.
Tuesday, Sept. 8th 8:00 AM: The power is back on but high winds are expected. Meaning: charge your batteries and buy ice. It’s 72 and too smokey to see the sun. But, the children are playing in the driveway across the street.
Choking the moon in the gas chamber created by your dragon breath.
The fog rolls in but traps some poison near the sea, blowing the rest into the mountains where we three breathe in gin and vodka and tequila and dine on mother’s chocolates but she doesn’t care.
She does, however, mind our laughing, for it’s a party she cannot attend, trapped as she is in a morphine maze, a tear at one point I caused. I am sorry mother.
August, I despise the sight of my green bean plant, chewed to the ground by those beasts you sent. Those ugly sightless pirates tunneling through hard dirt wrung free of moisture, incapable of providing life …. just death.
Even the buds on the Red Squill, close quickly after bloom, leaving me to wonder … what next, September? And past then … plant, will you disappear for years and will I want you to return again?
To Annie Mckee 1926-2020. Hold yer horses, St. Pete, Annie’s on her way.
She was Dutch and I met her at a party. Holland started exploding when she left, one block of cheese at a time. My mountain boots were the perfect match for my yellow checkered suit, the one I’d bought before leaving home. All around us mouths talked and laughed. There was a song about a man being chased by the devil and how his pockmarked face was a dead giveaway.
I had a full pint of Bauer’s apricot schnapps in my pocket. I pulled it out and offered her a swig. Without speaking she took the bottle and tilted her head backward, and I watched her full profile down half the contents like she was ill or something. She looked at me sideways and I said a silent prayer. Perhaps I was not alone in the universe. Maybe the dice and the cards were really songs. Lyrics and melody delivering…
Each day for the next seven is predicted to be the same. Slightly cooler one day; slightly warmer the next. Every day, cloudy. Or is it smoke?
Air Quality: Unhealthy. Chance of rain: 10% Wind: wsw 13 mph.
I keep singing along with James Taylor:
I’ve seen fire and I’ve seen rain, I’ve seen lightning strikes I thought would never end, I’ve known lonely times when I could not find my phone but I always thought I’d see the fog again.
Been trapped inside by bad air, checking out the weather app. Lord knows when the hot wind blows, it’ll turn your breath to ash. Now there’s hours and hours on the internet, talking of blogs to come, sour dreams and flying machines grind wishes into dust.
Can you spot the critter in this photo?
Okay … ending on a positive note. Although we’ve been trapped inside all day, the unhealthy air has been calm. The firefighters have made some progress and reinforcements from other states have arrived. The winds, which were predicted to be erratic and deadly, so far are gentle. But sunset is at 7:50 which is when the fireworks are predicted to begin.
Packed my bags this morning, took a picture of my plant. Now I just can’t remember who to send it to.
It feels like the end of the world here in California. And, as if the fires burning largely unabated weren’t enough, another round of dry lightning is heading our way. I just don’t know how we’re going to make it.
Sun rising through smoke
East of us, evacuees are being allowed back to their homes (if they are lucky). However the smoke is still too hazardous to breathe.
The garden is becoming hallucinogenic, perhaps even radioactive.
When the air begins to clear, the hawks circle. Sometimes high; sometimes just over my head. And then …
Thursday, August 20: As I write this we are surrounded by fire. Last night one came dangerously close to a friend’s house. The last email we got from him was:
“I’m relaxed and confident up till when the sheriff knocks on the door.”
To which another friend wrote: Just remember to say to the sheriff “I’d like to get some sleep before I travel. But if you got a warrant, I guess you’re gonna come in.” They really love that.
At least we haven’t lost the most important thing: a sense of humor.
Unfazed my mysterious plant continues to grow. The spores I noted the other day:
Have started to blossom:
Friday, August 21, 2020: The fires continue to drive people from their homes primarily north of here in the wine country and south in the beautiful Santa Cruz mountains. There are so many fires in the state, that those in remote areas are allowed to burn. We are supposed to keep our windows closed because of the poor air quality however I was raised by smokers and so far, that’s what the air is like. Stuck inside a tin-can trailer with a chain smoker. On the bright side, the temperatures have cooled. And, there is an outside chance of rain from the remnants of a passing hurricane. So, thank you all for your good wishes! They seem to be working!
Meanwhile Joel’s plant continues to grow and blossom. And we still have no idea what it is.
Earlier this week I beheld a bright flash of light in the northern skies just as night had fallen. I waited for the ground to rumble and sirens to wail, certain a nearby explosion was the cause (I had Beirut on my mind). But it was quiet. Eerily quiet.
The next morning, as is my custom, I went down to check on my tomatoes. To my horror, although I’d spent hours constructing a metal cage with bird netting around it, some vicious, horrible demon from hell (probably a gopher or a mole) had managed to stick a claw through all my handiwork and uproot the one and only tomato plant that was producing. He killed the plant, but he couldn’t pull its one struggling child through the wire. He got nothing and I got nothing. Tell me, Mr. Gopher. Was it worth it?
Then I noticed in the quiet part of the garden where my Yellow Rose of Texas blooms in the shadow of towering redwoods, a stalk, coiled as though ready to strike, rising at least two feet high and resembling, ah yes, an erect purple penis.
I ran upstairs and called out to Joel. He took his time, perhaps weary of my visions and fantasies, and then, upon finally examining the stalk, mused: “Perhaps it’s that bulb I planted years and years ago.”
“The one you paid fifteen dollars for?”
“I told you someday it would blossom.”
I’m guiltier than most of going to the nursery and coming home with all sorts of things I don’t really need but … fifteen dollars for a plant that might shoot up from the ground before your death and look like a giant erect purple penis? I suspect a really cute and bubbly salesgirl was involved in that purchase. What do you think?
Of course, Joel didn’t remember what the plant was called or even what it was supposed to look like and so I decided to get a second opinion from my friends:
“Maybe it’s one of those stinky plants that blooms once in a century,” Schip suggested. He was referring to the so-called Corpse Plant. One bloomed in San Francisco a few years back and it did indeed smell like a rotting corpse.
Corpse Plant
Luckily Joel, gullible though he is, would not allow some cutie pie to sell him a corpse plant. If he had, I would have gladly fed him to it.
Aaron, who’s a poetic soul, suggested some variety of orchid. I’m no expert but from what I’ve seen, orchids are dainty plants. This dude ain’t dainty. As I discovered the next morning.
Mary Alice was reminded of the giant rattlesnake I almost stepped on down in Sedona. It does look like snake about to strike doesn’t it? Everyone agreed I should leave it be and so I went inside to escape the heat and turned on the movie channel. “Invasion of the Body Snatchers” had just begun.
Oh no, the Pod People are winning!
The message of this movie is clear. Since the 1970s, human beings have been systematically taken over by spores from an alien planet. First their bodies and then their minds until they have no free will. Apparently it took a while, but once enough Americans had been absorbed to tip an election, the aliens sent their supreme leader to render Planet Earth uninhabitable to human life. His human name is Donald Trump. Could the plant growing in my back yard contain alien spores?
I got my answer early Sunday morning.
For four hours I watched as the sky danced electric. The temperature in the house hovered in the 100s with 90% humidity and then, the rains began. Unfortunately they weren’t enough and now the state of California is on fire. We have a bag packed and next to the front door. But guess who’s digging the hellish scene? You got it … the Snake Plant!
The heat is starting to affect my computer and so, if lucky, I’ll post more pictures of my rapidly growing Snake Plant tomorrow. Perhaps someone out there will be able to identify it as native to this planet. Meanwhile, California is burning and dear friends are in danger. Please send rain.
The call came, you waited every night, every day, and then it came, something from an alien ship guided by a million doll eyes
What are you doing, she says, oh, nothing, just thinking about the power of trances, how they might fire cities, or help baby birds push out of egg shells
Are you still inconsolable
Yes
She goes back into the bedroom
In the floor is a tiny hole and when you bend over there is a doctor inside giving a seminar, he says, even though the heart stops, the brain knows you are dead and sends signals to the lungs to keep moving, and it is true, you are still breathing, but abbreviated, hyphenated for all the official documents
On the grass, a ball rolled into the night, and the call did not register that, no, it did not speak of the other children or how you…
Y’all will be happy to hear that I’ve given up attempting to analyze the greatest American short stories of the last century (according to John Updike). Apparently Americans were screwed up then and guess what? 2020 has proven that the first twenty years into a new century, we ain’t getting any better. What would Updike say? Do I care anymore? Nah.
And … with uncommonly good weather forecast for the remainder of the week, I’m off to the teahouse.
My attempt at the fields of Tuscany – looks more like the black hills of Mordor
I am a mediocre artist who’s been awfully lucky. My husband, son, and father built this teahouse so that I would have a place to paint far from the house, the television, the telephone and the internet. It wasn’t a hurried project. I think it took them four years of working primarily on the weekends and holidays. For years it was their man time while I entertained my stepmother who loved to shop. Their reward would be a big meal and nice glass of wine in the evening. (my step mother also loved to dine out so a home cooked meal was a real treat for Dad)
The grossly over-engineered ceiling … built to withstand even an attack by Godzilla
Then I decided to write. Such a great idea, follow one mediocre career with another, hey? But I never totally give up painting. Every now and then, going down to the teahouse is like taking a sanity break.
My sane place
Sometimes I’ve taken out my awe on the canvas. Sometimes my grief.
Done shortly after a friend’s death through tears and much guilt.
Today I decided to take on my view.
View to the westA rough sketch
Maybe tomorrow I’ll be brave enough to add some color! What do you think – purple branches? A marmalade sky?
My husband’s father was a traveling salesman back in the 1940s. He sold forms to small businesses: receipts, inventory logs, invoices, etc. He was movie star handsome, along the lines of Tyrone Powers and used his charms to make enough in a few months on the road to stay home the rest of the year and drink.
Tyrone Power
And from what I’ve heard, that’s about all he did. When she’d had enough, my mother-in-law took her three sons and moved a thousand miles away. The only time I heard her mention his name was when we drove through Wells Nevada where, as a young couple, they’d hopped off the north south line and waited for the transcontinental. “Frank and I stopped here once,” she said wistfully. They must have really been in love.
Wells Nevada, once known as a railroad junction, is now known for Bella’s Gentlemen’s club which rents rooms by the hour.
John Updike included Eudora Welty’s tale of a traveling salesman in his volume of the Best American Short Stories of the Last Century which I am slowly making my way through. The protagonist of The Hitch-Hikers (first published in 1940 in the Southern Review) is thirty year old man “traveling in office supplies” and that’s about all we’re told. He picks up a couple of drifters because “the recurring sight of hitch-hikers waiting against the sky gave him the flash of a sensation he had learned to experience when he was a child.” One of the men has a guitar while the other is “bogged in inarticulate anger.” For some reason he decides to buy them a hamburger and find them a place to sleep for the night. Maybe because he knows what it’s like to be a stranger in town or maybe he is tired of the dream-like monotony of being on the road, stopping in small towns that are “too like other towns, for him to move out of this lying undressed on the bed, even into comfort or despair.” No matter, his intentions backfire and one of the drifters ends up dead. To the townsfolk, the man’s murder is a bit of diversion which will be forgotten in a few days time. They hardly seem to care as he lies dying. The salesman realizes that although he’s gotten to know people in the town and even scores an invitation to a private party, if he were to disappear the next day, the town would hardly notice.
“…none of this was his, not his to keep, but belonging to the people of the towns he passed through, coming out of their rooted pasts, out of their remaining in one place, coming out of their time. He himself had no time. He was free; helpless.”
Previously I had only read Welty’s tragi-comic stories of life in the south and so this one threw me for a loop (along with a few professional literary critics, I might add). According to Updike, the phrase “free; helpless”means that “our American freedom … to thrive, to fail, to the road – has a bleak and bitter underside.” To this I wanted to say WTF does that mean? But I didn’t have a better analysis. So I gave up and moved onto The Death of a Favorite by JF Powers. Despite it’s name, a delightful story.
Although I’m afraid to read John Updike’s analysis. How could a story told by a clergyman’s cat possibly encapsulate a uniquely American experience? What do you think?
Saying nothing in particular 