Festival Flying

Atop the light fixture, Stellar Jays have built a nest for five - mama, papa, and three hungry hatchlings. The folks staying in Cabin Five don’t turn on their porch light for fear of creating cooked little “squab” jays. I stayed the night in adjoining Cabin Six, compliments of an invitation from my new Berkeley friends Daphne and Don. Camping at the Kate Wolf Festival in Laytonville, California is for the birds, the young, the stoic, or insane. The average temperature is “in tents” - ranges between 98 to 106 degrees in the afternoon.

While I did bring my tent, by Saturday night I was droopy of wing, having left Oakland that morning before sun-up. By 10:00 p.m., after Smokey Robinson had reminded me why he was one of my favorite heart-throbs in the sixties, and after glowing orbs were tossed by merry-makers as high as the buttermilk clouds that swallowed the moon, I followed the path of least resistance, and we three festival goers went twenty minutes further up 101 to a peaceful place on the banks of the Eel River. I was grateful to spread my sleeping roll on the futon in the living room of Cabin Six.

Up by 6:00, I observed the elder jays feeding the youngsters, then side-stepped poison oak on the narrow path down to the river. The rush of water over smooth stones filled my senses. Eyes registered the hypnotic drought-defiant tumble and swirl; ears were nourished by the nearly forgotten sound of gush and gurgle; the ol-factories, (not on strike), picked up the scent of cool mud, damp mosses, and mugwort. Mugwort! Good! It’s a repellant to mosquitoes which found my skin boundary permeable and stepped up to the bar. Mugwort is also good for inviting lucid dreams when tucked under the pillow. I crushed a leaf and swabbed and daubed myself with its fragrant essence on face, neck, hands, and feet. Dang mosquitoes got through my jeans! Must be the genes. Sweet blood eggs ‘em on, my Daddy used to say.

At the Festival Sunday, I guarded my energy, knowing I wanted to stay for Lisa Fischer’s gig at 8:00pm, and still have enough meewee to drive safely, the three hours to home. Mercifully, Sunday afternoon, some strong winds kicked up. By opening all the doors and tail gate of my car, I could nap fairly comfortably. Gorgeous sounds of Judy Collins' lilting voice as she led a singalong of favorites were a perfect lullaby. Who Knows Where the Time Goes, when listening to Judy Blue Eyes? I was glad I got to hear and see her on the main stage Saturday afternoon.

Truly, when I first saw the flier for the 20th Anniversary edition of the Kate Wolf Festival, the first “must hear” name that jumped out at me from the screen was Lisa Fischer. In the documentary film, “Twenty Steps from Stardom,” her astonishing voice is featured. Her precisely perfect passion poured into my soul through ear canals as hungry and wide open as those baby birds' mouths. She’s been stuck to my marrow ever since. I watched that film three times! Ms. Fischer is one of the most in-demand back-up singers, and has performed with Sting, Stones, and Nine Inch Nails.

I left the concert filled with the sounds and images she gave us to keep. My favorite of her short seven song set is called Freedom. Memorable lyrics are: It’s just another bird in this house, bumpin’ into walls, dyin’ to get out… Free my mind, free my soul… I just want to be with my own kind and know that I belong…


This bird flew home and didn’t get cooked. I’m hoping the same is true for the bird family atop the light fixture of Cabin Five at the Big Bend Lodge.

It was a fine festival.

A Watched Pot...

I'm watching the pot. In it are simmering onions, leeks, and potatoes.

At the Farmer’s Market, I ask the vender which potatoes she thinks are best for Vichyssoise.


Not familiar with the dish, she asks, “What’s vicious saws?”


“ Vee-she-swahz,” I say, “Leek and potato soup.”


“Oh, sounds good. Depends on if you want it chunky or creamy?”


“Doesn’t matter. It all goes in the blender”, I say.


“I think these German Butterballs might be just right.”


“Should I worry about German potatoes acting up in a French soup?” I ask her jokingly.


“They still don’t get along well, do they?” she chuckles


“Seems the whole world doesn’t get along recently… except maybe here in Oakland since the Warriors victory has united folks. Thanks for the guidance… Say, do you want to hear the recipe for Vichyssoise?”


“Yeah. What is it?”


“First, you take a leek (leak)…”


(Her puzzled face slowly draws into a grin…) “Ewww… I get it. I’ll try and remember that one! Good day to ya.”


“And to you,” I say, walking away with fresh leeks, potatoes, kale, cukes and chard in the bag.



I wish we humans could get along as well as veggies in the pot seem to do.



The Kingston Trio sang their Merry Minuet in the ’60’s:


They’re rioting in Africa, they’re starving in Spain

There are hurricanes in Florida, and Texas needs rain

The whole world is festering with unhappy souls;

The French hate the Germans, Germans hate the Poles

Italians hate Yugoslavs, South Africans hate the Dutch

And I don’t like anybody very much!



But we can be tranquil and thankful and proud

Man’s been endowed with a mushroom shaped cloud

And we know for certain that some lovely day

Someone will set the spark off

and we will all be blown away



They’re rioting in Africa, there’s strife in Iran

What Nature doesn’t do to us

Will be done by our fellow man.



Blessings on Pope Francis who’s thrown his two cents into the pot about global warming being caused by humans.
I’m hopeful the actions he proposes we take are not too little too late!


And Thank You, Barack Obama for suggesting that grieving along with the community in Charleston, South Carolina,
now at the effect of Dylan Storm Roof’s insanity, is not enough. We have the power to change our status in the world as the country with the highest death rate due to gun violence perpetrated by citizen against citizen.

When will the NRA be proven wrong for saying that guns don’t kill people; people kill people? People without guns are less likely to kill other people with their bare hands.


According to the Wall Street Journal, the winning states in the contest for most deaths perpetrated by people with guns, whether suicide or homicide are:

1.Louisiana

2.Mississippi

3.Alaska

4.Wyoming

5.Oklahoma

6.Montana

7.Arkansas

8.Alabama

9.New Mexico

10.South Carolina


States with strong gun laws have seen dramatic declines in violence, while states with weak gun laws have not seen declines. Overall, there has been a 10% increase in gun violence in the last ten years.


Can we say, “insanity,” boys and girls?

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

Something palpably magical is happening here in Oakland. Having won the Basketball Championship over the Cleveland Cavaliers, celebrations are occurring, and the whole city seems to be melting. Hearts are expanding, eyes are twinkling, bliss seems to unify all the citizens as if Joy is the common heart rhythm. Who knows how long this tide of commonality in ebullient elation may wash over us? Not even the events in Charleston have re-erected the barriers.

Dare I hope this heart-warming effect may linger long enough to become the new norm?



Standing in line at the post office late Friday afternoon, I asked a mom and her ten year old daughter if they had been to the parade.

Their eyes glistened beneath the bills of their Warriors caps. Their chests puffed proudly, expanding the lettering on their Warriors T-shirts.

“Oh,YES” they exalted, and regaled me with their favorite highlights until it was their turn to be served at the window.

They waved to me as they left. I was warmed by the nourishing exchange.


Oakland is a good place to practice what my husband calls affirmative inter-action. There’s a rainbow of possibilities when I have choice to rub shoulders and share conversation with folks who, on the surface, look different from how I look. Once rubbed, we find we’re made of the same material - driven by the same human heart rhythm thrumming away.


Friday a week ago, several colleagues and I gathered at a friend's house for fireside camaraderie. Two of the gals taught us this “repeat-after-me-song.” We chanted after Brandy and Andrea, each of us patting the rhythm with palm over our heart.



I can hear my heart beat
(I can hear my heart beat)


Listen to the rhythm of the freedom song
(Listen to the rhythm of the freedom song)


When I feel that beat in me, I can set my spirit free
(When I feel that beat in me, I can set my spirit free)


I’m liking this pot of heart-melting soup here in Oakland very much, and being nourished by it.

Mixed Bag

Hey, D. Mencha Don’cha mention my name! I heard you call my Mama, I heard you call my Pa I hear you calling my dear friend who’ll never be the same. Once you call them, they must come and lose themselves each day Little bit by little bit I see them slip away So forget you ever knew me, forget I have a name Don’t ever EVER call me D.Mencha, ‘cause you SLAY. You slay the mind you slay the speech You slay the memory too You think you’re tough, but not enough To slay me, I'm watchin' you I’ll eat my greens, and vitamins Exercise and rest I’ll eat blueberries till I turn blue I’ll put you to the test Neener, neener, Slick and Sly one Catch me if you can I’ll laugh and play and live my life I’m stickin’ to my plan Pfthththtfffffbbbbbttttttt! * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * I spent time with a high school buddy in L.A. last week, who is struggling with this Demon Dementia. It's so very hard to watch her mind unravel, and yet, she's still her essential self - fun-loving, funny and with a great sense of humor that still shows up in actions, if not words. We laughed a lot. We played guitar. We walked and talked about old times and dear folks we both know. We ate, and watched Annie Hall and toured the garden in the unexpected rain. Dementia is unexpected. It's not supposed to happen to those we love, yet it does. Pisses me off, (just for the record.) I'm royally pissed with no outlet for the scream. No target, no repository for rage. The invitation to "be with what is while it is the way it is" has been extended. I'm doin' the best I can with that invite. I wonder what I'd do if similarly afflicted. Overdose of something sounds promising... but without a plan in place before need... it's impossible to hold a thought to execute it if the dreaded D calls. * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * This afternoon, family arrived from L.A. Healthy, stealthy, and close-knit - this family puts the FUN in functional. All four plus my Grandie, who is now SIX, are sweetly slumbering here, as I write. I love having a house-full! Only took four stories and eight lullabies to settle the grandie down for sleep. She gets so wound up with her cousins, Auntie and Uncle here! * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * When the DEEEELIGHTFUL D calls, she floats my boat on a sea of joy. When grandchildren read to grandparents, there's a race to see who can stay awake longest. She won. Awe arises in hearing her read so fluently. She read. I read. She read again. * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * Stephen Curry floats along, making baskets hither and yon. The Warriors won and it was fun to see the last few points.

Now, We Are Six

When I turned six, my friends gathered in our backyard, in Echo Park. We played Pin the Tail on the Donkey, walked on Hawaiian Punch Juice can “stilts” which my mom & dad made, and ate “baked by mom” cake with frosting that filled-in the imperfect surface caused by the imperfect oven. It was a FUN party. *********************************************************************************************************************** I remember defending my friend Kitty Cooper because some of my other guests laughed when I opened her present: a pale blue wooden clothes hanger with a bouquet of roses painted on it. It was wrapped in plain white tissue. I loved that hanger. Kitty and her mama Emmy had made it for me. Maybe it wasn’t as spiffy as a set of brand new Pick-Up Sticks, or as impressive to them as a Mr. Potato Head kit (we used REAL potatoes in those days), and it wasn’t as popular as the game of “Cootie,” - which was also a popular BD gift in 1954. I loved all the gifts, but that hanger was something I that I held onto long after the pick-up sticks were scattered or snapped in two, and the plastic bits stuck into a potato forgotten under the bed were all gooshy and turned black, and all the Cootie parts were lost, or the plastic bodies cracked due to "Cootie Fights" we staged with those brittle Bake-o-lite plastic creatures. in those days, all the girls wore dresses, all the boys wore slacks. I don’t remember whether or not we gave away “party-favor bags.” I do remember that, as was usual, the adults at the party were drinking stinky drinks and paying very little attention to us kids. *********************************************************************************************************************** When our first born daughter turned six, she had recently joined a new (to us) school community, and all the kids from the class were invited to our house in Sherman Oaks. A friend helped me make frilly, elasticized red and white polka-dot clown collars and cuffs as part of a clown-kit party-favor for each child to take home. It was a fun, if late-night and exhausting, community project. It was somewhat tinged by OCD behavior, on my part. I wanted everything to be “perfect” - whatever that was. At some point, realizing how skewed my values were, I vowed not to push my children away ever again, in order to fulfill a self-imposed deadline and standard of what birthday party favor bags “should” include. Boys and girls both wore pants. No alcohol was served at our Circus Party. *********************************************************************************************************************** When our granddaughter D turned six, she had been reading Encyclopedia Brown detective novels for about a month. Her love of the characters and their astute solving of mysterious cases dictated the theme of her party. Via the internet, her mama purchased quantities of small magnifying glasses and flashlights, super-cool invisible ink pens with attached black-light decoders, small pads of paper for keeping notes - emblazoned with stick on labels Gran'Pun printed up from a design D's dad conceived, featuring the adapted cover of an Encyclopedia Brown book, “The Case of Devlyn’s Sixth Birthday," and one lollipop decoder ring - everything a young detective might need to solve a case. D’s dad got hold of realistic looking “Evidence Bags” into which the birthday girl’s Auntie Sid, Uncle Mister Grady Pants, and Gran’Pun and I (Gra’Moose) stuffed 24 sets of the above listed items, while Mama Mosa finished baking a red-velvet sheet-cake for forty. The cake had an edible copy of the same adapted book jacket! Again, it was a community effort. The party favor bags were a big hit for all the kidletts leaving the very successful Swim Party at D’s dad’s house. All the kids wore swimming costumes and sunscreen. No alcohol was served at this Swim/Detective Party this year. That’s one reason for the party’s success. Children were watched, cherished, and kept safe. There was also an entertaining magician doing goofy, heart-warming magic, which required ALL the children to participate, and it made the over thirty set laugh heartily. Gran’Pun is the BEST magician I know, and the biggest kid. *********************************************************************************************************************** Recently, I updated my computer. It seems I've lost some of the familiar formatting options which used to appear on Blogger.com. If this piece looks differently formatted to you, you're not alone. Anyone out there know how to reinstate choices in font size? Make the site recognize paragraph spacing? Include photos? Lemme know, please! Thank you!

One Connection at a Time

...One compassionate connection at a time

A young girl was walking along a beach upon which thousands of starfish had been washed up during a terrible storm. When she came to each starfish, she would pick it up, and throw it back into the ocean. People watched her with amusement.

She had been doing this for some time when a man approached her and said, “Little girl, why are you doing this? Look at this beach! You can’t save all these starfish. You can’t begin to make a difference!”

The girl seemed crushed, suddenly deflated. But after a few moments, she bent down, picked up another starfish, and hurled it as far as she could into the ocean. Then she looked up at the man and replied, “Well, I made a difference to that one!”

The old man looked at the girl inquisitively and thought about what she had done and said. Inspired, he joined the little girl in throwing starfish back into the sea. Soon others joined, and all the starfish were saved.

— Adapted from The Star Thrower
by Loren C. Eiseley

The day before the anniversary of her son’s birth and his burial 24 years later, on the same date in May, my friend JB engaged in some retail therapy. It’s not Macy’s that draws her, but rather Jewish Family Council Thrift Store, Out of the Closet, and any other shop which carries gently used, throw-back, and vintage items. 

Anniversaries of the loss are particularly rough for her - even sixteen years later. This time, she went into Out-of-the-Closet to wait out rush hour traffic in L.A.  She’d been hiking with one of her former students who needed an ear. The gal's mom had recently died, she had a new baby, and was totally overwhelmed. During the hike, the young woman turned to my friend and asked, only half jokingly, if JB would be her mom. 

My friend has recently taken to holding “office hours” in some lovely spots: Echo Park Lake, our old haunts in Elysian Park, or Griffith Park with its stellar views of ocean, mountains, and city skyline.

This day, having let other people’s schedules dictate her own, (this was not an exception for my dear friend… she is a very giving person), by the time she headed home, the traffic was at a crawl on 101 North, so she slowly exited in Hollywood and made her way toward a retail therapy shop she loves and trusts. 

Once parked and inside the shop, she found some gems, including books: I Remember Nothing, by Nora Ephram, and William Steig’s Amos and Boris, a charming children’s book about a mouse who takes powerful actions which, with the help of friends, ultimately do great good. 

My friend is fond of buying copies of her favorite books when she sees them, so she can share them with just the right person, when occasion, need, or whim dictates. It's a bit of a miracle when a book, cleverly filed in the bowels of her cluttered home, actually finds its way into the hands of the lucky intended recipient. When it does happen, JB is very happy. The recipient is overjoyed.

While perusing the shop’s shelves, she suddenly and forcefully realized she needed a bathroom. She approached the counter and asked the young man behind it where the restroom was. “Can’t let you use it.” He replied, "It's store policy. I could lose my job, if I let you.”

''Look, I get it. I used to teach at a clinic, and after class, late at night, I drove some of my pregnant students home so they wouldn't have to take three busses. I could have lost my job too. I wouldn't want you to get into trouble…. but I really have to go. Could I see your manager?"

"Sorry," he replied, "I am the manager."

Considering her options as she squeezed her knees together on the other side of the counter, JB persisted, "What you don’t know, is what it’s like to be old, and have things like urgency emergencies. This IS Out of the Closet, right?”

“Uh huh.”

“Well, I love my other son's partner more than many of my girlfriends love their daughters-in-law... NOW, may I please use the toilet? I promise I'm not a heroin addict or a terrorist. I just have to pee.”

With a sigh and a chuckle, and key in hand, he said, "The bathroom is this way. Follow me."

Exiting the bathroom with obvious relief, she waved to the young man, now in his tiny, but immaculate office, thanking him profusely while standing in the doorway.

He waved his hand as if to say, “It’s OK.” Then he really looked at my friend and said, “You know, I haven’t spoken with my mom in over two years, and I’m not sure I ever will again. Seeing you makes me wish I could just call her.” 

"That's a long time not to speak to your mother."

"Yeah, and she's seventy five."

My friend is a compassionate listener. Holding her treasured book finds, she sat down to hear the rest of the story. 

“Would it help If I stay here while you call her?"

"No, she's in another country, and it's... complicated."

"I had a son. I will never be able to call him again,” my friend said. She didn’t go into the details of her son’s kidnap and subsequent murder, but something in her tone emboldened the young man to confide further that he was one of eleven kids, and that he didn’t think his mom ever wanted to be a mom, and how she had left them all to be raised by their grandparents, and moved to another country.

"If your mom's seventy five, she didn't have a choice back then to terminate a pregnancy. She must have been totally overwhelmed. Look, I'm really glad you were born, and that I got to meet you… and not just because you let me use the bathroom." They both laughed.

"And I'm truly glad to have met you," the young man said. "I never considered my mother's perspective. I will definitely call her."

Another employee announced that the shop would be closing in five minutes, so please bring your purchases to the counter.

As they both stood, my friend said, to the young man, “I’ll be back one day to see how it went when you called your mom.” 

They ended their exchange, each with a promise, sealed with a hug.

One compassionate connection made a difference... to TWO starfish that day!

*   *   *   *   *   *   *   *   *   *   *   *   *   *

Sunday was an enlightening day. I spent six hours alternating between reading Sylvia Boorstein's book, It's Easier Than You Think: The Buddhist Way to Happiness," and looking down from three thousand feet above the USA, marveling at our country's vastness, its variations of topography, weather, and geology.

New York's spring is in full bloom. Balmy air, soft breezes, seventy to eighty degrees… just beautiful weather bade us farewell from JFK at six a.m. Sunday. Returning home to Oakland that afternoon, we found it was sixty degrees with a blustery wind-a-blowin'! What we saw in between was eye-opening.

The lower portion of Lake Michigan's ruffled surface was visible when the clouds parted, driven westward by the winds.

Parts of the mighty Mississippi were also visible shining below a thin layer of misty clouds.

The plains of the mid-west were laid out checker-board fashion, just right for the shadow of our Jet Blue vehicle to skip across the patchwork of crops. There were also huge circular plots planted in varying shades of green. 

Going over the Rockies, I was heartened to see the tippy tops of the mountains fully packed with snow, but the expiration date on the white stuff is just a few days away, or weeks, if we're lucky. Ditto, the Sierra Nevada. A pretty good snow pack, but not comparable to years past. West of the Sierra's is really, really scary. Brown. 

In a roast of his sister, whom we surprised for her seventieth birthday in New York Saturday, my husband talked about California's Governor being Brown, along with the air, the water, and the grass!

To see the effects of the drought from twenty five hundred feet up is to realize the enormity of the problem. We're talking LIFELESS DESERT out there, folks. I so wish we could help out the folks in Texas by siphoning off their surplus!

I saw a portion the San Andreas Fault clearly. It's a stark line of demarcation between two plates of Earth's crust - each on the move! I will not be watching that new movie! I have quite enough horror in my imagination! But I am reminded that I want to get a big barrel for extra water storage, and organize a plan in case of emergency. And I plan to practice the meditation Boorstein talks of that promises greater equanimity!

Hey, if San Francisco and L.A. are moving closer together, it will make the drive between  the two cities a shorter distance, right? Some time in the future, right? With all this s**t around here, there must be a pony somewhere!  But, let's hope the close proximity of SF and LA is a L-O-N-G time away in the distant future, shall we?