The Day of the Dog

Doing the Chicken Dance

October in Petaluma is brimming with events. Oh, we’ve always had fun things to do: hike Art Trails, pick pumpkins, navigate the Corn Maze, search out ghosts in the Historic district. But the Petaluma Arts Council and the Petaluma Arts Center have really ratcheted up the excitement this year, and we’ve way more to celebrate than Halloween.

            

Not that I have anything against Halloween; it’s one of my favorite holidays. David and I love to dress up in costumes and stage makeup. That’s us! He’s Ichabod Crane and I’m “Day of the Dead Jackie O”—and that’s what I wanted to talk about: Day of the Dead, Dia de los Muertos. I say bendiciónes to the Arts Council for supporting this celebration here in Petaluma all month long.

             

Every year I walk the “altar camino” and gather ideas for my own ofrenda, offering. (I pick up new Day of the Dead artisania at Heebe Jeebe/Boomerang Gallery) Yes, I admit it, I put up an alter in the living room every year. David’s question that first year: “and this is —Why?” Well, why not? I’ve got a pantheon of loved ones, mostly deceased pets, to remember and what better way than to invite them into my home on All Saints and All Souls days, share some food and drink, my news, and a few laughs or tears—in spirit. 

And tears will come this year as the ashes of Chocolatte, my chocolate Lab, take center stage on the altar (sorry Dad) in her own Mexican gourd painted with birds and animals. 

             

Chocolatte was born September 30, 1992 in Mexico City. It’s only fitting that she should have an altar, don’t you think? She’ll love the biscuit offering from Cotati’s Mike Martinez, our UPS man. He still leaves four with every delivered package. David worries that when he goes, I’ll save him in a box too, to be trotted out for chai lattes once a year. It could be worse, dear.

             

I got my first taste of Day of the Dead in Miahuatlán, Oaxaca before Chocolatte was born. Remembering, I smell the pungent mounds of single petaled marigolds, cempasúchil, brought on the backs of burros to be arranged on family graves and fashioned into large crosses that became part of the procession to the panteon at dusk. All day in the cemetery, men and women cleaned headstones, raked the stony ground, and set up bowls of food and jars of tequila on the graves for their dead. Family photos, playing cards, dominos and baskets of goodies for the living appeared. A farmer’s wife gave me a pan de muertos, a bone shaped bread of the dead, fresh out of the oven.

             

The solemn procession of brightly clothed townsfolk undulated down the shoulder of the mountain to the graveyard by candlelight, but later, the guitars and accordions heated up (with all that tequila), and the party raged. We danced and sang and cried and laughed with the living until the wee hours.

            

 The next year in Tepoztlán, Morelos, when handbills went up all over town in October, remonstrating “NO AL HALLOWEEN—conserve the traditions of Day of the Dead—It’s Original,” I made an offering. Parsley, my canine traveling companion from home, was my first “altar pet,” resting in her painted gourd amid marigolds, tall white candles, plates of pan dulces—she loved Conchas, and tendrils of smoke from copal.             

In nearby Cuernavaca, as in Petaluma, all kinds of activities pop up: plays, art exhibits, sugar-skull making workshops, calavera writing workshops. That year I walked in the traditional candle-lit procession to the old graveyard in Ocotapec. And best, altars, altars, altars! Even my vet had one.

            

 My ofrendas have evolved over the years. Some of my altars celebrate a past I’ll never recapture—presided over by my Beatles dolls in their own Yellow Submarine; some remember strangers lost to wars, disasters, hunger. All remember family, dogs, cats, and even my little pet rats, Madeline and Julia. I celebrate their lives and the joy each has brought me.            

            

 This Día de los Muertos, the scent of the marigolds transports me back to my years in Mexico where I lost and found two fine dogs, now side by side on the altar: Parsley, born in Lagunitas and died in Mexico City. Chocolatte, born in Mexico City and died in the shadow of Sonoma Mountain.

~These happy bones have slipped the leash;

now see who’s mistress.~ 

Ginger died 11/15/2013

Down by the River

My busy life got in the way of summer this year. I’d planned do things with the grand kids but barely saw them, even when I hosted the barbeques. Now, It’s hard to believe summer is gone and we missed all the fun events.

Maybe there’s still some hope! Look outside. The sky is a fathomless blue, the air is dry and warm, the hills are golden and our river keeps rolling along. We have a month before the clocks “fall back” to standard time and I, for one, am not quite ready to let go of the warm weather and settle down before the fire with my hot cocoa and the latest novel from one of our local literary luminaries. I’m planning to make the most of what Petaluma has to offer in October.

           

Vallejo's Petaluma Adobe

Since 4th grade I’ve harbored a fascination for Vallejo’s Petaluma Adobe. In California history we learned that Mariano Guadalupe Vallejo was sent by the Mexican Government to our area in 1834 to secularize the San Francisco Solano Mission in Sonoma by starting a town, now Sonoma. The government gave him a land grant of 44,000 acres and he chose Petaluma for his Adobe rancho and factory. The Adobe served as the center of General Vallejo's 100 square mile working ranch between 1836-1846. Between 600-2,000 people worked at the Adobe and the more important workers would have lived upstairs. In those days, a Native American village was adjacent to the creek. The hide and tallow trade, as well as crops and grain supported the rancho.

Although Vallejo made his home in Sonoma, he visited the rancho as often as possible to oversee the ranching and the construction. Unfortunately the structure had not been completed when Vallejo was taken captive during the Bear Flag Revolt in 1846. By the time Vallejo was released from jail, the Gold Rush had driven labor prices up and squatters had taken over portions of the land. He eventually sold the building and some property in 1857 after attempts to lease it failed. The State bought it in 1951 and the Adobe became a registered National Historic Landmark in 1970.

On the 4th the Petaluma Adobe is celebrating its annual Fandango. I’m grabbing the grand kids and going. The California Sonoma County Pomo Dancers will open with a dance performance at noon, followed by dances of the 1840's performed in period costume. I’m curious to see the Fandango and maybe pick up a step or two. The little girls will love the costumes and crafts for kids hosted by The California Indian Museum & Cultural Center. There will be snacks, too! The park is located at Old Adobe Road at the junction of Casa Grande.

           

On Sunday the 5th, Shollenberger Park is the place to watch the Wine Country Rowing Classic, a 5,000-meter “head” race, attracting more than 500 athletes. This US Rowing-registered event brings competitors from up and down the West Coast, and includes the NBRC Juniors team, as well as collegiate and masters rowers. The event is free for spectators, and afterward you can take a lovely walk.

           

Two of my favorite events take place over the following two weekends are ArtTrails, http://www.artsnorthbay.us/ and the Tolay Fall Festival, http://parks.sonomacounty.ca.gov/Activities/Tolay_Fall_Festival.aspx. I’m excited about both, but the grandgirls haven’t quite become art connoisseurs, however they do like animals and bugs. We’ll visit the Tolay Fall Festival and enjoy the Nighttime Creatures Barn—exhibits of native and exotic snakes, birds of prey, tide pool animals, and taxidermy wildlife as well as the Creepy Crawly Room to see tarantulas and scorpions glow under black lights. I can’t wait. After that, the kidlets will love the hayride to a pumpkin patch to select carving pumpkins. I want to visit the replica of a Native American village and try farm activities like wool carding and candle dipping, but forgive me—I just can’t get into the Pumpkin-Seed Spitting Contest! Or can I? I bet the girls would get a kick out of seeing Granna compete in a gunnysack race—or should we reserve that for Grandpappy? I know we’ll all enjoy the petting zoo of barnyard animals. They’re holding demonstrations in archery, fly fishing and astronomy. I’ll pack a picnic and we can buy special treats from the vendors.

Weekend hours are 11 a.m. to 5 p.m. Admission is $4 for adults and teens and $1 for children 12 and under. Regional Parks members get free, one-time admission for two adults and two children and free parking when they present their membership cards and parking tags at the entrance otherwise parking is $7. Activities inside the Festival are free. Find Tolay Lake Regional Park at 5869 Lakeville Highway, at the end of Cannon Lane.

           

The Friends of the Petaluma River is hosting River Heritage Days from the 17th through the 19th. Friends of the Petaluma River is partnering with the San Francisco Maritime Park to bring two historic ships, the Alma and the Grace Quan, up to Petaluma for touring. Special events include a movie at the Turning Basin Friday night and a Barn Dance at the David Yearsley River Heritage Center Saturday night. The Friends promise loads of boats and fun for the whole family. By the way, shoppers, did you know that Friends of the Petaluma River run the Friends River Emporium with part of each purchase going to education and conservation of the river? http://www.friendsofthepetalumariver.org/river-emporium/

           

Trick or Treat anyone? Alexis, Arya, Grandpappy and I (not to mention the other 3 sets of grandparents: we’re a modern family!) will have picked the hay out of our sweaters, carved the pumpkins, and done up into our most frightening costumes to stalk the Petaluma Downtown Trick-or-Treat Trail on Halloween. Shall I wear my evil fairy Godmother costume? Queen of Hearts? I know—the dead.

           

And after all this October excitement, our family will be ready for that cup of cocoa. Happy riverside Fandango—Hayride—Pumpkin Patch—Trick or Treat—Trails to all!

                              

My 

Happy Birthday to Me

September is my favorite month—always has been. I love the hot dry days: how the morning air takes on a hint of crispness and the late afternoon sun gilds Sonoma Mountain. Maples and Chinese pistache flame into color—giant matches igniting Petaluma’s neighborhoods. The Wednesday and Saturday farmers markets overflow with the bounty of harvest—pears start to come in! But September doesn’t just bring the rich tapestry of fall, it also ushers in the excitement of the new school year, fall clothes (I love sweaters) and for me, a new personal year.

             

Yep, I still love my birthday and the possibilities that come with it—not to mention the party! My husband’s philosophy about birthdays is,  “the bigger the age, the bigger the stage.” And this year I’m taking David’s advice. It’s a post-decade birthday and I plan to start celebrating early and continue celebrating, perhaps until Halloween. Is that the popping of champagne corks I hear?

             

I’m lucky, too. I have plenty of friends to celebrate with in September and October. Count the months backwards—Holiday season! How many of us are the product of an office holiday party? New Years Eve? I was an unexpected Christmas gift. I’ve got more friends with birthdays in September and October than days to celebrate.

             

My mother insists my birthday is always the hottest day of the year, although I’m sure she’s exaggerating. I remember one year, was I nine? She loaded eight little girls decked out in petty-coated-pastel-party dresses (think rickrack) and maryjanes (with white socks) into our apple-green wood-panel Ford station wagon and drove us to Stow Lake in Golden Gate Park to ride the peddle boats. It was 103°, or so she claims. The pink-iced cake melted, the 7-Up and Dr. Pepper were warm, and someone fell in the algae choked pond—a disaster. On the hour-long ride home, we bickered over who got to play with my new (original) Barbie in her own shiny black carrying case. She came accessorized with Ken but no outfits. (I wanted outfits, sweaters!) A lot of crying went on that day, including my harried mom. I vowed to make sure that if there was crying at my future birthdays, it was because we laughed too hard—and no, the clown when I was ten didn’t quite cut it.

             

One of my favorite celebrations was a sea cruise on Holland America Line’s New Amsterdam. I loved that 24-hour ice cream bar—too bad there wasn’t a birthday cake served with it. But that didn’t compare with the year Mexico and I celebrated El Grito together. The fireworks lit up the night sky for a week; the tequila ran like water. ¡Viva Birthdays!

            

But it wasn’t until I moved out of Marvelous Marin that I really knew birthdays. Sonoma County has it down on how to treat a writer girl on her special day! This year Petaluma kicks up the fun with the Petaluma Poetry Walk on Sunday the 21st then the party really heats up with Redwood Writers’ (www.redwoodwriters.org) launch of its critically acclaimed anthology, Water, on August 28^th. (Buy it and read my story, Jet Skis and Malathion.)

            

This year I may not be celebrating a banner year, but this is no zero celebration—and you’re all invited! I love presents and the best would be your presence at the anthology Launch where I'll read with an all-star line-up of writers. You’ll recognize me—I’ll be the one wearing the Birthday Girl tiara! Just toss roses…

A Cut and Tut at Shaar Salon

You know the hair salon—stylists and clients buzzing about everything: especially what’s hip in hair and, at my salon, dance! I was in to see my stylist, Kathy Wolff, for a cut and color at Shaar Salon on Wilson St. and the talk turned to So You Think You Can Dance. I hadn’t seen the new episode, but Wolff, her associate Joseph Blanchard and his client, a Petaluma High School senior and long-time ballerina with a troupe in Santa Rosa, filled me in. Consensus was the “tap boy” really can dance. I asked what made him so good and learned all about Kathy’s background in dance—she’s not only a great stylist and master colorist, Kathy Wolff is an expert in Tap, Hip Hop, Belly Dance and the leader of two belly dancing troupes.

A native of Los Angeles, she’d been doing celebrity hair—for Supertramps’ bass player, the head writer for General Hospital, John Fogerty’s attorney and Slash’s girlfriend (Guns and Roses) among many—but she wanted a change. Wolff moved to Northern California on “March twenty seventh, 1987, just after eleven in the morning. I’ll never forget it.” She laughs. “The great escape.”

She landed in San Francisco and rented a station in a salon where the tension and conflict between the salon owners was so marked she watched a client turn around and walk out the door. She soon followed. “You have to have a truly respectful and harmonious environment. You can’t fake it.”

Eventually Wolff settled near family in Cotati. She worked at Capelli Salon and became a resident Petaluman when her daughter entered Petaluma Junior High School. I found Kathy through one of her clients in a yoga class at Bodyworks on Second Street (I’ve heard they’ve closed. Sad—it was a great yoga studio.) when I admired my classmate’s hair, and I’ve been following Kathy around Petaluma’s salons since.

First for me was Repunzel’s Hair Salon on Keller. Later Kathy (and I) moved to Lauthr Salon on Petaluma Blvd. just off Washington. I loved going to that salon for my fashion fix: adorable handbags, and the historic building. The original floors creaked and sloped, lending an old world charm to the elegant decor. Wolff was happy there too. Maybe the cricks and cracks of the floor fed into her passion for rhythm? But one day, surfing Craig’s list she happened on a 1970’s home with a two-station salon attached. She had not intended leaving Lauthr, but how could she resist? Shaar Salon was born.

She says it was easy to open since she already had her cosmetology license. All she needed was her Petaluma Business License and her Establishment License issued by the Department of Consumer Affairs: Board of Barbering and Cosmetology. That’s not as easy as Wolff makes out. I read over the requirements for salons and cosmetologists and discovered that a salon is highly regulated. Did you know the law mandates all combs and brushes need the hair removed, be washed in soap and water and soaked for 10 minutes in a disinfectant solution between clients? Kathy suggests that only about 5% of stylists clean according to law. Shaar does. Kathy once left a salon when she saw the worker sniff a used towel then toss it in the dryer and reuse it with a new client. Towels, etc. must be washed and dried between customers. Shaar does. The bathroom must provide paper towels, not cloth towels. Disposable cups must be provided with water. Shaar—yes and yes!

Wolff was excited, “not the usual reaction,” when the inspector came to check out all these details. Shaar passed with flying colors. “I felt legit.” The only things the salon needed were products (she uses Goldwell hair color and products) and Kathy’s friend and associate, Joseph, colorist par excellence. She says “I snagged him from Repunzel.” And the two have created that harmonious environment. The name Shaar means “hair” in Egyptian Arabic and the unpretentious salon is livened with Wolff’s collection of Egyptian and Turkish plates, lamps and my favorite piece: a graceful Turkish mint-tea service that takes pride of place against a deep red background. I’m impressed with the cleanliness and order of the premise and the fact that it is well ventilated. I love the hair colors but don’t want to choke on the dye fumes! That would ruin the cup of tea I drink while I wait for the color to set.

But what does any of this have to do with dance? It was the “tap boy” that led Wolff to explain she got her start in dance at age thirteen with tap lessons bestowed on her by a generous uncle. She worked under Tony Award winning choreographer Danny Daniels, known for his work in film and TV, notably, Pennies from Heaven and Indiana Jones and the Temple of Doom. Fifteen years into her tap and Hip Hop career, Wolf saw the Hahbi’Ru belly dance troupe perform at the Renaissance Faire and was smitten. She has always been inspired by anything rhythmic, “being a tap dancer and a very bad drummer,” (she got her first drum kit at eight) so when she injured her ankle she “put tap on the shelf” and turned belly dancer.

Tap, Hip Hop and Belly Dance are based on the music’s rhythms as opposed to other types of dance such as Ballet and Modern Jazz, which illustrate the melody and lyrical portions of the music. In classical Belly Dance, you have to interpret the time signatures and tempo changes with the melody playing over. Rhythms come from different regions and are what dictate the dabke and beladi movements.

Confused? You don’t need to be: Wolff teaches Belly Dance through the Sebastopol Center for the Arts and S.R.J.C. Ten years ago her teacher retired and passed the Dance Journey troupe and classes to Kathy. The on-going Monday night class is open for beginners and dancers who want to brush-up. Wolff welcomes drop-ins.

Just prefer to watch dance? Wolff’s troupes, Dance Journey and Katherina’s Habibi Dancers, perform all over Northern California. Dance Journey has won both first and third place in the troupe category in the North Coast Belly Dance Competition. They’ve got shows coming up on Oct. 11th and 12th at the North Bay Bellydance Bazaar in Sebastopol, the Annual Halloween Hafla at the Glazer Center in Santa Rosa on Friday, October 24^th at 7:00 pm, and friend Dance Journey’s facebook page for info on the North Bay belly dancing holiday dance “office party” that Alnisa started at Papa’s Taverna and is open to all.

Get your hair done before the belly dance party. I heard a rumor that Kathy and Joseph may be serving wine in those regulated paper cups in December, and along with color and cuts, the salon specializes in special occasion hair: weddings, proms, photo shoots, and costume hair—like my Charmian London do for the launch party of our Redwood Writers 2013 Anthology.

I watched So You Think You Can Dance, and with my new salon gained knowledge I ask you, where were the Hip Hop twistiflexes, the popping and the locking?

I know the tutting is going on at Shaar Salon.

All I Need to Do is Breathe

Recently, my husband and I helped our friends drink a bottle of Shiraz and address invitations for their August wedding. “Thirty-four days,” my harried friend reminded me. Like in so many second marriages, the date is a decision made in committee, and nailing down a venue in Wine Country with short notice is nerve wracking—pass the bottle, please.

            

 I re-filled Linda’s wine glass, “It’s pretty good, once it breathes.” I said of their first attempt at wine making.

             

“Like organizing a wedding at the last minute. All I need to do is breathe.”

             

Or medicate, I thought. David and I negotiated our August date while we pre-honeymooned in Tuscany the May before—with twenty-three of my closest relatives. We could pull it off in two months, couldn’t we? We pondered this over white truffle ravioli in sage butter washed down with a lush Sangiovese from the Montepulciano region. August 1^st would work, although I’d have preferred later in the month—we didn’t want to conflict with the July 31st opening of the latest Harry Potter movie and we wanted to avoid the wind and chill of fog. Summer in the shadow of Sonoma Mountain can be so iffy.

             

Back at home we sipped Chianti and hand made one hundred seventy-five invitations. (If you’ve kept your invitation, may I have it back? I never got one!) My nephew, then newly graduated from the California Culinary Academy, and I tasted brews at Lagunitas Brewing Company while we conferred about the menu— yes, he could duplicate the ravioli in sage-truffle beurre blanc, and it would pair well with the apple notes of the Pils—a Czeck style pilsner. But wouldn’t I rent a grill and let him barbeque some beef?

              

“You know we don’t eat red meat—tequila-lime shrimp skewers?” I negotiated.

             

“Only if you make it Herradura tequila,” Chef replied. 

             

One hundred fifty RSVPs arrived. Wow! I didn’t know we had so many friends. The problem was, on our sloping gopher field, where would we put them all?

            

 “Deck over the yard,” my problem solving near-husband said. “Dad and Den can do it; give them the keg.”

            

 Amid the circus of construction and in-laws-to-be staying with us for the week preceding the wedding—David’s revenge for the pre-honeymoon—it was hard to tell that our day had come.

             

Tentacles of fog arrived with the guests, most driving too fast on our unpaved lane and churning dust all over my tables. The family was still slapping paint onto the deck railings; Chef shambled in three hours late looking hung-over without the tequila-marinated shrimp. My hairdresser plied me with wine and held me hostage in the house, insisting that it was bad luck for anyone to see me in my flounced, Victorian-inspired dress before the ceremony. I missed all the photos with David’s family.

             

The band, which included the Phoenix Theater’s Music Director, Gio Benedetti, on bass and Petaluma guitarist, Alec Furhman, (check out his 80s cover band, Choppin’Broccoli) struck up the processional. My Man of Honor, leading Chocolatte, our mortified Lab who carried the rings pinned to a heart-shaped pillow tied around her neck, started the procession down the eucalyptus-chip path toward the creek and the gazebo where our officiate waited. David was not in sight.

             

As I searched the sea of smiling faces for my betrothed, I noticed a billboard that must have gone up during the night, looming over the treetops:  Planning a wedding? Call 1-800-RUN LIKE HELL. Had David seen that? I clutched my vows in my fist and considered trading in my jeweled flip-flops for Nikes. But the music stopped and he stepped off the stage to join me—my Bart Maverick in scruffy tennis shoes. I really wanted him to wear that hot pair of snakeskin cowboy boots we saw at Jay Palm, but the collarless shirt and wild west vest were as far as he would go.

             

The setting was magical with Sonoma Mountain and Pam Bell’s magnificent flower arrangements as backdrops. The Flamenco guitar was sensual food for our ears as Chef’s grilled salmon (and ravioli) was for our tongues, and people are still talking about that Harlequin wedding cake custom designed by Patisserie Angelica. No one twisted an ankle in a gopher tunnel and no one missed the shrimp skewers. It may have taken us a week to clean up the mess, but we had in-laws to help.

              

Next month, when David and I celebrate our 6^th anniversary, the party’s going to be with our dear friends at their homegrown wedding (local French gypsy band, Dgiin is playing!) But for that special toast to us—our marriage and the blessings of our lives in Sonoma County—it’s not going to be over dinner at Cucina Paradiso like last year. Instead we’ll celebrate the first flush into our new septic tank—and I’m hoping that the sixth anniversary gift isn’t toilet paper.

           

Too Good to Pass Up

Morning traffic was orderly, as I headed south on Sonoma Mountain Parkway. My husband lounged in the passenger seat either asleep or sulking. I’d bribed him with a promise of a visit to Copperfields if kept me company shopping and dropping old clothes at COTS, an outing he generally avoids, and it wasn’t turning out to be such a bargain. In silence, we crossed onto Ely and I admired the clouds billowing above Sonoma Mountain like cream mounded on a yerba mate latte.

           

 “Pull over.” David, suddenly animated, waved his arms toward the curb. Had I blown a tire? Was the car on fire? I threw on the blinker, aimed the Prius into the right lane and skidded into a parking place. David jumped out. I stabbed the power-off button with my index finger and scrambled out before the Prius blew up, running to the sidewalk. Where the heck did my husband go? 

             

“They’ve got a good price on an entertainment center.” David’s voice filtered through a tall hedge separating two homes. “It’s just what you want. Bring your purse!”

             

A yard sale—I should have known. Sonoma County is great for secondhand, but Petaluma reigns queen of bargain hunting. On any Saturday, April through October, there are dozens of sales—moving sales, estate sales, even auctions; everybody opens for business, and the goods are all “collectible.”

           

 Later, I checked Petaluma360.com and found eighteen garage sale listings for the long weekend. But it’s early yet; more ads will show up on Friday. Along with the ads for the usual clothing, furniture, jewelry, toys, tools, I discovered scrubs, gumball machines, vintage clothing, 50 different models of vacuum cleaners, and parking meters offered at basement prices. Maybe I could buy a couple of the meters to encourage those guests who don’t know when to leave. (Is it even legal to sell these?)

             

David can sniff out the sales like a bear after honey, and he loves to browse the bargains. During yard sale season, he disappears for hours at a stretch.

            

 “I thought you were picking up a valve at OSH,” I might mention casually, glancing at the tools strewn about a still-leaking sprinkler in the lawn.

           

 “Come see the egg incubator I found over on Western. It was free!” He grins. “I’m going to make a coffee table for the living room.”

            

 I’ll believe it when I see it, but suppose there’s certain symmetry to his idea since the directions to our house include “across from the yellow chicken coop.” And I agree, “free” is unbeatable. 

            

 David’s attitude is, “If I buy it, I need it.” And often it’s true. The strange bits of architectural odds and ends wind up in the theatrical sets he builds. His office has the feel of a traveling minstrel show, decorated with old steamer trunks, collections of masks and theater posters—all terrific secondhand buys.

             

Now and then, I enjoy bargain hunting, too. My favorite find is a larger-than-life sculpture of The Who in concert created by Healdsburg artist Martin Kiff, that we recently picked up for a song (Teenage Wasteland). But I try not to spend on things I don’t need. How much of a bargain is it a couple of years later if I have to pay to haul it to the dump? Right now, the carport is filled with my damaged doll house no one is going to fix, the same yoghurt maker I sold in 1980, a set of hideous plastic chairs, David’s bike rack that doesn’t fit the car, the kids’ blood-dripping Halloween stuff from the ‘80s, and best of all: my mom’s complete Encyclopedia Britannica circa 1955, in it’s own case. Recycle Town, here I come—and I’m not taking David on this errand.

             

I’m putting my foot down—my feng shui practitioner accuses us of stagnating ch’i from too much stuff. So keep on the lookout for our ad in the paper now that it’s yard sale season—we’ll make you a great deal on an entertainment center.

 

PS: I never made it to Recycle Town but my complete set of  

Encyclopedia Britannica circa 1955

makes a great altar to 

Knowledge and a Successful Writing Career

Pollen Capital of the World

I think I’ve landed on Dagobah when we arrive home from our two-week vacation in Mexico at the end of April. You know, that overgrown planet where Yoda lived in Star Wars? Ok, so I don’t actually find any trees growing out of my roof, but it takes a machete to hack a path to the door.

             

Weeds, tall and tangled, sway gently in the breeze over the sprawl of growth hugging the ground.

             

“What happened to the driveway? Where’d this meadow come from?” I ask my husband in horror, noticing milk thistles, the prickly bane of my garden, already taller than I am. “I could harvest those for liver supplements,” I add, eying the lifetime supply growing along the carport.

             

“Late rain,” he replies as the Prius bounces over tufts of grass patch-worked with super-sized dandelions and bittercress.

             

David holds the door while I wrestle my suitcase across the pea gravel. The wheels catch in a tangle of burclover that sprawls across the welcome mat. Was this noxious weed here when we left? I can already see the tender-looking seedpods that will ripen into nasty brown burrs and lodge into everything—my feet, the cat, the carpets.

             

The sight of this herbaceous splendor causes my eyes to water, my sinuses to clog. And then, “Ah-ah-ah-choo!”

             

I yank my bag over the jamb. “It’s hay-fever season,” I lament and slam the door behind me, bolting it against the spring menace.

            

 “Welcome to south county—Pollen Capital of the World,” my allergy-free husband jokes.

           

I’d have laughed but laughing makes me cough. Sonoma County, with its beautiful expanses of grass and forested hills, is one of the worst places for seasonal allergy sufferers—about a quarter of our population, not counting the dogs. My head pounds and my eyes itch just thinking of the days to come. I read that 70% of the pollen in the air comes from grass. The late rains have made mine lush, thick, and bursting into flower.

             

In normal years, whatever that means these days, the grass starts to bloom about mid-April and continues through Memorial Day, but I’ve heard tell that the misery could continue into July this year. Just thinking about that makes me run to the medicine cabinet for a saline snort off the neti pot.

            

 I unpack my suitcase into the laundry and empty the contents of my cosmetics bag back into the bathroom—shampoo, toothpaste, aspirin, razor blades. I’d forgotten to pack my antihistamines for the trip and I hadn’t missed them. Two weeks of Mexico City smog, blooming jacarandas, dust, bougainvilleas, and nary a sneeze. Was it the tequila, I wonder as I slip the bottle of Herradura Añejo—thankfully intact—out of my bag.

             

I give my theory a test. The first medicinal sip of the smooth tequila warms my scratchy throat. My headache disappears with the next. This stuff really works! I’m ready to brave the outdoors and visit my California native garden: ceanothus, monkey flower, Cleveland sage and poppies all in bloom. But the bed is so choked by non-native grasses, bristly ox tongue, and sow thistles going to seed that I can’t see my beautiful flowers, not even the taller gooseberries and wild currants.

             

My oaks and willows that crowd the banks of our creek are in pollen-spewing flower, adding to the miasma of allergens in the air. Soon, I’ll see the pollen blowin’ in the wind, a yellowish particulate smudge. Next it will be the olives, emitting more pollen into my atmosphere. I shoot my little orchard a dirty look.

             

“Ah-choo. Ah-Choo. AH-CHOO.” My head feels like it’s exploded. Maybe another shot of tequila will help. I flee back into the house.

           

 “Aren’t you teaching tonight?” David asks.

             

I’ve got my hand on the Herradura bottle, but release my grip. He’s right. Instead, I’ll take a shower and make a cup of hot tea with the Tolay Star Thistle honey a friend gave me. The pollen in this local honey is reputed to help minimize the effects of our local allergens.

             

I sit in my living room, sipping my honeyed tea, watching weed seed float across the yard on the breeze. My sinuses cleared up in the shower steam and I feel good. Outside the window, a tiny breeze riffles through the tops of silvery eucalyptus, and the green, green grass running up Sonoma Mountain bobs its bloomin’ seed heads, welcoming me home.