Tuesday Beach Report

Gray-green water. The storm gathers itself.

One day you're standing on level ground, the next at the edge of a precipice.

Meanwhile, the flowers are drinking.

Thank you for the birthday wishes on Facebook, by text, by phone, by email, by blog comment, in person, by telepathy, etc.

The day began with flowers. I was in the kitchen, first sip of my latté barely swallowed when M came in the door. The result was this.

And  breakfast was made--(not by me) eggs with chorizo and avocado and onions and toasted tortilla strips.

Then came the farmer's market where this happened.

And there was cake baking (not by me!!!) that started like this.

And there was a feast prepared (not by me!!!) Grilled shrimp, grilled asparagus, rice so embellished I'm not sure how to describe it.
And the serving of the most succulent gluten free carrot cake ever in the history of the world.

And afterwards, a duet sung by the daughters for which everyone was require to surrender their devices. ( M sang the Tom Wopat tenor while C sang the Bernadette Peters soprano from "Annie Get Your Gun.")

And utter loveliness ( I did have a bit of something to do with that.)

There was a quite literal ache (in a good way) in my heart all day.

Thank you.

Last night as I stepped out my front door about to head out for a walk, I was greeted by a blizzard of blooms. 

Just a bit ago, I came across this poem by Jack Gilbert:

What do they say each new morning 

                                               in Heaven? They would 

weary of one always 

singing how green the 

green trees are in

 Paradise. 

Surely it would seem convention

 and affectation

 to rejoice every time 

Helen went by, since 

she would have gone daily by. 

What can I say then each time 

your whiteness glimmers

 and fashions in the night? If each time your voice

 opens so near

 in that dark 

new? What can I say each morning

 after that you will

 believe? But there is this

 stubborn provincial 

singing in me, 

O, each time. 

And tomorrow I will take a workshop with one of my favorite writing teachers.

And after I will see the man who loves me.

Somehow, in my brain this all fits together wonderfully.

The Insult of Azaleas

I was prepared for ruin. Prepared for flower beds obliterated by neglect. This is what I would find, I feared, and knew how to cushions the blows.

I drove C and her husband to The Someone's house this morning to spare them hours of circling through L.A.s inefficient labyrinth of suburban mass transit. I pulled to the curb in front of the house next door, my view of the house where I once lived blocked by its garage. If I kept my gaze close, fixed on the people I was hugging good-bye, I wouldn't see rose bushes turned feral or thirsty trees beseeching the sky.

But what caught me off guard were clouds of white azaleas spreading over the once tidy walls, pure beauty, bright and startling, insulting me with how they've thrived in my absence.

What I've been doing lately instead of blogging...

...visiting botanical gardens, of course.

There's been high tea and photography with friends   at
The Huntington Library and Botanical Gardens.











There's been a visit from writer and artist Thordis Niela Simonsen that not only included another trip to the Huntington, but the Los Angeles County Arboretum as well.

And the fabulous Greene and Greene masterpiece The Gamble House--which we were not allowed to photograph, but was full of images of birds and trees and flowers like the ones we were seeing.

When Niela saw the delphiniums at the Huntington, she thought of her grandmother's garden. I thought of the people in my life who are like the stakes that keep the delphiniums from toppling over.

And before these forays into urban nature, I drove 400 miles through the desert and back to visit my son and his family where there is a girl who loves horses.

There has been such beauty laid out before me.

photo credit for the botanical erotica at the top of the post: Sandy Walker
The rest of the photos are my own.

Lovers and Strangers

I'm always moved by thoughtfulness. The sweetness of a lover who stands in my doorway with tulips cradled in the crook of his arm.

The stranger who motions from the sidewalk to tell me my trunk isn't latched.

Claims Evaluator #89 from the State Controller's Office.

Weeks ago I got a notice from the State of California informing me I had unclaimed property that had been left in a safe deposit box. It seemed like more than one lifetime ago that a certain someone and I had placed those keepsakes there for safekeeping. Our apartment was in a neighborhood that had a lot of drama. Hookers periodically stood on our corner resulting in a parade of prowling cars. There were "interesting" neighborhood characters, one who literally howled at the moon, a bank robber who demanded that I get out of his way before he leaped over our back fence with a gun and a bag of money. One neighbor's TV was stolen, and another neighbor was surprised by an attacker who crawled through her window while she slept. A member of the LAPD SWAT team used our Honda Civic as cover the night the house across the street was under siege. It's no wonder two young people accustomed to the gentler ways of the countryside chose a bank that offered a free safe deposit box.

We had a shoe box of things the day the clerk first led us through the dark-paneled rail and into the vault. Our renter's insurance policy, my great aunt's garnet necklace, and some silver coins given to me by my father and grandfather were all trusted to the locked drawer inside the locked vault behind the polished wood barrier. But I tired of going to the bank as I began to want the necklace more frequently around the same time that we bought our first house in a different neighborhood. The coins, the paperwork, and a bag of polished agates given to me by my favorite uncle were left there to re-enter my memory from time to time, but never took up residence long enough to force a drive across town in a schedule crammed with soccer practice, dance lessons, and school events.

Some years later we moved to a better house, and then an even bigger one. The bank moved, changed its name at least once, and moved again. I remember looking at the unusually long skinny keys when the certain someone and I moved into the house that would shelter the final years of our marriage. I may have recognized the keys, and thought about what I should do, but I don't really remember.

I wrote a letter when the State Controller's office contacted me, explaining that I was divorced now and that the contents of the box were valuable only to me. I filled out their form, had it notarized, sent  a copy of marriage license showing the name under which I had opened the bank account. I sent my social security card, an old driver's license dating from the era when I'd decided to take my husband's last name. I sent my current driver's license and my final degree of divorce showing my new name which is neither my maiden name nor my married name.

My claim was rejected. But not hopelessly so. They needed a signed property release form from The Someone, which was promptly signed and  returned to me after I sent it to him. But oops, I didn't read the pages of instructions with their if-thises and if-thats carefully enough. They needed a copy of his driver's license and his social security card. I dreaded asking him, but his secretary kindly scanned and emailed them to me, which I, in turn, faxed to the State Controller's Office on Saturday. Now, I thought, now the shiny bits of my past will come back to me. Would a sheriff knock on my door holding a small metal box?

No. Not yet. There was the original "claim affirmation" form that had already been signed by me, but not signed by The Someone. Claims Evaluator #89 called me on my cell phone this morning just as my battery was dying. "I don't know his number by heart," I said. "I'll have to call you back in a couple of hours after I get home." After I returned home with my phone attached to its car charger, I picked up a voicemail. There was she was, # 89, telling me that she wanted to help me, and she found The Someone's number on her own, and she called him, and faxed him the form. "You don't have to do anything," she said.

The Weekend of

 the sweet 

the golden

 the exotically

delicious

and satisfying.