Rose ~ Zebras ~ Quarantine

Well, I keep seeing this stuff and it just comes a-rolling in

And you know it blows right through me like a ball and chain

You know I can't believe we've lived so long and are still so far apart

The memory of you keeps callin' after me like a rollin' train

                                                           Bob Dylan 

  Who in their right mind drives three hours for lunch? (I mean besides Pak. And Jim Harrison.)

  I pull in to Nepenthe at exactly one o’clock. I take a seat at the bar that gives me a partial view of the ocean. I’m thrilled, even though I planed on not drinking, to see a Domaine de Terrebrune Rosé by the glass. A rare find and I can’t resist. After all, why travel and run across the unique and the new if not to enjoy the finer fruits of experience. We won’t talk about price but the single glass was more expensive than my wild caught shrimp sandwich. And worth, I must add, every penny.  I linger for a while savoring the wine and reading the new Julian Barnes book. 

  The Henry Miller Museum is closed unfortunately. Usually I stop and poke around. Sometimes I buy a book. 

   I always forget about the zebras. But then there they are peacefully grazing in a pasture within view of the highway. I pull over and watch them for a while. They are so out of place but somehow appropriate. They are the descendants of zebras that William Hearst imported from Africa in the twenties for his zoo at Casa Granda high above San Simeon. 

  I look up hotels and find a relatively reasonable deal on Moonstone Beach. The Little Sur Inn.  My room is big, clean and also has a view of the ocean. I stroll along the boardwalk and then sit on a log and watch the sun set. The horizon glows orange for another twenty minutes. 

  Once again, randomly, I am in Cambria on a Tuesday night. The only night of the week that The Sea Chest is closed. So, The Moonstone Grill it is. I sit out side and eat scallops in a very sweet glaze. It’s tolerable because they are fresh. I have my second glass of wine of the day, a red from Hearst Ranch. I walk back to my room via the beach path. Orion is high in the sky and I give Betelgeuse a glance hoping to detect it’s recent fading but I am, of course, too far away and without a proper telescope. 

  I get a text from Suellen telling me Chip will be in Santa Barbara tomorrow. Well, I can’t miss that so I plan on cutting my getaway short. I’m a little reluctant but, after all, seeing Chip is always a fine time. 

 Early March. Spring, and there are even scents of Summer in the air. The tide is low and I walk back and forth from Leadbetter to the breakwater. There is a crowd at the Beachside Cafe. I see my first whale of the year.  The waves glisten in the sun and sandpipers scurry across the sand. I wonder how I would go about nominating the designer of the thong for a Nobel prize. 

 I was thinking about what Kurt Vonnegut’s daughter Edie remembers him telling her, that in the grand scheme of things they were really only seconds apart. A lot of stuff they were together experiencing for the first time. I know age can seem like a great distance between two people but the great expanses of time can really shrink that distance. We are closer than we think. I’ve always thought that. Age has less importance to me with my friends than do things like integrity or honesty or curiosity. I have friends from 10 to 92. And I receive wisdom and love from all directions. 

  Well, it’s official. Santa Barbara county closed all bars and restaurants. I am out of work for a few weeks. Bad timing, but I’ll manage. I can’t help but feel that there is some amount of overreacting here. The financial repercussions are going to be deep. Deeper, I think, than people realize. So on these past windy and cold days the streets are deserted and Shoreline Park is relatively empty. Even Gelson’s Market was not as crazy as I was told.  Although it was cleaned out of asswhipe, produce, bread and sanitizer.  Lines moved pretty quick and everyone was polite and considerate. I really didn’t need anything that was critical. I picked up some soups, ramen, frozen pizzas, pretzels, and some canned vegetables. I have plenty of water and vitamin C to last over a week. So I’m not particularly worried. 

  Hauge came up last night bringing supplies; fried chicken, cheeses and meats, bread and crackers.  Tequila for him, red wine for me. We sit around the table for a few hours telling our old stories and wondering just what the fuck is going to happen next. We are worried that it’s going to get worse before it gets better. He has an early flight so we call it a night by eleven. Reluctantly. 

  I hear his alarm go off before four. We say goodbye and I wish him safe travels. (Which he has) I’m wide awake but too antsy to read. I decide on a walk in the dark. The sky is beautiful. There are some cold clouds but when they disperse a little I see Jupiter and Mars. A waning slice of moon hangs low in the eastern sky and reflects on the calm water. Sunrise is still an hour away. I listen to the gentle waves and am thrilled to see a meteor far above the ocean.  Shivering, I head home to warm up and have some tea. The sky is slowly starting to brighten. California institutes a travel ban. Hauge texts safely from Phoenix. He’s in first class loading up on vitamin C. Perhaps fortified with vodka. He doesn’t say. 

  Pak calls, sadly we have to cancel the week at Sea Ranch. We will survive, but I was really looking forward to it.  It’s one of the highlights of my year. I’m hoping we can reschedule as soon as the world becomes normal again. 

  I spend the rest of the day reading and writing. Everybody is checking up on everybody else. Hauge makes it home safe.  I receive many heartfelt offers of help if I need it. Which right now, thank Zeus, I do not. But, anything can happen. Time will tell...

Thoughts As Winter Fades

 Another reminder this morning of one of the slight nudges that over the years made me question the depth of my faith and belief when I was young and impressionable. Dan Fogelberg sings in a song from the seventies:

“There is no Eden

Or heavenly gates

That you're gonna

Make it to one day

But all of the answers

You seek can be found

In the dreams that

You dream on the way”

  I used to play that song on my radio show all those years ago. Something obviously resonated with me back then. Little hints as to my jagged trajectory to develop or find a meaning, or no meaning, to it all keep popping up lately. And there are lots of little mind freezes that over the years have helped steer me along and have kept me pondering existence. Am I any more clear on the meaning of life now than I was forty years ago?  Maybe a bit, but maybe not. Like Socrates, all I really know is how much there is that I don’t know. 

  Rereading some Joesph Heller he writes,

 “So much of misfortune seems a matter of timing.”

 Very true. I read that in high school and it’s stuck with me. 

  I read a tribute to an old friend of Dad’s on iBerkshires.com the other morning and it really struck a chime. The interview was with Cheeso Massaconi. He’s ninety-seven. It was a tribute because Cheeso was a soldier in WWII. He saw brutal active duty the memories of which still distract him. But I knew none of that growing up. To me, and Mide, he was just one of Dad’s coolest pals. Besides having the best nickname ever, he was the guy who bought us ice creams at Wahconah Park after we found his wallet under the bleaches. Twice at the same game! He was the guy who when we visited his house in Cheshire showed us around the garden and let us play with his hunting dogs. He fed us pickled pike and polenta and venison. It was wildly exotic for us. It was the first time I ever had polenta and Mide and I loved it. Hearty homemade Italian peasant food. It would be twenty years before I had it again in a fancy restaurant. And it wasn’t as good as Cheeso’s. 

  And those famous ice fishing derbies every winter. One on each of the big lakes; Cheshire, Onota and Pontusuc. They were great fun. Our group would have at least twenty people. Charcoal grills were brought out and Cheeso and his brother would cook spicy Italian sausages with peppers and onions, venison steaks and noodle soup. We ate well out on the ice no matter the weather. On the days when the wind whipped us and snow swirled from a slate sky we huddled around the grills and Colman stoves only occasionally venturing to our tip-ups to skim the ice from the holes. But there were other days, too. Clear sunny days with a blue sky so bright that it almost blinded us. We would catch a bunch of fish and sometimes fry them up right there. Little filets of perch cooked in butter. People came and went all day on ice skates and skies and snow machines. Sometimes we caught a lot of fish and sometimes we caught nothing. I don’t ever remember winning any of the tournaments but we sure had good times. 

 So it’s heartwarming to see Cheeso is still going strong, doing some fishing and spending time in his garden. I imagine he’s also still making his homemade wine although the article didn’t mention it. Because, of course, of all the secrets to a long and healthy life include sipping red wine on occasion.  

A wild red rose

Petals fading one by one

So painfully shy