A Test?

After the Energy Vampire and I parted ways, I headed to Sugarloaf Ridge State Park, which is about 15 miles east of Santa Rosa. I shouldn't have been surprised that it was so crowded since it was a Saturday night. But compared to my three recent camping experiences where I was virtually alone, I found it off-putting. Nonetheless I found a fine spot and set up. By the time I was ready to snuggle in, it was about 9 pm, just a click away from my buddy, darkness. I felt good. I had my cozy bedding, a fancy light, a movie, some good food and the temperature was perfect. 

I heard a car stop, then footsteps get closer, a flashlight, and then "Knock knock!" I unzipped my tent window and saw a ranger. She asked me some questions; was I alone and was I disabled. Then she informed me that I was camping in a handicapped site. "So, yeah, you'll have to move. If you want, I could help you. We can throw your things in the back of my truck." I was stunned. Throw my things? My cozy bedding? Tear down everything and put it back up in the dark? Are you kidding? "We could go to 43, or 18 or maybe even 23, I think 23 is open." Those numbers didn't mean anything to me! I'd already driven around the loop twice and chose this spot because I didn't like the other spots. 

I asked her if it was possible to make an exception just this one time. "Oh no, ma'am" (there's that ma'am again), "the other two handicapped sites are taken, and, you know, handicapped people sometimes have wheelchairs, or are missing arms and legs." Missing arms and legs? "This site is specifically suited to those folks." Really? HOW? A supply of prosthetics?? I then said, "How likely is it that someone handicapped is going to arrive this late or later?" She enthusiastically responded, "Oh, you never know since we leave our gates open all the time." 

I declined her offer to throw my stuff in the back of her truck and said I'd take care of it. By this time it was dark. She drove away and I sat there paralyzed for several minutes, imagining spending the next hour packing everything up and setting it back up in a site I don't like, hungry and in the dark. I decided, if I'm packing everything up, I'm leaving. 

I headed to the ranger station to let her know, and unintentionally drove the wrong way down the one-way road. Egads, what rules haven't I broken?  I told her I was leaving and she gave me my money back, as if we were at a customer service counter in broad daylight. 

I was safe that night, albeit exhausted the next day. My friend Zee says that deep truths about ourselves are often found during our "dark nights." That the strength to find happiness comes in overcoming those dark hours. I agree. I had about seven hours to look for some of them deep truths. 

The next day I got a lovely motel room for two nights and found a great deal of happiness in sleep. 

How Could I Let This Guy Go?

With temps near 100 degrees these past few days, my walk at Spring Lake County Park in Santa Rosa was hot but invigorating. I was a half-mile from the end when I paused in the shade to look at the large area map. I heard a man’s booming voice say to me, “Are we almost there?” I looked over and recognized him from earlier on the path. I merrily retorted, “We’re already there!” I recalled his loud voice shouting commands at his dog, and thought how odd it was to use words like “Stop!” “Let’s Go!” and “C’mon” as dog commands.

I immediately got the “pick up” vibe. He was about my age and reminded me of Dennis Leary a little. I didn’t sense any danger and we started walking together. He talked for one solid hour about himself, in the style of “bad-comedy-routine.” Every other sentence began with, “You’re gonna love this,” or “This is so funny,” sometimes accompanied by a tap on my arm.  The topics ranged from his Five-Pillar Self-Improvement Program, to how Jews are taking over the world, how screwed up the government is, his meditation practice (huh?), his belief that some people just need the shit kicked out of them, his spiritual epiphanies, that Barack Obama isn’t a US citizen, his niece’s stupidity, the idiot friends of his neighbor, that most women were fickle morons, his lack of success in dating (hello!), that he’s a Christian Scientist, that he’s not one of those "Twelve Steppers,” that he’s God’s gift to women, how you can’t get too close to minorities because of the diseases they carry, the end of the world in 2012, etc.

You may be wondering why I stuck with it for so long. It was kind of hard to break away, since he followed me to my car and hung around while I changed my shoes, drank water, and ate an apple (gave him one). But that’s not entirely it. I didn’t get the “flee from this energy-vampire!” feeling until an hour had gone by. Maybe I was too depleted from the walk to offer much resistance. Finally I nudged in two minutes of my own thoughts. I said I had an opposite world view and confessed that most of the things he talked about didn’t interest me (this might have been a good time to mention that I’m a Jew).  I said that I believe in the goodness of people and the evolution of the collective consciousness as the means by which humanity will survive. As I spoke, I noticed a difference in his demeanor, like a switch clicking "off."  I segued into telling him that I was camping tonight, needed to set up, it was getting late.

It was at this point that he seemed to realize for the first time that he’d been talking to another person. Although he’d been facing my crammed-full car for 35 minutes, he all of a sudden “noticed” it and asked if I was traveling. I gave him the, “I’m searching for my destiny” line and he responded with a yawn.

Why didn’t I think of that an hour ago! 

Thank You Mike

Returned to Santa Rosa to meet with Mike (Ruthe’s cousin) for a hike. He grew up on a ranch on top of a mountain around Guerneville, CA, and spent his childhood roaming the ridges. We parked the car in Armstrong Woods State Park, a redwood forest, at the bottom of the gated road that leads to his parents’ house. This road is so steep that my Corolla can't climb it.

During the hike and for the rest of the day, that song by Dido kept running through my head: "Thank You For Giving Me The Best Day of My Life." Breathtaking beauty, excellent company, strenuous activity, perfect weather, and fun. It’s rare to make new friends, especially at my age, and even rarer to make a friend my son’s age. Yet Mike and I seem to connect on a deep level. He's become the main reason I continue to hang around Santa Rosa. 

Sight-seeing in Mendocino County

After my last camping experience with all that darkness and them mountain lions, I bought me a tent and a light and went exploring.

Point Arena Lighthouse

                                 

Coastal Highway Mendocino County                  

Camping

Don't Worry, Ma

I left Santa Rosa (SR) on Saturday with nowhere to go. That’s the unromantic side of this Destiny-Finding business.  First a little background. I arrived in SR two weeks ago. I’ve been staying with Ruthe (daughter of Joyce, my good Wichita friend), Mike (Ruthe’s cousin), and their roommate Dave, in their two bed, one bath apartment. Mike’s mother, Diane, is my Jackson Browne contact.  

In two weeks I fly out of Sacramento for Sam’s graduation, so didn’t want to travel too far. I had four potential contacts in the area around SR (Forestville, Middletown, Sebastapol and Willits), all of which were duds.  I could have called, Ann, in Los Altos, who I stayed with in March. Or I could have headed back to Sacramento and stayed with Eric. But, frankly, I craved some time without being a guest in someone’s home.  

After driving away from the apartment of my fine young hosts, I hung around SR for a while, basically avoiding the crushing reality that I didn't know where to go. What should I do? It was getting late and my mind felt like cotton mouth. It's during these times that I'm least able to resist the familiar dark gloom, which was now slithering up from behind. It had more power than the actual sunny day I was sitting in. Having been saturated by “Simpsons” fanatics since Sacramento, I could hear Montgomery Burns’ voice saying, “Ex-cellent!” 

Then a thought poked through: “Get out of Santa Rosa!” So I headed north on Route 101 to Hopland, home of Fetzer winery, but it was closed by the time I got there. I noticed on my atlas a huge lake, about 20 miles to the east, called Clear Lake. Surely there would be a campground. I’d resigned myself to sleeping in the car.

The drive to the lake included vineyards galore followed by a snaky climb and descent over Red Mountain. It was all breathtakingly gorgeous, but I couldn’t fully appreciate it.  First there was the relentless squiggly hairpin turns. Also, I was still distracted by the gnawing notion that I still didn't have a place to sleep.  Finally, every turnout where one could pull over to enjoy the view had signs like "No Overnigt Parking" or "Private Property," which I took personally. 

When I finally got to Clear Lake, I noticed desperation still lurking, but oddly kept at bay. Could it be the beauty that took the edge off? Hmmm, it took that much beauty, like a ton of beauty.

It took two hours to drive almost all the way around the lake. No camping anywhere just little resort towns with homes, motels and docks on every bit of shore.

 Upon further examination of my atlas, I saw a little campground symbol, and realized I wasn’t too far.

If I’d turned right instead of left when I first got to the lake, I would’ve been there two hours ago! By this time it was 8:00 and getting dark. I drove for 15 minutes and was disheartened to find a high dollar resort and spa located in the place the camping symbol indicated. Oh no! Now what was I going to do? I wasn't sure which road I was on; was it the same one that circled the lake? Where did the lake go, it just seemed like woods now.

Suddenly, barely lit by the dimming light, I saw a sign: Clear Lake State Park, ¼ mile. And a camping symbol!!!! I said “thank you” out loud a dozen times.  I pulled into the gate and a very young ranger greeted me with a smile. I asked if I could camp and he said, “Yes you can!”  The price was right, he gave me maps and selected a thoughtful campsite for me at the top of the mountain “because I think the mosquitoes will be bad tonight near the lake.” Thank you, young ranger! From the maps I learned that Clear Lake is the largest natural lake in California. 

The site was exactly what I’d envisioned. My only neighbors were four young women. Think gangsta. Do-rags, sagging basketball shorts, sleeveless teeshirts. They were set up, with their giant tent and their fire and their hot food. I’d been driving for four hours and decided to take a little walk around the loop, which couldn’t have been more than .2 mile. As I passed my neighbors, one called out, “Excuse me!” I did one of those look-behind-me moves, like “is she talking to me?” which was ridiculous because we were the only ones there. “Do you need a flashlight?” I didn’t know how to answer the question. I mean, sure it was getting dark but how hard could it be to stay on a paved road? Did I need a flashlight, uh, I dunno. I sauntered over in my goofey, exhausted, grateful state of mind and stammered something or other and the girl with the do-rag said, “Here, take this, it’s pretty dark out there.” I thanked her and took the light.

I was glad to stretch my legs and noticed a couple of other campers around the loop. One minute into the walk it became pitch black and even on pavement, walking in a circle, that girl was right. I was SO happy to have that light. What an idiot, not understanding darkness. As I approached my car I heard one of the girls call out, “Ma’am?” (Just what a 49 year old woman wants to be called). “Ma’am, do you need some help?” What could she mean by that? I walked over to their campsite, as I was intending to anyway, to return the flashlight. “Are you setting up a tent?” I said no, that I was just crashing in my car. Yeah, "crashing," that should up my cool-cred. I thanked them for the flashlight, handing it back and one of them said, “You can keep it.” “You mean, as a gift??” Which threw them off. “Uh, well, I don’t know about that, but we have five more, and you really need some light. It gets dark.” I said something like it must be obvious that I didn’t know anything about camping (hyuck) yeah, like, uh, new to this whole camping thing (RETARD!). The one with the do-rag explained, “I said to Keshawndra, like, where she going at this time of night? And there’s them mountain lions, you know.” Her friend scolded her, “Shut up, T.J., don’t be scaring her!” I said, “What about bears?” T.J. said, “Nah, th'aint no bears, but you be better off with bears…” “Why?” I said, “Because they kill you quicker?” “No, ‘cause they make a racket so you know they’re comin’. Them mountain lions, you never hear them ‘till they ON you.” “Oh hush, T.J.!” said Keshawndra, “now don’t you listen to her.”  I stammered more pathetic nonsense, adding more thanks for the flashlight. They then all offered to help me with anything I might need, and if I had to go to the bathroom, just feel free to cut across their campsite, for goodness sake, don’t walk clear around the loop.

I appreciated the girls’ offer to cut through their campsite to go to the bathroom, but I wasn’t about to walk anywhere. I was more than happy to squat five feet from my car. But then I wondered if the scent of urine (especially “ma’am” urine) was mountain lion ambrosia.

Part II: A Pictorial Chronology KS to CA: January 2009

Kansas

                         

Friendliness

Ever since I layed to rest my poor broken iPod, I’ve become more tuned into the whole greeting-strangers thing, during my daily walks. I mean, nature’s great, but did that guy return my “hello”? If I rated places based on greeting, 10 being the friendliest, most cities would fall into the 4-5 range. Asheville, NC gets a 10. It was not uncommon for people to stop their vehicles and ask if I needed a ride. Drivers would wave and usually other pedestrians would initiate the greeting, always with a smile. This isn’t a walking story, but once I was parked in my car, looking at the want ads for a Subaru in the local paper. And whaddya know, a Subaru pulled up right next to me (that’s not the unusual part; 80% of vehicles in Asheville are Subarus). The guy got out, glanced over at me and said, “Don’t get anything before ’99.” That was customary in Asheville, strangers striking up a conversation as if it was in the middle.

Stamford, CT was the most unfriendly, with folks commonly averting their eyes or turning their heads away to avoid a greeting. I suppose I can’t give them a “1” since no one ever attacked me. The 4-5 range includes Attleboro, MA; Greenbelt, MD; Wichita, KS; Rehoboth Beach, DE (off season); Garden City, KS; Albuquerque; Phoenix; San Diego; Los Altos, CA; Santa Rosa, CA (although the other day I was stopped at a red light with my NC plates, and a woman pulled up next to me and called out, “Welcome to California!”); Houston (although the entire staff at MD Anderson is exceptionally friendly, but do you have to have cancer to get some sugar in Houston?); Muncie, IN; Providence, RI; Elk Grove, CA; Bern, Switzerland (I won’t hold it against the guy who visibly distanced himself from me after I mistakenly, yet happily, greeted him with “Danke schön” instead of “Grüezi,” which means hello in Swiss-German).

Most folks don’t initiate a “hello” but most will return one, and will say the exact greeting I said to them. Like if I say “good evening” they’ll say “good evening.” I should try danke schön. Most won’t smile, even to return a smile, and sometimes they have a pained expression. Those folks can usually only manage a nod.  I exempt runners and bikers from greetings, since they’re concentrating. But pedestrians? C’mon. You’d think people with dogs or kids would be friendlier, but nope.  You’d also think people who are walking at a park would be friendlier. Nope. Initiating a greeting is nearly impossible when people won’t look at you, and folks with earphones might as well wear a sign saying “don’t even….”.

Yesterday I saw a beautiful 14 year old boy, running along the trail at a lovely park in Santa Rosa. He ran shirtless and I was captivated by his fit and healthy young body. His wavy, shoulder-length, light brown hair bounced with each stride, and I had the surreal experience that he moved in slow motion, with an aura of light around him. As we neared each other he looked right at me -through me - and with a magnificent smile, declared, “Hello!”

I changed my mind about getting another iPod.

Part I: A Pictorial Chronology of my Journey

late-November - late December 2008

Wichita, Kansas

This is me with one of my dearest friends, Joyce. The photo sums up my time in Wichita.

Lucia is on the left. I got her in Perpignon, France three years ago in a magicial moment at a flea market, for 1 euro. Lucia has traveled with me everywhere. She's my symbolic good luck charm. Joyce gave me Tommy, so Lucia wouldn't be lonely. 

Garden City, Kansas  

Holiday Season, late Dec. 2008 - early Jan. 2009 

This is Dot, my generous, former mother-n-law who opened up her home and fed everyone well. I also realized, if Dot can learn DVR, so can my mom.

                                                                             Jon making quiche

Christmas Quiche                                Sam the child magnet                                     

                

May, wife of Jon Craig, at the New 

Year's Eve meeting of the Garden City Beer Club. See Jon's list.

My first attempt at drawing.

Guess who.

 

One Step Closer to Jackson Browne

Some of you may be aware of my decades-long crush on Jackson Browne. Sure, sure I like his music (more so in the early years). And yeah, I love that he’s a passionate humanitarian with leftist politics, blah blah blah. But I’ve never gotten over my swooning, teenager-ish crush on him.  At various times in my life I'll catch up on what he’s up to, thank you, internet, and especially thank you You Tube. I loved when he was inducted into the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame and have it recorded on a VCR tape. I don’t have a desire to meet him, just to marry him. I don’t think about him much these days, but my mood lifts when I unexpectedly hear one of his songs on the radio.

A few days ago I was driving with Ruthe and her aunt Diane. We met up in Guerneville, CA and Diane took us to the coast, to the spot where the Russian River feeds into the Pacific Ocean. The day was overcast and cottony dollops of fog sat atop the surrounding hills. Diane and I had just met, so at some point I asked about her background. Originally from the DC area, her family moved to Fullerton in Orange County, CA when she was a child. I asked her “Do you know Jackson Browne?” The most I was hoping to get from that question was impressing her with my knowledge that a famous celebrity hailed from her home town.  “How did you know? I went to high school with him and we were really good friends. I could tell you just about anything you wanted to know about him."  “Uh, how about his phone number, could we start there?”

Diane summed up her entire past friendship with “Jack” in a few sentences, then moved on to chatter about the ocean or the rocks or the river, or WHATEVER. I wasn’t listening to that crap!!!! As my heart raced and my excitement felt trapped inside her gigantic Honda Ridgeline, I patiently explained that I wanted a l-o-n-g, d-r-a-w-n-o-u-t, detailed, embellished account of her past with Jack. Thankfully, she was a good sport and I admired her non-show-offy style. 

I felt a little guilty for my inability to rise above that fixated, drooling, starstruck, Jackson Browne-induced, zombie-like state, rather than drinking in the grandeur of the craggy shoreline and, later, the awesome redwoods at Armstrong State Park.

Not too guilty.

[please forgive me for the following insiders-only funny anecdote]: I couldn’t wait to tell my mother the Jackson Browne story. She’s the only one who would truly appreciate it, since she knew me when I was a teen. She was duly astonished and loved the story. Later she called back and said that she knew an interesting fact about Jackson Browne, which I may not know; that he’d changed his name as a young man. His original name was Jack Brownstein.

Let It Go

I recently learned that my mother’s former landlord, Debra, robbed her of her security deposit. In early April we met with Debra for a "walkthrough." The only two flaws Debra found in this 2000 square foot house, were a shallow scratch on the black marble facing of the fireplace, and a discoloration on the dark green carpet, approx. 6 inches x 2 inches, located 3 feet from one of the living room walls.  The discoloration looked like it had been bleached, although neither Mom nor I knew where it came from. Other than those two things, the house was spotless (my sister Valerie cleaned it). The security deposit was $1150. Mom received a check for  $24.73. Neither defect would have prevented the sale or rental of the house. And we kinda suspect that Debra isn’t really going to fix those things.

I feel angry and also protective of my mother. However, we’d seen signs of Debra’s psychological decline since last December, thus we weren’t surprised. She came to the walkthrough full of piss and vinegar, and ended up shouting at my mother (she wanted to deduct the cost of last October's sewer repair from the deposit). Mom held her own, but got upset. It was such an ugly scene. I tried to make peace, shedding light on the cause of the misunderstanding, but Debra was having none of it. A few days later I suggested to Mom that we let Debra keep the money. But Mom wanted to see it through. To her credit, she’s not having a hard time letting this go, but I am.

I want to confront Debra, lecture her, shake her, show her how wrong she is, throw her pain right in her face, call her names, call her conscience on the carpet. But the thought of taking this to court deflates me.

I need to regard Debra in the same way I’d regard a person laying on the sidewalk, bleeding. Yes she robbed Mom, but that’s because she’s in such pain. We don’t have to be victims, just because Debra victimized us. And it’s only my limited human brain with its human thoughts which tells me that the story is over. This story isn’t over, even though many years may go by and it may not involve Debra. It’s not about the money. It’s about not holding anger and hatred. Debra holds anger and hatred and look what happened to her.

Am I a mentally-challenged-ist?

During my stay with Eric, in Elk Grove, CA, my walking route was twice around Elk Grove Park, which is about a half mile from his house. On my first pass I noticed a group of adults having a picnic. As I neared them I realized that, except for several attendants, they were all profoundly mentally challenged. This scene brought to mind a job I had in Minnesota in 1981 at a state hospital for the severely and profoundly mentally retarded. I mused on those memories and what a positive experience it had been in my young life. As I approached the group on my second pass I saw a guy who appeared to have separated himself from the group. He was at the far end of a small parking lot, about 100 feet from the rest. I looked ahead for an attendant, then back at the guy and realized that no one was aware of his absence, and they appeared to be preparing to leave. I decided to alert an attendant. As I approached the picnickers, I looked back and saw that the wayward charge was on his hands and knees in the parking lot. Yikes, I'd better pick up the pace! I approached a woman who I assumed to be an attendant. "Excuse me, but I think someone from your group has wandered away," I said, pointing to the guy in the parking lot. She looked over and nodded. "I noticed him too, but he's not with us." ..........???!!!! I mean, what are the odds??

p.s. I was relieved to see him getting into a car, that is, until I began wondering about the driver.