There's No Place Like Home

"I've lived so many places in my life and times..."

Yes, I share that with Leon Russell.  My husband and I have lived in LA, San Diego, Utah high desert, Lexington KY, Richmond VA, now the White Mountains of N.H.

My favorite place is and always has been San Diego.  It's where I finished college,  lived in my twenties after a divorce and moved back again in my late thirties with a husband and two toddlers.  It is the most perfect place I've ever lived.  Why?  The weather is gorgeous, mean annual temps hover at 68 degrees.  It's dry, it's beachy, it's home.

I was always grateful to be there.  Every day was a gift.  I would awaken, more often than not, to a sunshiny, temperate day of blue skies, soft ocean breezes and unlimited outdoor recreational opportunities.  I learned to play racquetball and tennis and badminton.  I body surfed.  I  rode bikes, swam, soaked up the sun.  I played softball.  It was almost effortless.  Being young can be effortless.   As I've aged, I realize how important that warm, temperate weather is.

What sticks with me?  The friends I made and still retain; some date back to college.  Most, however, were during my first "corporate" job in advertising.  It was a fertile time for twenty-somethings, working in the same fun-filled atmosphere of a cutting edge marketing department where we were encouraged to think outside the box and to always have a great time.  We traveled together in a pack, all of us unmarried, in our prime (so we thought) and not too serious.  Weekly movie excursions to large theaters with large screens allowed us to analyze and argue each and every frame.  Concerts, another go-to as most of us could get tickets for free from the local radio and tv stations with whom we advertised.  We spent big bucks.  It was an unspoken quid pro quo.  So were  Padres baseball, Charger football, San Diego State football, all three played in the accomodating centrally located Jack Murphy Stadium.  The Volvo Tennis Tour played in Balboa Park for years; the Virginia Slims played La Costa.   Outdoor concerts with fabulous entertainers on Shelter Island or at the Marina made summer evenings fly.  Happy hours on the beach in iconic restaurants where we'd stop after work and relax, watch the sun settle over the ocean, and embrace what the weekend might offer.

San Diego was once a sleepy town comprised of  fabulous beaches, the world class San Diego Zoo,  in  the world class Balboa Park, iconic restaurants, outstanding Mexican food at every price point, beautifully preserved architecture from the turn of the century (a rarity in SoCal), an excellent Amtrak system, an excellent freeway system and an easy-going attitude.  People were friendly and unpretentious (unlike LA).  I've been gone 15 years and no longer know if this holds true.  Once San Diego developed thriving biotech and internet-related industries, LA folk started moving south, developers began paving paradise and we left..  That said, it held true for the 25 years between college and raising my sons when I moved in and out of there three times.

I haven't been home in 5 years.  Physical liabilities, timing, other have prevented my taking that once a year trip.  I am homesick, no doubt about it.  This is going to be the year I go home, see my friends, walk on my favorite beaches, eat real Mexican food, soak in the sun and the salt air.  My heart won't let me stay away any longer.  

This is in response to a writing prompt on "imaginary garden with real toads"

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Back in the Day, Christmas in L.A.

Originally titled "Practically Synonymous", this post was getting  a flurry of page views.  I couldn't remember the subject matter so I investigated.  Ah yes, Christmases of my youth.   Here it is again with some editing.


Anyone who knew my mother knew her favorite time of year was Christmas.  According to my husband, she was Christmas.  For her the fun would begin around Halloween.  That was our deadline to have the gift lists ready.  She did not want to be shopping after Thanksgiving.  She wanted her pick of everything with the least amount of hustle and bustle.  

Mother had a system. Decorating the house occurred 3 weeks prior to Christmas.  This included hanging the exterior lights, big old fashioned ones, under the eaves; a fresh wreath for the front  door.  We had a lovely creche with hand carved, painted wooden figures on a side table in the living room.  We had outside lawn figures that were kinda corny.  One year Dad made a giant Frosty the Snow Man out of plywood and covered it with a cut out Frosty made of paper, just like paper dolls, so it muttst have been a kit.  He put a spotlight on that thing and whenever the wind came up, ole' Frosty would blow down. 



Bullock's Wilshire  street side Wilshire Blvd, LA


Mother set aside a day for us to dress up and go shopping. When I was very young and her  mother still alive, we went downtown to Bullocks' Wilshire, where her mother worked.
I called my grandmother "Manga".

 



Hinshaw's Whittier, CA.ca 1960





A few years later,  Manga became head of the children's department at Hinshaw's Dept Store in Glendora and we went there.   We wore dresses, hats, gloves and I carried a purse.  In fact, I remember that purse being stolen one year when I left it in a dressing room.  I can still see it too: pewter grey leather with marcazite studs and soft grey leather trim.  My mother and grandmother had very good taste.

After Manga died, we shopped at the new Fashion Square in Sherman Oaks.  It was the first upscale mall built in the San Fernando Valley.  Lunch in the Bullocks' tea room was special.  We'd order a crab Louis salad and buttered rolls.  It was always the same and I looked forward to this special annual treat.



Tea Room Bullock's Wilshire



Mirro Cookie Press

Cookie baking day coincided with Christmas vacation.  I was Mother's assistant.  She made at least four or five kinds by the dozens:  pure maple cookies with a whole pecan center, iced sugar cookies, snowballs, oatmeal with raisin for my Father and her favorite, cream cheese cookies made with a Mirro cookie press.  I learned to make dough, cut cookies, decorate, ice, etc.  One cookie she felt she couldn't master was Scottish shortbread.  My babysitter/second grandmother from Scotland made those ever year and brought us a big box.  They would melt in your mouth.  

 

No, not us...It's a representative
pink flocked  Christmas tree in this photo
 taken at a 1955 Alcoa Aluminum party.

We never bought a tree before mid-December.  We lived in Southern California and they didn't last long so perhaps that is why.  Mother always bought 2 trees, one for trimming and one to cut up for pine boughs.  We had two fireplace mantels she would cover with pine boughs and red trim like berries, bows, etc.  They were so beautiful.  On each mantel, she put three large graduated candles.  I remember the white candles she kept from year to year.  They had frosted candle wax on them and were decorated with artificial holly & berries & velvet bows.  She lit the candles each night before Dad came home. 

Every year we discussed whether or not to get a flocked tree.  Mother loved the flocked trees but my father did not.  They were  more expensive and he thought they were phony.  One year, she went all out and bought a pink tree flocked in white.  Sounds horrible but it was pretty.  They used to spray paint trees is colors and flock with a bit of glitter if you wanted it.  It was the one and only time we did that.  As a young child, I always had my own tiny tree in my bedroom.  It sat upon a kid-sized card table and I decorated it myself and was very proud.  It was probably only 2' tall.  I have no idea why my parents were so generous but I cherish the memory.

My mother was a terrible letter writer; she did not like to write.  Yet, she always sent scores of Christmas cards which she addressed and signed by hand.     I would go with her to the local Hallmark ("When you want to send the very best") store to pick out an elegant card.  She didn't follow a theme, i.e. no Santas or Snowmen or what not.  It was rather what she considered the most beautiful card available.   I think, one year,  she had them printed but didn't feel it was personal enough and resumed hand writing ever after.

As I grew older, the intensity of effort ebbed.  But, my mother never stopped writing her cards or baking her cookies or decorating her beautiful tree.  We wrapped her presents for her, put up and took down the ornaments, hung the outside lights.  I often cooked the dinners and my brother and I did the dishes.  But we'd still have stockings and Santy would fill them with necessities and we'd wake up Christmas morning, light the tree, get our cups of coffee and sit and admire it all while enjoying our stuffed-to-the-brim stockings which my mother had filled. 

It never got old. 



  

Taking One's Time

It's August.  I live in a tourist destination and we are full up! While trying to navigate the area today, I doped off, becoming ensnared  in a line of tourist traffic forcing me to drive very sloowwly down the main "business route" through town. After 14 years in the mountains, I'm still an impatient driver.  It no doubt stems from my SoCal upbringing where "Hurry up and wait" is the driver's motto.  Rarely, however, does bumper to bumper LA traffic afford one a view of anything interesting other than the guy next to you talking on his cell or worse, picking his nose. Here, it's a sensory experience.

Today, I found myself looking in store windows, artfully displayed for summer visitors. I saw people eating al fresco, enjoying their food and the beautiful weather. I saw bicyclists, joggers, dog walkers, park sitters, moms pushing strollers, old folks, youngins and everything in between. I noticed our lovely independent book store had a new coat of paint; that a small retailer had expanded, we have more new hair salons, we have less real estate offices.

I noticed the summer flowers planted by the Garden Club in and around major traffic crossroads.  The green spaces were green with granite benches for sitting.  There were water fountains, here and there, reminiscent of horse troughs but made of granite.  Everything is made of granite because it is, after all, "the Granite State".

I thought of all the years I'd waited in traffic, to and from the Valley to L.A.; to and from Richmond to D.C.; in and out of major cities while on business.  I thought of the many hours of pleasurable car trips my husband and children have taken over the years up and down the coast to see my parents in their central coastal community of CA.  The coastline from Ventura County north is always beautiful.  It never gets old.

But I digress.  Here is a two minute video of where I live, produced by the people with whom I work.  Stop what you're doing and take time to watch.  You'll be glad you did.

California Artist Paul Cumes

I've been following an artist, Paul Cumes.  He lives in Santa Barbara, one of my favorite towns.  His work embodies the things people love about the California seacoast:  the beautiful light, the color, the ocean, the mountains.  Santa Barbara scenery is not his only subject matter, it's what attracted me to his work in the first place.

Paul's art speaks to me on many levels. First and foremost, it reminds me of home. I recognize the scenery.  He paints with passion.  He uses colors, brush strokes and composition boldly.  He's obviously influenced by Picasso, Matisse.    He has a distinct style; not an easy thing to achieve. And he's incredibly prolific for such a young guy. 

Paul has a blog and a web site.  Here are a few selections.

           Summerland Afternoon  

    

                                                                                              Broadway Sunset



El Capitan 
(famous surfing spot, camping area)

Pablo the Kitty

Freeway Underpass at Night 

                                                                 The Watering Jug

If you'd like to see Paul in action, painting, visit his web site and review his work. Each painting has a video showing his creation process, start to finish. 

Theme Thursday: Sand

My earliest memories of sand are from Laguna Beach, Ca.  It is there my family spent each summer for twenty three summers of my life.  It is there I built sand castles with my father who took great delight in teaching us the easiest way to create water & sand designs by letting the sand drip from the index and thumb into a lovely magical shape, helping us move on to more sophisticated creations when we could wield a bucket, shovel and other paraphanalia.


 

Above & right:

Holmes Beach, Anna Maria Island 2009 

Sand was part of my life as a child.  Summers were spent going to the beach with our folks or our friends, on church outings or school field trips.  Sand would get in our clothes, our socks, our shoes, our hair, under our nails.  We tracked it everywhere:  the car, the house, the beach house we'd rent.  Our parents fruitlessly tried to eliminate as much sand from our bodies as possible before allowing us in the house.  Outside showers, hoses, towel wipe downs, stamping of feet were typical presumptive sand terminators.  It never worked well because if we'd been swimming in the sea, our bathing suits were invariably full to the brim with sand and it was always in the crotch.  I remember getting in the shower and taking off  my bathing suit and tons of sand would come pouring out of the crotch.  This may have been caused by the excessive amounts of sand in the Pacific Ocean or from rafting the waves, later body surfing and/or sitting in the sand to make castles, dig a hole, bury someone, etc.  I have never really found out.

The greatest feeling in the world is that first step onto a beach, when you remove your shoes and let your toes wiggle in the sand or let the water wash over your feet, leaving sand in its stead.  Ahhhhh.

Sand is a great exfoliator, is a forgiving jogging surface, and cleans the feet up as it downsizes callouses. 

Sand is one of my favorite, most looked forward to substances.  It always means the beach.  I am not a desert person!