A Short, Short Story: Beginnings

     The flowers were beginning to grow again and that very morning when she woke with new feelings to which she could not name, she heard a bird song. The rain had washed the ancient earth in the night and the morning brought not only a new day, but also a promise of new beginnings for the two people who were left. She was seized with a longing to see him, to feel his smile for her alone. She ran through the rubble of a city gone to decay, unheeding of it's demise; not history, but rather, forgotten. She called his name and when he did not answer, she felt a sudden tremor in her stomach. What if he was gone? She called again and this time he heard.

     "I am here." She felt a surge of relief and she ran to him. He stood as though he'd been waiting.

     "I wanted you and called and.....I had to find you."

He smiled at her, bemused.

     "Why?" he asked.

     "I don't know. I want to see you. Be with you."

     "You haven't always felt so. Last month you forgot that I was here."

She frowned. "I know. I wondered about that myself."

He took her hand and said, "I found another book today. I was reading it when you called."

     "Is it interesting?" She didn't really care about the books he found, but if he liked them, then so did she, now. He smiled at her slyly.

     "Very interesting." They turned and walked the way she'd just run, in accord without speaking.

     "Tell me," he asked, "When you felt you had to see me, did you feel it urgently?"

     "Oh, yes," she answered truthfully.

     "And now that you have found me, do you feel happy?" he went on.

     "Oh, yes. Very," she answered, puzzled. He stopped walking and put his arm around her shoulders.

     "You love me," he stated.

     "What? Love?" she asked.

     "I found the word in my new book. You love me. And I love you, too." He smiled down at her. She said the word again, wonderingly, savoring it, smiling back at him.

     "Love.....that's a good word."

Mississippi Muffaletta

Hello again. This, my friends, is the sunrise over a meandering Mississippi River, mother of all waterways. The first time I saw it, I was so moved that I burst into my own interpretation of "Old Man River" and embarrassed my husband. We were in New Orleans visiting our darling sister-in-law, Michelle, last spring. I took this photo from the Hilton window one early morning. Wow, huh? My feelings about New Orleans are, like this place, complex and I may go into it another time. I have another mission in mind for this blog. Oh. There is one more thing I'd like to say about it. Some people named Macias came here and helped in the founding of the city some hundreds of years ago. Cool, huh? We all have roots that go deep in the earth, you know.

Back to my point; don't laugh, but my purpose is to tell you not about something we saw or heard or felt. It's to tell you about something we ATE. Seriously.

Have you ever heard of a Muffaletta sandwich? Well, I never had and neither had Dan. We're open to new culinary sensations, so one day, as we strolled through the French Quarter around lunchtime, we decided to give them a try. We were so glad that we did! It's Italian meats with a breath-takingly delicious kind of olive salad on ciabatta bread. In the jargon of our distant youth, we scarfed them up. I later found the recipe online that seems to follow what we happily sank our teeth into that day. And guess what? I have it right here. Of course I'm going to share it with you-all. The only thanks I require is that you let me know that you tried it.

Muffaletta Sandwich

1 loaf good Italian bread

1 cup olive mix (see below)

1/4 sliced ham

1/4 sliced mortadella

1/4 sliced salami

1/4 sliced provolone

(You can actually use bologna or whatever kind of meat you prefer. I didn't add mortadella or salami cause I'm trying to eat stuff that will actually help me live longer, as opposed to killing me off. So I went light on the meat and heavy with the olive mix.)

Slice bread in half horizontally. Spread half with olive mix then layer on meats and cheese and cover. Ideally, this should be wrapped in plastic wrap and left for a half hour or so in order to enable the juices to soak the bread, making it juicier. Slice and serve.

Olive Mix Salad

3/4 cup pimento-stuffed olives

1/4 cup pitted Kalamata olives

1/4 cup giardiniera (pickled vegetables)

2 large pepperoncini

3-4 pickled onions

2 Tablespoons capers

1 med. garlic clove, chopped

1 tsp. dried oregano

a couple of grinds of black pepper

2 tsp. fresh lemon juice

2 Tablespoons olive oil

Drain ingredients. Place them in food processor and chop. Don't turn it into paste! Just chop into small pieces. Let flavors meld a full day before use. Can keep in the refrigerator for months.

This stuff is so good. I wonder how it would taste with some pasta and olive oil?

That's it, a culinary delight from a non-chef. Bon appetit!

Colorado

Hello, dear ones!

This blog set up lies. It only seems I have my choice in regards to font size, color, spacing, etc. I know when I'm done, it's going to be all squished up and wrong. This even takes the indents out of the paragraphs. Isn't that weird? Well, so long as it doesn't change my ideas.....become Republican when I write Democrat, that sort of thing.

The picture is that of a Colorado Columbine and my hand, trying to hold it still in the breeze so I could take the photo without a blur. Isn't it gorgeous? It was there beside the wildwood lake, high above the city of Grand Junction, past Glade Park, on a sparsely settled flat-top mountain close to the sky. Juli drove my new car that day we decided to fish and it got totally dusty! I'm so glad Dan wasn't there to see it covered with dirt. It was worth it. Pine trees and white Aspen trees surrounded a perfectly blue, smoothly perfect expanse of water. The forest around us was filled with wildflowers like the Columbine, and pink roses and little white somethings growing close to the earth. And what were those leaves with a familiar shape? Wild strawberry?

It only seemed that we were far from civilization 'cause guess what? Across the lake was a family with tents erected, and lots of kids hollering and fishing dads and moms listening to country western-type music. It wafted it's way on the breeze, filling the wilderness with redneck cries of lonliness and grief. No matter, it only added to the ambience. And we still caught lots of fish. They tasted succulent later when Val dredged them in buttermilk and cornmeal and fried them up for supper.

Well, I had the most wonderful of times with Juli, Val and Nick. We did ordinary things in an ordinary way.....together. More memories and grist for my mill! Nick and I drove to Colorado after his visit was over for this summer. I'm very happy he likes to spend time with us. Danny and I have fun when he's around. Camryn and Claire were here for a few days, too. They also like to hang with Nick.

We had a great time driving back to Colorado together. Nick drove quite a bit of the way. He has his driver's license now. He loves driving and it was nice to have him there to take over the driving. It was a drag coming home without him but I listened to the book Kim had given me on CD, Water for Elephants. I almost finished it. It's a good book! I highly recommend it. Listening to a good book when driving long distances is a terrific way to travel. You get entertained while getting closer to your destination. Maybe sometime Jack will drive me. What a concept! (He's six now)

Let me know if you want to see more summer pictures and I'll send you the shutterfly link. I vowed to keep this blog short, so I'm signing off early. My other vow is to write more often. I will, now that I don't have a job.....more about that next time. Love you!

The Other Wise Man

December 21st, 2008

Dear friends;

Did you ever hear The Story of the Other Wise Man, by Henry van Dyke? It’s of a fourth Wise Man, Artaban, a story heard first long ago in the Hall of Dreams, in the palace of the Heart of Humanity. Artaban was an astrologer and physician of the priesthood of the ancient Magi. Artaban’s heart was pure and on that fact the story rests.
Long had the Magi looked for a sign in the sky that would foretell the coming of a great king. On the night it was first seen and tracked, it “spired upward through rays of saffron and orange into a point of white radiance…..a living heart of light.”
Artaban met with his friend, Abgarus to tell him of his great need to go to meet the new King and pay him homage. Abgarus, too, longs to follow the path of the star but he knows he is too infirm to make the long journey. Abgarus encourages Artaban, “”My son, it is better to follow even the shadow of the best than to remain content with the worst.”
Artaban sold of all his wealth and bought three great jewels; a sapphire, a ruby and a pearl, so that he might give them in tribute to the new King. He had long arranged to travel with three others of the Magi and they had agreed upon a meeting time and place.
So Artaban hurried to meet his friends, but alas! He arrived too late! Although they had waited, finally they had started without him. He read the message they had left for him, urging him to “follow us across the desert!” and he, determined, sold the sapphire to buy the necessary provisions for the long journey. He rode his faithful horse past mountains and rocky torrents, across vast plains and past gardens with splashing fountains. He rode until he was forced to stop and let his weary horse rest. He comrades were still far ahead of him.
When he looked around in the darkness, he saw what looked to be a bundle of rags beside the road. Artaban peered closely at the dark form and was startled to find a sleeping man. Artaban reached out to touch him and found him burning with fever.
Artaban was torn. If he stayed to help the sick man, he would lose his quest. If he left the sick man on the ground, he might die. Artaban could not leave the man there to die. He gave him water and mixed a potent remedy. He tenderly cared for him and stayed until the man revived. Only then did Artaban continue on his journey.
After many days travel, Artaban arrived in Bethlehem only three days after the other three Wise Men had laid their gifts at the cradle of the baby Jesus. The parents had taken the baby King and fled to another country! He was given food and refuge by a poor peasant woman, very poor but willing to share her meager fare with the traveler. Artaban played with the woman’s baby, marveling at his beauty and sweetness. As he ate the cheese and bread she had served him, they heard a great commotion in the streets of the town. Artaban flung open the door to see Herod’s soldiers with bloody swords, killing the children! What an outcry there was, and lamenting from the horrified parents! When the captain of the demon band made to thrust Artaban aside to kill the child within, Artaban held the beautiful ruby to the man, saying, “There is no child in this house.” The man glared at Artaban and then snatched the jewel from him and called to the other soldiers to leave the house alone.
Artaban continued his quest to find the King. He met others along the way and was told by a simple but wise man that Jesus would not be found in a palace, nor among the rich and powerful. He is advised to look among the poor and the lowly, the sorrowful and the oppressed. Always he looked for the little family from Bethlehem. He traveled through countries of famine and countries where the plague killed many in its path. He looked through the slave markets and the weary toil of galley ships. Although he found none to worship, he found plenty to help. He fed the hungry, he clothed the naked, and he healed the sick. He comforted the captive and the oppressed. The years passed swiftly and Artaban was still a “seeker after light” and still a pilgrim thirty-three years after he had raced across the wilderness to pay homage to the king.
He found himself in Jerusalem during the time of Passover. There he heard that Jesus of Nazareth, greatly loved by many and believed to be the Son of God, was sentenced to be crucified. And so Artaban followed the crowd to Golgotha, his heart trembling with apprehension. He thought of his last jewel, the luminescent pearl hidden in the folds of his robe. Perhaps he had come in time to offer the pearl for His ransom.
We know that is not how Artaban’s story ends. Here is what happened to the carefully guarded pearl, saved for so many years.
Artaban sees some soldiers dragging a young disheveled woman between them. She breaks away from their hands and flings herself at his feet, crying, “Have pity on me! I am being sold into slavery for my father’s debts. Save me from worse than death!”
This was his third trial, the ultimate probation and the final and irrevocable choice; the gift to religion or humanity? It seemed inevitable. But doesn’t the inevitable come from God, really?
Artaban laid the pearl in the hand of the slave. “Here is thy ransom, daughter.”
At that same instant, the earth rumbled and shook and the skies darkened. A heavy tile, shaken from a roof, falls and strikes the old Magi in the temple. He lay breathless and pale in the rubble of the street. As the freed slave held him tenderly in her arms, she heard him say, as though in response to someone, “When saw I thee hungry and fed thee? Or thirsty, and gave thee drink? When saw I thee a stranger and took thee in? Or naked and clothed thee? When saw I thee sick or in prison and came unto thee? Three and thirty years I looked for thee but I have never seen thy face nor ministered to thee, my king.”
Now the girl clearly hears the voice that speaks to Artaban. “Verily, I say unto thee, inasmuch as thou hast done it unto one of the least of these my brethren, then thou hast done it unto me.”
Artaban’s journey ends when he draws his final breath, his treasures accepted in a way he had never imagined. The Other Wise Man had found the King.

Love in the City

I time-traveled the other day to downtown Los Angeles as it was in the early fifties. I just happened to see a photo online and I was completely entranced by it. This was another era, you understand, almost as distant as the horse and buggy days. The cars were all big gas hogs and everybody was cool with that. People may have murdered each other in private, but in public, they were polite. Unlike our present culture, they didn’t use vulgar or foul language in mixed company. A man would knock another guy down for that. They dressed up to go out, and they dressed their kids up, too. Anyway, back to the old photo…..
The streets were crowded with cars and people. The people were all dressed up like they did in those days. The men wore suits with ties and hats. The women all wore hats, too, and gloves. Does anybody remember those days before the hippies ruined it for all of us when we were required to wear pretty clothes? It was assumed that if you were a lady, you put your hat on to go out. Isn’t that amazing, considering our present, somewhat slovenly times?
There was a traffic cop in the middle of the picture and I realized with a shock that I remember seeing those guys. They would stand right out in the middle of all that traffic, waving their arms and blowing a whistle. They wore white gloves! Isn’t that cool? Imagine them standing there for hours, in the middle of all that air pollution, directing traffic like it was the most important thing in the world.
Bullock’s Department Store was in the photo. It was a mecca for shopping ladies. Actually, a few years later, in the sixties, I got a job at Bullock’s. I was a “tea room model”, meaning I wore the Junior Miss sizes and walked among the lunching ladies so they could check out my clothes while they ate. I guess it was good experience for something. Walking and smiling, maybe, at which I excel.
I searched the photo for a glimpse of Clifton’s Cafeteria but didn’t see it. Clifton’s used to have a tree inside the restaurant, right in the middle of all the diners, and there was a fountain, too. It was almost like eating in the wilderness. Nothing thrilled me more than to be taken to Clifton’s. What a grand and colorful array of food! Lot of it was food I wasn’t accustomed to and I always saw it as my opportunity to experience new taste sensations. I’m still somewhat bitter over the fact that I was never allowed to choose all the plates I thought attractive. I had to be content with what my grandmother thought was healthy for children. I had to wait years to try some of those dishes!
When Grandma took me downtown, we first had to take the Kern Avenue bus to the Jewish Cemetery where the trolley was located. Really, there were trolleys in Los Angeles in those days. They were a fun and inexpensive way to travel. We rode the trolley to another bus that took us to the shopping center of the world, or so it seemed to me. And don’t forget, we were all dressed up. And we had someplace to go! God, women love that, even little ones. I had fluffy dresses, shiny patent leather shoes, and a coat that Grandma buttoned all the way up to my chin, and my own gloves and purse, just like a grown up lady. The best part of my outfit was my hat. It seemed to always be adorned with little silk flowers. Is there a woman alive who doesn’t love hats?
There were crowds of people and Grandma used to hang on to my hand so tightly, she’d squeeze my fingers. Except for the squeezed fingers, I loved going downtown with her. Well, the whole point of this tour into the past is that on one of these excursions, I fell in love. What, you don’t believe in love at first sight?
Sometime the natural world will intrude on civilization. It intruded in the city by way of the wind that blew between the tall buildings. The gusts would swoop in unexpectedly and snatch at clothing. Men would hang on to their hats and ladies would hold their skirts. I wasn’t prepared for it the time it blew my new hat off my head and straight into the street! I screamed…..not a little girl shriek of alarm, either, but a real scream, like a mother would, maybe, who saw her child in the jaws of a ravenous beast. I mean I screamed real loud, OK? I tried to dash into the street after it but nothing on this planet could yank me from my grandmother’s trap-like grasp. I screamed again, pulled desperately toward the crowded street with its onrushing traffic. “My hat, my hat!”
Then, all of a sudden…..here comes the good part…..all of a sudden, in the midst of the dangerous wheels and honking horns, a figure, darting in and out, reaching down, grabbing the hat, running right over to me, my hat in his hand, holding it out to me, smiling like a movie star, smiling like a hero, smiling like it was fun to risk one’s life for a trifle.
I was transfixed. All my screams froze in my throat. I looked up, up, up into his hero’s smile, dimly hearing my grandmother thanking him, hearing her, “Say thank you, mejia.” I was so struck dumb with breathless admiration that when I opened my mouth, no words came out.
He turned away with a wave and Grandma pulled me on down the street. I clutched my hat to me, twisting around as I watched him make his rapid way up Sixth Avenue, watched him leave us there in that cement canyon, watched him stride into the crowd, growing smaller and smaller until he disappeared.

Trips/ July 2008

Dear friends and family,

These writings, my introspective journeys inward, are not written for general consumption. I'll be thinking 'out loud' for a few non-judgemental loved ones who know me well enough to take these sometimes muddled thoughts with a grain of salt. When we digest experiences, articulate emotion, name the nebulous, then what we are really doing is taking a journey inward, right? Hence the name "viajar', which isn't Spanish for "way of the jar" .....it mean to take a trip. Pronounced "vee ah har".
As it turns out, this first entry is about an actual trip. Danny and I have just returned from a vacation up north, Del Norte, incorrectly pronounced "del nortttt" by the locals. They got their own way of doing stuff up there close to the Oregon border. Influenced by the Oregonians, maybe. Danny played in a three day golf tournament with some of his pals from Crescent City. I guess it was a lot of fun but, like I said, those people up there are different. Different in a good way, though. They're just kind of independent. And they like to party, which is way cool with my hubby.
Crescent City is surrounded with emerald forests to the north, south, and east. To the west is the Pacific Ocean, which was OK until a tsunami washed up there and swallowed half the town in 1963, not so long ago that folks have forgotten. Anyway, it's the forests that captivated me. You know about the Redwoods, right? The Sequoia? The facts are these; relatives of todays Redwoods lived in the Jurassic Period! They can live more than two thousand years. And they are living, just like...us. Alive. You can feel their aliveness when you stand next to one of them, or put your hand on it. One of these trees can transpire ("spire") three hundred gallons of moisture into the atmosphere a day! Does that combat global warming? I would think so. We need every drop of water we can get in California. Wildfires caught weeks ago and the fires are still burning! Global warming isn't some future catastrophe, it's happening now.
Oops. I told myself I can't just ramble. Stick to the subject! Are you still there? Well, Redwoods have been measured at more than three hundred and seventy feet tall. That's taller than the Statue of Liberty. But. The seed of the Redwood is tiny. (There's a metaphor for you). The name Sequoia is from the man who wrote the Cherokee alphabet. (His English name was Gist, a distant relative of my children!) The rest of the name is Latin, sempervirens, meaning forever living. I love that word.
I'm trying to keep this short, too late! Read it in installments if this is taking you too long. Back to the Redwoods; The facts are interesting but I guess if you're really interested you'll look it up online or read a book so I won't give you more statistics. The thing about the trees is that they're mystical. You can feel them the same way you can feel a roomful of people when you walk in; you don't have to see them, you know they're there. And it seems that the whole forest is filled with life, and death and drama and joy, just as all of the rest of life is. I felt transported to a better place. I felt alive, peace, joy, all of those things at one and the same time. It just makes you happy to be there because for a moment; you become part of that mystique.
There was more to our trip, of course. There was the people, and the ocean, and being in San Francisco, another somewhat mystical place. But the best part of any journey is coming home, because Auntie Em, there's no place like home. You want scenery? You want adventure? Drama? Mysticism? Right here, @ home.
I guess this is enough for the first entry. It was, as I hinted at the beginning, somewhat muddled, and longer than I thought it would be, but intensely riveting, nevertheless. Just kidding. Hope you're still there!
I love you all very much!