How Many Steps Forward

I grew up in the 1950's and 60's.  People from that era are now called baby boomers.  My grandchildren see that period as the olden days: the days of station wagons with rear facing seats, transistor radios and dial telephones all of which pale against today's technology.

My transistor radio was my most prized possession. What a marvelous, magical device it was. You could take it anywhere tucked in a pocket or purse. The nine volt battery provided hours of entertainment. The reception was best at night because the AM signal was stronger. Numerous stations could be picked up from cities strung across the country.  KOMA was the favorite rock station. The radios came with a small pair of earphones another WOW invention. Long after I should have been asleep I burrowed under a layer of blankets and listened in secretive darkness undetected. Kids in thousands of homes were doing the same thing. KOMA rocked long after lights out. the next day school my friends and I talked about the songs we listened to and what were our favorites. We were innocent junior high kids just beginning to find our way around the various bumps in the road.

I found a snug, comforting sense of security deep within the blankets. I was untouchable and far removed from the bits of news that also accompanied the music. The technology of today makes the transistor radio a silly unsophisticated dinosaur. The inventions in commutation we take for granted in this century were things of science fiction when I was a child. Even with all the advances that have transpired over my life time there is still one thing that has not changed. We have not learned how to get along and live together.

I lived through the cold war era with Russia as the arch enemy. We practiced diving under our school desks in preparation for a nuclear attack. The Korean war had escalated in the 50's resulting in the creation of two countries which provided no long term solution. Vietnam finally exploded in the 60's and continued on into the 70's. I watched former high classmates enter the military as their draft numbers were called up and hoped that my husband of three years would not be one of them. From there we moved to Afghanistan and on and on.

The twenty first century has not brought us any closer to resolving conflicts nor being able to avoid them. History continues on down a repetitive road. There are no covers to crawl under, no magic in the earphones and no snug place to hide in the dark untouched.

My A-ha Moment

Sometimes you have an a-ha moment that strikes you so clear and  sharp.  Mine came while reading a book by Nichole Robertson called Paris in Color. I suddenly knew what I was missing during the long grey months of an Idaho winter--COLOR.  Her book is a picture book of Paris with brilliant photos of all the colors of Paris streets.  She chose the common rather than the unusual for her subjects,  perhaps to make us stop and look with new awareness. Paris is a city built around color and shape with a background of white--white buildings enhanced with black iron trim framing windows and balconies.  Street cafes with bright chairs and white table clothes call your name and stripped awnings above windows add a sophisticated air to what might otherwise be something ordinary.  Flower boxes overflow with brilliant blooms in stark colors.  I love color.  It makes me feel awake and eager to be a participant rather than a watcher. Winter brings earth tones and flat light that removes color. It is tiring and wearing.  I wish winter was red with yellow hues and soft gentle breezes.  Instead it roars and bangs its head incessantly.  I sometimes think winter laughs at us when we carry flowers from the super market to our cars. Paris in Color illustrates how much color adds to the quality of life.  It makes it richer, fuller and more intense.  The soul likes to bathe in hues and shades of varying colors.  Paris has its dark period of winter when its color is not as intense, but the awnings, red doors,  signage and the yellow tarts will still be there winking at winter as he roars through the streets.


                                                             

all photos by Nichole Robertson from her book  Paris in Color

Suitcase Nomads

We have been suitcase nomads for five weeks and have one week left to complete before we head home.  There are lessons to be learned from living in houses that are not your own.  You have no personal possessions except what fits in a suitcase and those things are clothes and hygiene products.
Clothes are mixed and matched to stretch the options without taking half your closet.  When the processes begins, usually the clothes are okay and work well.  After a few weeks they become less appealing and a love hate situation begins to build.  The jacket worn daily for days in the Idaho weather starts to feel not so friendly and cozy; the color, fit, style are now unappealing and you curse the cold that forces the necessity of having it accompany you everywhere you go.

We have been in two very different climates.  California was warm and sunny. Coats and heavy sweaters were not part of the wardrobe.  Two weeks and you feel like a native and pretend that it will last forever and you can stay in paradise, but suddenly reality slaps you hard.  The short airplane ride back to Idaho is part of a cruel trick.  In an hour and half how can you go from warmth to--dumping things out of the carry on in the airport to find a jacket so you can go outside and wait for a taxi.  Shocking!

You also find out that other people have nicer things than you do!

Bree and Georgia both have high end knife sets.  These knives actually cut with no effort.   The small knife slices a tomato without squashing it to a mess of seeds and pulp.  I don't have nice knives.  Mine are not meant for fine slicing and dicing.  They are made for hacking.  I have met the green eyed monster--jealousy!  I want their knives.  Nolan says I'm fine with what I have and a good set could be dangerous.  Having watched me sling knives for over forty years he says he would be nervous if I had a really sharp one.  He may be right, but that doesn't stop me from coveting them.

Moving from place to place makes you resourceful and tidy.  The house is not yours, but you are its care taker.  It must be the same when you leave as when you came.  House plants depend on you for survival.  Its a fine line deciding how much water they need and how often.  Their people would not look on you kindly if they came home to dead plants.  Most likely, you would not be invited back.  When I left Bree's her plant seemed healthy and happy.  Georgia's seem okay, although one has struggled a bit, but it appears to be doing much better--needed more water. 

This has been fun and interesting, but I think we are ready to go home to our bed, dishes, plants(which have been left untended because they are succulents), different clothes and familiar knives.  Would we do it again?  Sure we are up for almost anything out of the norm--we've had a good time. We've had two glorious weeks on our own in La Jolla and reconnected with friends and family in Boise.  Now it is time to go home and check on our Idaho friends and family.  We can't leave them on their own for too long.

Palm Springs

Someone in this travel party of two made the suggestion--"Let's go to Palm Springs.  Its only a two hour drive."  When you hail from a state like Idaho a drive of a couple of hours is easy, relaxed and does not happen on a race track.  The person planning the little trip happens to be a passenger not the driver and is great at arranging these little jaunts then just sits back and rides.  The driver usually goes along with the plans and thinks about the validity of the decision.

   
It seemed many- many people were going to Palm Springs.  Many- many people are always going places in California.  What was a two hour trip turned into a three hour journey because of construction.  Traffic lanes narrowed down to two then down to one.  Creeping along gave
us a chance to notice how the terrain changed.  We moved through mountains with huge outcrops of boulders to mountains of scrub brush and finally mountains of sand.

  We passed acres of wind farms providing a source of renewable power for a small amount of the population.  The wind blows through that area much like Idaho Falls or maybe-- would I dare say even harder.  Once we entered the city itself it was a whole new world.  Calm, slow traffic, little traffic.  A small spot in the desert that absorbs all the tension people bring with them. It is easy to understand why it is a popular vacation spot.  43,000 call Palm Springs home.  Thankfully it is an area that has not been over run or over worked.

 

 

     Many of the tract homes built in the 50'sand 60's by Alexander Construction Company are a coveted piece of real estate.  Very simple style-- they were affordable and had interesting lines.  Each house was the  the city's history.  If you own one of these homes you are among the lucky.  California modern style was a new, fresh idea which still thrives today.

 

An afternoon gave us a small taste of Palm Springs.  More time could have been spent, but we chose the Palm Springs Art Museum and a drive through older neighborhoods looking for the unique homes.  Considering the slow pace at which travel takes place, we ran out of time.  If it was bad coming, going back to San Diego during rush hour could be daunting. Contemplating a long, slow drive we bought food to eat along the way--black licorice, potato chips and mixed nuts.  A less hectic drive back.  Junk food always helps.

 

    

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

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Doing Laundry

I had to do a little bit of laundry today. Being a light traveler makes airport navigation easy, but somewhere before the trip is over I have to do laundry.  Of course, that means a trip to a laundry facility.  I am not totally new to such places--I just haven't had to use them for many years.  I made many trips to the basement of our apartment in S. Weymouth Massachusetts apartment for the purpose of providing clean apparel for our small family.  I carried a baby in the basket of clothes down the stairs while a toddler waited at the top for me to return to get him.  I would put him on my right hip, the detergent and a toy care in my left hand and head back down. 

Neils and Bree have a great little apartment, but no in house washer and dryer. This is the first time I have walked down an alley to reach a laundry facility--not saying that is bad just different.

You exit through the back, down the stairs and into the alley.  Not a bad alley as allies go--no dark corners, or garbage piled high. 

Actually it is a pleasant alley. Other apartments have entrances from there along with employee entrances to the shops facing Girard Street. I think alleys have character simply because they are naked and up front with no pretense--they are what they are.  This alley has a lot going for it.  Two little yellow apartments are hidden there.  Small wooden homes built many years ago, perhaps before their street became an alley.



A gate to --maybe the secret garden

There is no  direct route to this secreted washer and dryer.  Turn left then, turn right and you still haven't a clue.  Just keep walking straight ahead and look for the white door on your right.  Never would you ever guess that in a tiny space behind that door would be a washer and dyer both fully equipped with coin slots.  The sign makes it official---OPEN DAILY 8:00 to 10:00.  Two loads and
we are clean again.  When the last load went into the dryer the next customer was filling the washer with her soon to be clean clothes.  She had tied her dirty clothes in a plastic garbage bag and launched it  from a second story window.  
  
 Had a quick chat with her and found out she had a double knee replacement recently and wishes people would not be so careless with the little laundry room.  Off she went to open the door to one of the little yellow houses in the alley.  An interesting two hours.  One never knows what waits down an alley.

 

 

 

 

Launch site of dirty laundry.  I wonder what really goes on behind that closed door.

 

 

 

                                                                                                                            

 

 

 

Something Different

Its lucky we are to have kids that turn their apartment over to us in scenic La Jolla Village for two weeks while they vacation.  There is no problem having fun here: the ocean, weather, food, interesting locals, flowers--what more could a person ask for.  When friends back home tell you snow is in the forecast, this is the place to be.

A small apartment but done in style.  A comfort attractive homey place

We are nomads living out of suitcases trying to keep things organized.  I have a tendency to misplace items.  It would help if I traveled with a suit case that had no zipper pockets, yet I fear not having enough room to pack all I need thus the necessity of pockets. I have no solution for the problem since I refuse to travel with less.  I am already down to the bare bones.



The apartment is in a fun downtown section. Above the red awning is the window looking onto the street.

We can hear the people laughing and talking as they walk down the street.  Things come alive about 6:00 as they look for places to shop and have dinner.  It is warm enough to open the windows and enjoy a nice breeze off the ocean as well as the sounds of street life.

With no agenda.  We have stayed in La Jolla today walking and exploring.  There is much to see and blocks to hike. A favorite walk is always along the beach to check out the surfers and the seals. Tomorrow I think the farmer's market in Little Italy is on our to do list After that well, we just have to see.  

I am fascinated by the amount of shopping taking place here. High end shops call this part of La Jolla home and have faithful consumers.  I wander into the shops to browse and immediately am asked if I need something special.  Oh ya--right.  Next question--are you from here?  Why are they asking--Do I stand out like a sore thumb?  I am wearing a necklace, earrings and a Jones of New York shirt.  My Jeans are almost skinny.  What is the give away--my payless shoes?  That must be it.  Tomorrow I will wear my Sketchers. 









 

Passing of Fall

This is one of those fall days that  teases and plays with you. The wind has taken all the leaves and the trees stand naked in the afternoon sun.  The sun peaks out from behind the clouds long enough to give hope of maybe just a few more bright days.  It will not linger long because it fights with large gray clouds determined to over shadow the light.

The shadows are long now and the flowers are tucking in for the winter rest.


Fall seems to come soft and quiet turning everything in nature to a variety of colors.  The back yard flowers slip into shades of brown while the trees move from green to yellow, gold, rust and red.  Its hard to let the color go. Its eye candy and the inner part of you drinks it up savoring every last bit. 

 

 

The mountains change section by section depending on their vegetation.  Yellow more common that red.  Stands of aspens cluster together forming a solid ball of yellow.


The wind is moving in and pulling the leaves from the trees blowing them into piles and scattering bits and pieces randomly across the ground. 

















The trees in my yard are bare and stand guard as they bend in the wind. The empty bird feeder hangs from the lowest branch and swings back and forth. My flower beds will stay covered with leaves for the winter. Somehow I just feel better knowing the perennials have a blanket for those cold nights before snow adds another layer.  We follow seasons finding something good in each one.  There is always something to look forward to; changes that bring a spark of color or a warm wind or the white flakes of snow.  As fall slips away,  I  remind myself to look for the best of what is left of this season and to see winter as a time of rest and renewal embracing each day and what it offers me.