Step Back

Greetings from the desert – sunny Palm Springs. I flew down on Thursday for a conference that ended today. Yesterday there was only a morning session so mom and B, my brother, drove to Thousand Palms preserve for a walk and to see the desert pup fish. The wind was howling – it hurt my ears and we were pelted with sand. You’d think it would serve as some kind of natural exfoliation. Really, I just got sand in my hair.

B was out for a conference in San Diego and rented a car – he’ll be staying until the 8th. I’m flying back Monday early evening. Every time I turn around, mom is putting food in front of me. Lemon-caper chicken with asparagus baked in garlic and olive oil, baked ziti, exotic quiche-like pastries heavy with cheeses, creams, and pancetta. Everything is fabulous and seemingly effortless. It’s not effortless. Emphasis on seemingly. She’s just amazing.

On Thursday morning we hiked Palm Canyon, the Murray trail to the seven sister’s waterfall. I brought the camera, but I’m not seeing what’s in front of me. And when I do see something, I’m sloppy with the camera settings. It’s interesting that on the mountain, at home, I just can’t get close enough. Here I wish I had a wide angle lens and wish I could get further away. I’m not accustomed to looking at things this way. Not used to wanting to back up. It takes practice, like standing on my head or reading upside down.

Bucolic

I’m waiting for the flight to LA, in the Palm Springs airport, writing on the laptop. We won’t board for another ten minutes, yet I’m already bored (sic.) Mom clipped an article on Johnny Walker Lindh from the paper this morning. She underlined bucolic Marin, and asked me if I knew what bucolic meant. Before I had a chance to answer she said, I looked it up this morning. It means idyllic. It sounds more like a disease. This is strange. Am I becoming my mother or is my mother becoming me? This sounds like conversations I have with myself in the morning over coffee and a dictionary.

We went to her gym, had another great lunch which negated all our efforts at the gym, took an ambling walk down Palm Canyon Drive (I got a wonderful lemon Italian ice on a warm afternoon – we looked at shoes and went to our favorite store - The Alley. It’s a discount furniture/kitchen/stupid-stuff store. We spend hours there and never buy anything. A crazy Latin man – I’d guess on meth/tina – spoke loudly to himself. I want this. Now this is tasteful. This would look great. I’ll get this. Loudly. We reached the exit at about the same time. Mom pulled my arm back and pretended to search for something in her pocket. He’s crazy, she whispered in my ear. I don’t want to go out at the same time as him. I explained to her that at any given time she was outside in the world with at least one crazy person – there was no particular elevated risk with this crazy person. He stopped in front of us and knelt to speak to some flowers – she accelerated her pace and we passed him by. She seemed to feel more comfortable when he was behind us.

We were in a hurry so I suppose it’s good we passed him. He was talking to the flowers! she exclaimed. Which I thought wasn’t so crazy. Later I made her jog at stop lights, so she can make 10,000 steps on her pedometer and keep up with her grandkids. Now people with think I’m the crazy one, she said, breathless as she jogged on spot. There you have it, I told her, at any given time you’re outside in the world with at least one crazy person, even when you’re alone. She wasn’t amused, but she kept jogging.

We were in a hurry to get to Brokeback Mountain. I told her I’d pick the movies next time. She picked two real downers. Don’t get me wrong. It was beautiful, but it was a short story, not a novel. More should have happened in a full-length major motion picture… in my humble opinion.

The Broken Home

After the endless search, the identification, the acquisition and the occupation – I am here. Here amid the towering redwoods, here amidst the rolling hills and rising skyline of trees, cozied up to a creek that runs dry now but which has spilled its banks in times of trouble.

I’ve called my mom at least three times a week since we’ve moved in. “How’s it going?” She asks, sympathetically, wondering if I’ve acclimated to living near children and if I’m getting used to the day-to-day in the new community. “It’s going fine,” I tell her, “but I have questions about the yard.” She asks how the yard looks and unfortunately I can’t tell her green. “It’s looking very sad,” I confess. “What should I do.” She wisely recommends water for starters and begins explaining the fine art of pruning roses, watering schedules and hedge trimming. “The hedges need more than trimming,” again, defeated. She goes back to the stuff about watering, how I should water the hedges as often as I water the lawn. I don’t dare tell her that I haven’t watered the lawn and instead pose my answer in the form of a question. “So how often are you suppose to water the lawn anyways?”

I Solace Myself By Thinking

I solace myself by thinking, eat of the apple, your own damned fault.

I called Dad for Father’s Day. What an odd bird. At some point I’d really love to say, with visceral candor, “listen, I’m really sorry that we don’t have much in common, that we don’t seem to even be living on the same planet most of the time.” Sitting quietly over coffee and watching hummingbirds we do try to communicate but always seem to miss the mark. It’s not evil or argumentative. It’s not even silent. The words follow some logical order, but they don’t have any weight when tied in a bow at the end of the day. I can’t seem to find words that mean anything to him either. At best we hold equal culpability yet admitting that doesn’t alter the outcome. This dynamic has ceased being tragic and has rolled into being just the way things are.

Mom, on the other hand, has been quite inspired by Cassie’s trek through the wilderness. I’d proffered that if Cassie made it without ill event that we consider this sojourn together. The prospect has tickled her imagination and she’s filled with questions and contemplation. I’m convinced that some untoward happening involving barnacles has sealed the deal. Or perhaps it’s the notion of meandering the Spanish countryside in pink flip-flops and a bag of magic rocks that’s placed weight on the decision. It’s hard to tell. Undoubtedly we’ll be following in Cassie’s footsteps sometime in the future and likely I’ll be cursing her under my breath, pelting her with psychic fruit and thinking, how’d you like it if someone picked an apple off of YOU! Though admittedly I’m equally thrilled by idea of spending that kind of time with my mother. I think it would be an adventure that we’d both come to view as precious. (Note to self: Be strikingly clear with mom that past life experiences are strongly discouraged on the journey.)