Past Blogs

Perhaps I love California because we had such a hard time getting there the first time.

Our children were young, and we were on a mission to show them as much of their country as possible before they flew like arrows from our care.

Every summer a trip was planned, the Ford station wagon was loaded and our daughter took her dramamine. Before long, we had crossed an impressive number of states off the list. Was it time, we wondered, to plan a trip to the wondrous Golden State, home of oranges and dreams?

My husband and I plotted a strategy. We would go only as far as New Mexico the following year. If the kids could travel that distance and still be enchanted by the “Land of Enchantment”, we would head for California and the Pacific coast the following year.

The New Mexico trip was a success, and the next summer we booked two weeks of motels of the Howard Johnson’s ilk. Disaster struck two days before the California departure date; our son got mumps. We were quarantined and had to cancel and rebook the entire itinerary.

A week later we were ready to roll when I felt a horrible sensation in my throat. I had a full blown case of mumps.

Fortunately, we are not quitters… we simply cancelled all the rooms and rebooked them for a third time. When we finally hit the highway a week later, we all felt like a flock of birds that had been let out of their cage.

I’m sure that the skies of California were bluer, the coast more magnificent, the foliage more exotic, the flowers more dazzling and the mountains more majestic because of our confinement.

I’ve been back to California scores of times since that first trip. Our son and his family have chosen to make their home in San Diego on the Pacific rim. And that old California magic still continues to work for all of us plus a whole new generation.

Pictures from one of my favorite childhood books, “Mickey Sees The U.S.A.” by Caroline D. Emerson, copyright 1944.

Last Thursday I walked into my library to see a book display informing me that November is “Pursuit of Happiness Month”. Considering the election that had occurred two days prior, I’m wondering where I should find this happiness. My Czech irony meter rated this display as a ten.

A quick glance at the books that would supposedly induce my euphoria was not productive. I am not a believer in magical thinking or chicken soup.

However, the ill-timed book display did induce some serious, nonmagical thinking on my part. How can I, a happy person in my personal life, maintain that happiness when the evidence that America is now a plutocracy is alarmingly apparent?

So far I’ve come up with the following guidelines:

• Face reality… things are unlikely to improve for a generation or so. Nevertheless, keep fighting the good fight.
• Only get enough news to stay informed. News is a form of torture these days.
• Avoid being around people whose main topic of discussion is money; how to get it, keep it and not pay taxes on it.
• Be totally supportive of the younger generations. Their road ahead looks like a rock quarry compared to the one we traveled in our youth.
• Drink wine, but don’t become an alcoholic.
• Redouble reading for pleasure.
• Listen to more classical music. Many years ago, an amazing friend told me ,”You will need classical music when you are older.” She was right.
• Spend as much time as possible with family and friends.When the big world is dysfunctional, work harder to keep the little world sheltering.

Any additions to this happiness survival list will be warmly received.

Several hundred houseguests arrived last week. Fortunately, they don’t want to be fed. Unfortunately, some want to fall into bed with us.

Our guests are Harmonia axyridis a.k.a. Multi-Colored Asian Beetles. They are nicknamed Halloween beetles, an appropriate name as they are filled with tricks and are not exactly a treat to have around.

These bugs are plump, larger than native lady beetle species and range in color from yellow to red. Their black dots can be nonexistent or up to twenty. There is no uniform dress code for these insects.

United States Department of Agriculture scientists introduced the Asian ladybugs to do what the beetles do best… eat aphids. Others hitched rides on freighters and cargo. All have made themselves right at home to the point where our native species are dying out.

In Fall, masses of these beetles start searching for warm, dry cracks and crevices in which to hibernate. Our homes fit that description, especially the warm, sun-facing exposures.

It is our experience that these visitors arrive surreptitiously. Then, on a brilliant Fall day when the thermometer goes over 50 degrees, they come marching out to say,”Surprise! Thanks for the hospitality.” In the midst of an invasion, it is well to remember their good points:

*They are harmless to people and pets.

*They don’t eat our food, unless our kitchens are filled with aphids.

*They don’t have sex orgies in the house. In spring, they crawl outside for a roll in the foliage.

These beetles do have some tricks. They squirt foul-smelling, yellow fluid from their legs when they are threatened. Few bite, but all can inflict small pricks from spurs on their legs.

These lady bugs are also photopositve or are attracted to light. Since they swarm over windows, skylights and glass doors, prepare to view your landscapes through polka dots.

Our personal houseguest survival strategy plan is to hope for cooler, Fall days when our boarders will crawl back into the cracks. If that doesn’t occur and critical masses form, we can always resort to the shop-vac. We would prefer coexistence, there is so little of that these days.

Every issue of New Mexico Magazine that lands in my mailbox has some reference to ghosts.

For example, describing a historic home, the writer states,”you may even see a ghost of a former resident lurking in the shadows.” I don’t think so.

Ghosts fill my life, but they are not supernatural beings, they are memories. The older I get, the more ghosts I acquire.

I can’t drive down a particular stretch of Lincoln Avenue in West Allis without seeing the ghost of my Aunt Vi hiking in her high heels on her 10 mile daily hike.

My father’s ghost appears every time I see a Hershey Bar, while my mother visits when I underline passages in books. Her presence is especially felt when the passages are in library books. She is not happy.

Because I have been lucky to have traveled all my life, my ghosts are equally well traveled. Albuquerque and Tucson are thoroughly haunted. My Aunt Gladys lurks in Chantilly, a marvelous French bakery and cafe in the Duke City. My mother and father-in law continue to confound me whenever I drive in Tucson; they never made left turns, and I never learned the direct route to any place in that town.

As we age, our younger selves also join in the ghost parade. The towering redwoods in California conjure the ghost of a young mother holding her little daughter as she throws up into the majestic beauty. (The coast highway is an extremely twisting road.) The same ghosts then move to a laundromat in Eureka, California.

Halloween is near, and improbable tales of the supernatural will proliferate. I don’t need any more ghosts, thank you. I have plenty of my own.

I gave up naps when I was one and a half. According to my mother, I just stopped taking them, and she didn’t press the issue.

I vividly remember nap-time in kindergarten. We were supposed to rest on a hard mat on a hard floor in a sunny room and fall asleep. Each day I dutifully stayed on the mat with my eyes wide open and my mind telling me that time spent at the easel and paints would be much more fun.

When I met my husband, my opinion on naps changed. Here was a man who loved a quick nap. What’s more, he could sleep anyplace, anytime and almost anywhere. (His experiment at napping in the shower did not work.) Best of all, he would wake up refreshed. The value of being able to recharge at will was not lost on me.

The cats, who have elevated napping to an art form, also have added to my appreciation of a quick snooze. Their pattern seems to be a pre-breakfast nap, followed by a wee rest, a before lunch doze, an early afternoon quiet time and a four o’clock siesta. Then it’s dinner, a brief crazytime, and the before bed catnap. Felines are hard wired by Ms. Nature to sleep 2/3 of each day.

I, however, was not wired with a nap-time circuit. As desirable and therapeutic as a quick nap often would be, I am biologically incapable of taking one. How handy it would be to fall asleep in a plane, train or passenger side of the car. Alas, motion has a stimulating, not a soporific, effect on me.

My favorite commentary on napping is found in the delightful children’s book The Napping House by Audrey Woods. No child is necessary to enjoy this tale of naps gone awry.