Ring the bell.

Christmas 2008

It’s 8am, the gallos and donkeys are conversing in the gully across from what will be our home for the next six months- The 1st floor of a three floor, solid concrete building in the jungle-surrounded by gays, but in a Mexican neighborhood, a block from the beach. The lunatic fringe of Puerto Vallarta.

I’m sitting outside at a table that I scrounged in the yard, along with two chairs in case a guest drops in, from a junk pile along its brick and concrete edges. I found chair pads in the 2nd bedroom.

A few minutes ago a crash-or so it seemed-occurred directly above me in the Cecropia Tree, a lanky, three story tree that has 9 lovely leaves in a circle on one stem that altogether measure about 2ft. in diameter. The rowdy perpetrators are chachalacas, large brown birds with a yellow underside and long, wide tails that are shaped like paddles. They are similar to wild turkeys. Right now there are 5 or 6 of them causing a melodic ruckus. Seconds ago a branch as big around as my wrist and maybe 3 ft. long landed a few feet away from me. I see the beauty of jungle living but Sophie, convinced the sky is falling, went inside.

Last night I met a Canadian couple at the beach who are here for 3months and looking for a reasonable place to stay. He asked me where I was and how much I was paying. I told him 500 dollars. He said, “Is it a dump?”
“Are you an asshole?” I think.
“It is Mexican funky. It has its share of creative wiring with the requisite, unrestrained use of extension cords, bare bulbs, and I believe hot water only in the shower, which is all I asked for, Dear Santa. And oh yes, and it has screens on the windows that mostly cover them, an air conditioning unit that I assume works because it is plugged into the wall, and the obligatory amount of rebar poking out of the outer wall as if it is perennially under construction; in other words, totally charming.”

Our first week here we I stayed at my friend Jodi’s. It was a good week. She’s a gem: intelligent, fun to hang with and obviously patient since she put me and Sophie up. Sophie prefers her house. It’s more dependable and has grass, a supreme luxury.

I took the panja to Yelapa to look at possible living spaces but couldn’t see the insides of any of the potential houses. But, Yelapa is always full of surprise and this time was no exception. I met Robert McLane, a writer whose book, Stop War America is an interesting narrative of his years as a marine in Viet Nam and later as an anti-war activist. Reading it transported me back to the complex 60s and 70s that fucked up so many lives, but no one more than the soldiers who fought; men, who when they had returned home, and were safe in the arms of women who loved them, cried in their sleep. One of the men in my life, Michael Reinhart, said he felt ruined, that he felt nothing could ever compare or erase the horror and shame in his heart. Michael went to fight in Rhodesia in the 70s. It would be nice to know if he is alive. Robert’s web site is wwstopwaramerica.com.

I find the struggle to keep in the present difficult when the past keeps popping up its’ intense head.

Sophie and I spent Christmas at Jodi’s with 20+ old and new friends. We stuffed ourselves with delicious offerings from each and every one of us, laughed, told stories and sang. After we got home Sophie and I walked around the neighborhood. I happened upon the Palm Bar down the street from me and remembered that Jodi said it might be a place to do some comedy. As it turns out the owner, Ron, was there and he too, thinks it’s a good idea. So we’ll talk next week. It’s been almost 30 years since I MC’d a male stripper club on Columbus Ave in San Francisco down the street from the Carol Doda’s Condor. Yikes. I may be turning into Moms Mabley. Life could definitely be worse.

As a post script to my last blog that ended in Morocco, I must say that the Leonard Cohen concert I attended at the O2 in London Nov. 13th was the best ever. I mean that. He is a man of grace: a humble poet that makes every word and note move my heart. I sat in the nose-bleed section beside a young Pakistani whose English mom had brought him there. During intermission he said, “He’s really good. He’s a poet and makes excellent music.” While reading Robert’s book I thought of the current senseless war that continues unabated-unless something has changed because I haven’t seen the news for a few weeks- and I thought of some of the words in Cohen’s Anthem that were probably written in the 70’s and still current.

The wars they will be fought again
The holy dove be caught again
Bought and sold and bought again
The dove is never free

Ring the bells that still can ring
Forget your perfect offering
There is a crack in everything
That’s how the light gets in..

That’s how the light gets in…

For my birthday in l976 when my world seemed to be falling apart around me, Larry David Dunn, a wonderful artist in Chicago gave me a pen and ink he had done. He called it the Gypsy Wagon. The wagon is an old wooden one surrounded by light that comes from within. Larry David said it was a portrait of me; that I carry my own light. What a wonderful compliment it was. I have learned that it is what we all must do; let the light shine through our cracks and embrace it –and them.

To everyone, I wish you a new year filled with light, love and a heart full of peace.
-Ruby

Apologies & Moroccan Pictures

What a surprise to find my box from Morocco on the doorstep yesterday! So it was my mind that conjured up the scenario of anger and distrust; that worked me into a tizzy for nothing; made a mountain out of a molehill as my mother would say. How many times have I done that for naught? I will die with so many partially learned lessons that would have saved me anguish.

Alas, it was the Spanish box that was rifled; that someone opened and helped themselves to a few Christmas presents. Maybe at US customs-some else feeling the trickle down crunch. So my apologies to the Moroccan postal system.

I include the pictures Mohamed sent me. The tannery is the most amazing site with the vats of vegetable based dyes, and the old man and his donkey, not the one I saw but how different could their lives be, and the tiled dome of the mosque in Casa and the inside of another. I think the doors are of the kings palace but don't hold me to it. There's a wonderful sweeping view of the the medina -which one I don't know-and the Hotel Guynemer where I recommend everyone stay when you visit this sprawling city that I only just touched on.

Last but not least, Mohamed Sakami, handsome man, talented chef, and my friend who came to my rescue with pictures when I told him my camera had been stolen, ( I'll ask him for his delicious recipe for tagine & prunes). Thank you, Mohamed.

Crazy or Courageous.

I have lost all track of time. I know today is Sunday and that I arrived here in Gibraltar midnight Friday. Two trains and six hours Casablanca to Tangier on Thursday, befriended by Miriam and Nadia, two lovely Muslim sisters who were traveling to visit their cousin. Miriam, a nurse, insisted on carrying my bag on and off the train, because, she said, "I'm young. There was no refusing because she was right. So, I shared my sandwich and chocolate with them. Miriam said, "We are lucky."

The several hundred year old Continental Hotel in the Medina that over looks the port was a fairy land of colorful tile & mosaics, arches, and art work. Unfortunately it also sits directly above the parking lot for the numerous cargo trucks that carry African goods to port where they cross the Atlantic or Mediterranean and make their way into our lives for good or bad.

That afternoon my camera was stolen - at the cyber cafe. So every picture I took except the ones on the last blog is gone. The rest will fade from my memory as surely as photographs left in the sun do with time. I am sad. I am also exhausted. Being robbed is tiring in the saddest sort of way.

But, before the theft I let 2 children, Ahmad 10 and his sister Dania 14 show me the way to the Kasbah... after which I gave HER the generous tip & told her to share with her brother. He was pissed. His was a typical reaction of the Moroccan male who feels he is a bit above the female gender-still.

The Moroccan men. They congregate everywhere there is a chair to sit on: benches, around small tables in and in front of the many cafes, along the beach. But rarely do you see a single woman or any women in most public places unless they are with a man or another woman. The men are omnipresent for money at every turn. The touts 'helped ' me - by walking uninvited along side me, or offering advice or to to find the best of anything I wanted: food, lodging, goods... Only one invited me to sit with him for a cup of tea. And I felt myself relax.

The cost of a taxi ride to the same place varied so wildly according to the whim of the driver that the battle began before I got in the cab. In Fes drivers turned down passengers- in Casa, they took as many as would fit and made everyone pay separate and unequal amounts.

On Nov 5 I had a melt-down. In retrospect I feel sorry for the old guy I yelled at but fuck it. I had stayed awake all night to watch Obama become president- crying unashamedly with Jesse. The polls closed at 1am in Casablanca; he gave his acceptance speech at 5am. Since my raging adrenalin would not allow me to sleep I spent the morning boxing up stuff I had bought for friends and went to mail it. With the help of the hotel staff (lovely men, one and all and exceptional it seems to me), I had a box, and got in a cab to head to the DHL office.

At DHL I was told my box would cost $260.00 DOLLARS! Jesus! I left. Carrying the box on the busy street I could not find a taxi for the life of me. So I walked-and walked. Finally a taxi ( with an honest driver)stopped and took me to the post office. At the post office I was told to go round to the side where packages were sent. When I got there a man standing on the steps got in step with me to the counter. After my box was weighed and I confirmed that I was willing to pay $50.00dollars to mail it the anonymous the man took the box. I asked the guy behind the counter, "Who is he?" and pointed to the man with my box. "He works for the post office." he said. "And you will pay him." I said. He smiled. Ha. The man, proceeded to take my stuff out, dump it into another box, tape it and show me where I was supposed to write the address...

When the box was safely (more ha) behind the desk I was given exactly 50 dh change. The man reached out his hand for it. I snapped. I gave him 10 dh which is about a dollar. He pushed the coin back. 50 dh he demanded. I yelled, For what! His voice got louder. The proper clerk behind the counter smiled. Ahhh. We are breaking another tourist-and extra points for a woman. I was ready to cry. Instead, I threw the bill at him. " I hate Morocco!" I yelled and ran into the street. They could care less if I hate the place or not. They got the money. And, since my box full of presents has not arrived in the U.S. I think they helped themselves to the contents.

The crazy bitch. Yell at us.

But then there was Mohamed, the chef at the Guynemer and Amina, a Moroccan woman I met having lunch at La Bodega.

He, besides being an excellent chef is warm and fun to be with. When I got to the hotel Guynemer ( a n absolutly delightful place to stay by-the-way) without a reservation of course, I had to wait an hour or so until they kicked someone out of a room-a man the rumor goes, so I, a woman in need, could have it, Mohamed took me walking aound the central market to while away the time. And he was a staunch Obama fan. And he has emailed me pictures another tourist took . I will get them downloaded soon and share. So enough said, I'm a baby to complain.

And Amina. After my meltdown I went to La Bodega for lunch. A line stretched out the door but I was invited through it by the matre d' to the bar where I had a beer and a plate of tapas. A woman sat next to me. Vibrant, and gregarious, a Moroccon woman who had lived in LA with her husband and son for years quickly became my new best friend. After hearing my sad postal story she insisted on taking me for a wild ride in her lime green little car around the beach area of Casa.

Indeed it was a completely different part of the city than I had seen-so up scale European . To top it off she bought me a grommage and steam at the Hamman before she vanished into the night. Relaxed and with lowered blood pressure, looking no older than 35 I took a taxi back to the hotel. There I listened to the lute player and hung out for several hours laughing, and telling travel tales.

Pictures... in no particular order there is the stage door, (maybe for lions) and me standing on the stage of Teatro Roman in Cadiz, Robert & I in Madrid, a picture of a picture of a flamingo dancer, horses, and a narrow street in Sevilla, AA poster (something for everyone), Helene and her friend from Beijing in Madrid, the awesome church organ in the spooky, and very imposing cathedral in Cadiz, and the bridge on a rainy day in Sevilla. I really love Spain.

On the ferry to Gibraltar a Spanish buisness man who sat across from me said, "You are a crazy woman to run around Morocco alone." When I got to the Queens Hotel (w/o a reservation of course) at 1am, the night clerk who was Moroccan, checked me in. "You are courageous woman for traveling in my country. You like it?"

Goodbye Spain; Hello Morocco

Cadiz, in the south of Spain, is a sweet old town. Said to be the oldest in Western civilization in continuous use. Don´t they always say that. Continuous use. So how many towns just lay down and die never to rise again. What I love most about Spain and now Morocco is that they have been conquered over and over again and it has only made the people more resilient, beautiful, and aware that one must live each day to the fullest.

Cadiz is vibrant in the evenings. I love to sit in one of the many plazas and watch the people. Whole families gather. Maybe they´ll have a cup of chocolate or an ice cream. Or just a stroll. My favorite place is in front of the cathedral. Yesterday I hung out over an hour with olives, jamon de espana y the ubiquitous vino tinto writing the stories of my childhood living above my grandpa°s bar in western Pennsylvania. I´m encouraged by my new friend, Robert, but writing about myself seems so audacious and egotistical in view of all the amazing stories we, each and everyone of us, has. At a cafe I met Brian, an Australian man who loved eating and drinking so we had a good night roaming the town trying out the tapas bars. Alas, he dumped me. He wanted to meet the following morning at 6 or some ungodly hour of the morning and I said noon would be better for me.

I took pictures of a young man and his frisky poodle puppy and some boys playing soccer on a riser of something that is being built but is now covered with a tarp. It´s about 5 feet high and they kept having to go over the side to get the ball. No problem. And students sitting on the steps with their computers in front of a cathedral that is centuries old really puts a spin on perspective. I especially love it when the bells ring to remind the catholics who is the boss of them. The church is quite dark inside and gloomy, the perfect place for Jesus to bleed on the cross for infinity. Cadiz is surrounded by a Roman wall that is hard to imagine them building w\o electricity or a big crane. Now I see that building walls is what men did back then- before they had cars to work on.

Next I took the train to Tarifa, the southern most Spanish town on the mainland. When the bus pulled in it seemed as if I had landed into the eye of a hurricane. My umbrella lasted about a minute. I blindly fought the wind up the street and took a room at the first place I came to- the Hostel Dodi. It is an old building that still has its bidet and a tank above the toilet with the chain. It had a nice window and a double bed that I immediately napped in. This city is full of energetic surfers: wind, kite, and water. From here you can see Africa. Well, if the weather were clearer one could see it; I haven´t actually seen it yet. The Internet cafe that I write from is in The Center. You get to The center by walking thru a many centuries old arch that appears to have nothing to offer, but when you pass thru the ancient arch you are confronted by beautiful white buildings that seem to be one but are many set close together, with wrought iron balconies and hanging geraniums and very narrow passageways. Just enough for a slender burro and his cargo to get through.

My first day I had lunch with a young family: mom, dad and two boys ages 5 & 2, from London who had just come back from Morocco. He, Patrick, laughed when he said "one has to buy a rug, and one has to have a guide because if you have a guide the others leave you alone." They also said the Rock was a mess-dirty and slummy so maybe I will pass on that. But still, I will have to fly to London from somewhere.

Next I took the ferry to Tangier, Morocco. By chance I found the internet cafe and believe me; writing is slow because the characters on the keyboard are in different places than I am used to and surrounded by Arabic characters that look like some ours but.. I°ll experiment. You just pretend it°s secret language only we know.

On the train here the woman sitting next to me had intricately hennaed hands and feet for her friends wedding. The train had individual compartments instead of a row of seats. There were five people in mine. Only one spoke English but they all wanted to know who will be our next president; McCain or Obama. Everyone I talk to asks me that question. They cannot believe McCain even has a chance and wonder how we got to be in such trouble? I say I don't know; that I only have one vote and can only work so hard. Some have suggested I pray. I agree to because I think it sets good karma in motion.

I spent 2 nights in Tangier. It is a busy, complex city with an amazing history where you can see signs of the different nationalities that ruled, esp the Spanish & French- & English too a bit. I stayed at Riad Tanja, a former palace or home of a wealthy person of note and now a mid scale hotel. In Fes, Morocco, where I write from now I°m told riads always have a patio and a bitter orange tree.

From Tangier I took the train to Asilah, less than an hour south on the coast. Many people there speak Spanish & Portuguese and are very, sometimes too, friendly. The touts are annoying as hell but can be helpful too for a few dihrams ( 8 + in a dollar) they guide me to places I need like the lavenderia and stor to buy wine. As I rest I hear the men in the mosque praying. I'm not sure how often it happens but it is several times a day and they sound like braying donkeys thqt might be in pain. Thankfully it doesn't last long. The guide I had yesterday in Fes said that if a person does°n have a good voice they should keep quiet because Allah doesn°t need to hear unpleasant sounds. I asked him if he had ever heard of Karoke? He had not. Cased closed.

In Asilah I went to a traditional hammam, the public bath house for a scrub & massage. Jesus. Mary. Joseph! The woman who led me naked except for panties thru three rooms of progressively hotter steam rooms packed wall to wall with Moroccan women and active children was a quasi=moto, sumo wrestler type with short legs, a round body, small round head with eyes that never smiled, and pendulous breasts the size & spirit of prize watermelons left to go soft in the fields.

She filled buckets with water then motioned for me lie on the tile floor. With a green brillo pad glove, she began on my chest. In round motions she scraped the first layer of epidermis from my body as if she were preparing a recently killed goat for tanning. For maybe a half hour she rolled & flopped me to suit herself, scraped even the tender parts of my under arms, jerked my panties up into the crevices of me ass and vulva and rid my body of skin I°ve had since I was six months in the womb. Every now and then she splashed me with a bowl of water from the bucket and took a rest apparently satisfied. This went on until I was ready to tell any truths she wanted to hear. And I paid for this! After, I went to my hotel room and read a murder mystery.

Now, because I am a person of impulse, I diverted my course and am in Fes instead of Rabat or Casablanca. Yesterday I toured the old Medina with a guide and spent too much money. But, Patrick was exactly right; you have to buy a rug and you need a guide so the rest leave you alone. Last night I had dinner at the home of Kalied, a man I met on the train. His sister prepared meat balls with camel meat. Of course with the 49 spices that he said make up the sauce it could have been any meat but it was delicious. All was well until I left and he wanted to kiss me °with passion because he is a divorced man and ...° It is not dull here in Morocco and I take everything I ever said about being invisible back. I may take to wearing a caftan and a scarf. Kalied said he had plans for us. We would rent a car and drive into the countryside.. I called him and we have put off the wedding and intend instead to roam around other parts of Fes. I admit tho, it is nice to be referred to as °my sweet woman° or beautiful sweet woman°..
Today I walked in the rain.

At the Cafe Central a few hours ago a friendly waiter asked me to come in. I said, No, gracias.
As I was leaving an adorable boy ran up to me and took me by the arm back to the cafe. I never could refuse adorable boys. I was one of only 2 or3 customers in the place. We all hung out; waiters, bartender, cook. We talked religion, America, peace, food, and when Jahal asked me to adopt him, and I said it would make his own mom too sad, mothers=almost another perfect country song. Really this place is amazing. That°s us in the last pic before the battery gave out on my camera.

Museo Crawling

I started writing this at the Tryp Arenal Hotel in Bilbao, Spain, because that was the hotel that was where the bus let me out, now I am in Sevilla in Andalusia in the south. It feels as if a century or so has passed; or as if no time at all exists. From Bordeaux I took the train into Spain. My room at the Tryp was in the attic. Both the bedroom and the bath had windows that open to the sky with about a 30* angle. I especially appreciated them when it rained.

In NYC I visited the Metropolitan where I never got further than the Egyptian wing because I met my childhood friend, Tad, or as he told me long ago that he would rather be called Rock Argentine, for lunch that lasted the rest of the sweet afternoon. Of Course we solved the worlds´ problems.

Then in Washington D.C. I visited Macy´s extensive shoe collection. Then Paris and the Louve. Jesus! Just hose me down. I was astounded at the huge statues that I felt surely would speak to me at any moment; one bunch of particularly beguiling men all had curled penises or is it peni.

And then the Guggenheim in Bilbao. What an amazing place that is. It is not boring in the stuffy sense of museos. Gehry (am I right on this?) made a museo that opens up space and forces the stuff in it to say.. hey. look at me!!! Aren´t I pretty! come on. have your picture taken with me. Love it!!

My French was very limited: wee, nohn, parlyvu english?, au revoir, mercibeaucoup, see vu play...you get the picture, and having realized too late that Paris is a lonely place for a grandma-even a bold, gregarious one like myself, traveling alone, I was excited to get to Spain where I know a few more words.

But, in Bordeaux. I met Graham Taylor, at the Cafe Des Artes. I first noticed his Nikon and then when we talked, his blue eyes. Turns out, Graham was staying at the same hotel as I. The next two evenings we spent at a jazz club located conveniently in the hood by our hotel. We sucked down our vodkas-his with coke-yikes; mine a martini with flavored vodka in a Pilsner glass to start, until at my urging, Graham explained to the sexy waitress that the vodka should be plain; at least that´s what I thought he was talking about as he leaned over the bar with a perfect view of her lovely cleavage.


There was no music because it was Monday, so we talked and talked. I let him talk some. I´m glad too, because Graham is not only smart and funny, he is 29. He holds the view of most of the people I´ve met, that Bush really fucked up the state of affairs of the world with his war and that the education system-both his in England and ours-in America, sucks, is boring, and not conducive to learning. We decided that history is not boring, history teachers are boring. Show Mel Gibson movies for God´s sake; Make some animated cartoons, teach geometry on a pool table...

And I met Helene and her friend from Beijing. Lovely women who also give me hope for the future of the planet. I hope to see her next year in her home town.
And did I mention that Putin is now my age? To celebrate he had himself videoed doing his black belt karate chops in his bare feet. What a showoff. My feet are prettier.


After Bordeaux I took the train to Spain. I was so excited to be going where I would be able to understand the language and actually voice my needs with several parts of speech. Everything was good until I got to San Sebastian. They do not speak Spanish in the Basque country. It is said to be similar to the Celtic language with a lot of hard consonant sounds. Whatever. Gergurfff is not easy on the hearing aides. But that´s not the point. In San Sebastian I got on the wrong train. I was rescued by a business man who put me in the proper place to catch the correct train but alas I got on the wrong train again. This time the train was going in the general direction of Bilbao, with only one change, so I stayed on it.

These trains in northern Spain are one gauge trains. Remember the little engine that could-well, as this one was chugging up a hill it couldn't. So it stopped. After a few minutes we all exited the train in the back, jumped onto the tracks, and walked on the tracks several blocks to the town and then to the station where we waited for a bus that drove us to Bilbao. A burly women helped me carry my heavy bag along the tracks. Then, as I said, I stayed in the hotel where the bus let me out. Life is simple really. What traveling does is remind me not to fight it..to flow.


Jump to Barcelona. the first night there I wandered down the street to the Liceu Opera House to get info. 102.euros later I had a ticket and was sitting in the 2nd balcony center. Despair, God, love, abuse.. the whole story sung in arias.. the place is known as the most opulent opera house in all of Spain. It didn´t move me to tears but the singing was good even if it wasn´t Placito Domingo who is my very favorite -ok next to Sean Connery. And then the Museo de Picasso. Who knew he got into potting after all those other periods. You see, age is just a thing that gets you warmed up as you go along.

I ended my stay in Barcelona with a Gaudi tour.. Jesus. I am in love with this man. He used broken concrete and tile pieces as no other has and toppled the right-angle architects on their ears. Sensual, colorful .. like snorkeling thru a building, weightless, surrounded with color.

I´ve been sampling the tapas. Good thing I brought Rolaids. Last night I had pescatitos fritos..little fried fish.. the not-so-little bones got stuck in my throat causing coughs that even vino tinto couldn't´t wash down. So more bread. Nobody seems to be fat in Europe but I don´t know why. bread bread bread.

Madrid. First day there I chilled by watching a John Wayne movie on tv in the hostel which is quite nice because it was the only English channel I could find. My own three story walk up room with bath and a complicated tv that I haven´t figured out yet.

That night I sat at a cafe and watched the people. So many of them had black suits and red ties. I thought the Mormons were convening. Some of them had what looked like they were carrying their own pool cues but they were probably flutes-maybe very long flutes. I wondered if the Mormons were infl¡trating the pool halls. Anything is possible. When I followed them I found that they were part of a private concert and was summarily stopped at the door. Ha. Private Mormon concert bettya. Walking around I saw the Museo de Jamon or Ham Museum. What a concept. And I went into a place that had cheap sweet clothes from India. If I had ANY room in my suitcase I would at least buy a couple of shirts but ...ok maybe. there are English version movies in the center parque near me- o.v. for original version, so I can spend an eve watching am American movie.. Ninos in Pajamas ..reyes.. I´m not sure what it´s about but it sounds right up my alley..

And them there was Madrid. The Prado is lovely. Velasquez, Goya, ... you name a Spanish painter and he was there. But stuffy..like most. And on the way from there I was at a news stand fixen to buy an English language paper because I wanted to read about the debate and a man behind me said, Are you really sure you want to read that.´His name is Robert. We soon found ourselves laughing, and dining, and listening to jazz. He is a writer from NYC and has convinced me that a one woman show is possible. See. Anything really is.

OK rough, but minutes are up and here goes!

Mommy

Grown don't mean nothing to a mother. A child is a child. They get
bigger, older, but grown? What's that suppose to mean? In my heart
it don't mean a thing. ~Toni Morrison, Beloved, 1987

I love this quote. They must be out there, but I don’t know a single mother who considers age a factor in the art mothering. It’s what gets us in trouble with our kids.
“Mom! I’m an adult! I don’t need your advice, criticism, lecture, opinion, counsel or presence"…….Ahh. Sad is the mother who believes this.

Yes, we need to step aside while they make their own mistakes, sometimes we need to push them into the risky unknown and then hide our angst while they explore it, and we definitely need to get completely out of the way when they tattoo their bodies or pierce their nose for some ungodly reason, or take a same sex, different race, conservative, or liberal, lover. (Or any other element disagreeable to us)

But like Mother Earth, we need to BE there, obvious and evident with our love, our wisdom, & our support. We need to tell them the truth; teach them to both give and receive, and respect. There isn’t much mention of wisdom in our society in the United States. Maybe some adult kids think they can get wisdom on the web, or they don’t know that it comes from living and that we have it and are willing to share or even that they could use some.

I remember after Reagan fired the air traffic controllers, my mother, Alice, was afraid to fly so she took the train from Pennsylvania to California to visit me and my kids-her beloved grandkids. The trip lasted three days; she was in her 70s so I know her back must have ached something terrible as she sat looking out the window at the passing scenery or read a romance novel that transported her back to her youth. I don’t know what she thought about as the Zephyr rolled away from the lush Allegheny Mountains into the mid-west plains, and over the forbidding Rockies. I wish I did but she quit writing a diary after she lost her virginity at age 18.

All I know is what I thought. Even though we had a hard time when we were together-in person-head-to-hard head, my mom and I were in love. I never lost sight that she gave me life; I counted the hours and minutes until her arrival. I made sure Kirk was home, that there was gas in the car to pick her up, that the house was somewhat tidy and that the kids were presentable.

I was 44 when the train pulled into the Martinez station. Just like in the movies, the passengers spilled out of countless doors all at once making it difficult to spot a single person. But, finally I saw her soft gray hair at the top of the steps. As I ran to her I yelled, “Mommy!”

Mourning, Celebrating, Remembering, & a New Name.

When I read in the paper last week that most of the humpback whales were heading north I felt a pang of melancholy-a bit like when my children left home. I remember mornings when the kids were little. I would look at them a minute before I woke them up. My heart would fill. Then when I wasn't yelling at them because they couldn't find their books, or homework, or didn't take the dogs for a walk, I'd watch them interact: Alice methodical and prepared trying to help (or discipline) Anna for dawdling & playing. I would laugh because they were so consistently opposite and interesting.

Almost every morning the past couple of weeks I've watched the whales frolic out front while I drank my morning coffee. Who said you can't weigh a ton and be graceful! The humpback whales are acrobats of the sea, breaching, sky hopping,and flob tailing. Yesterday afternoon I watched with glee as one flob tailed for about 1/2 hour. Over and over, at least 20 times,(I lost count) she lifted her massive butt into the air and crashed her gorgeous obsidian flukes that glinted in the sunlight onto the water. Voyeurism is exhausting.

The male humpbacks are the Pavarottis and Domingos of the sea.They sing these eerie, beautiful, and complex songs that are said to last up to half an hour and are repeated continuously for hours. Ten or so years ago when my daughter, Anna, got married in Maui her husband, Dave, I think it was, was swimming and heard them singing. When he told us I plunged into the warm water and listened. For a minute or so I heard it; a brief U Tube concert. Next year I will be ready with some snorkeling gear so I can hear a whole song.

Still on singing. Sitting in front of me on the beach a few days ago were two teenage girls. One of them sang for the other who listened intently, nodding her head in approval. This kid sang bluesy Mexican tunes with Amy Winehouse gusto. I was happy to just sit and watch her appreciate her own voice enough to share it.

Puerto Vallarta is partying again. The catholics here mourn during Semana Santa, the week leading up to the Crucifixion then everyone parties for another week -for Pascua, to celebrate the Resurrection. How could you not applaud the concept of rising from the dead? The beach is a giant swath of color, music, dancing, cooking and mayhem.

When Sophie and I were slogging through the surf Thursday, I thought about the summer vacations me,my mom and her friends-all sexy, vibrant women, took to Lake Erie. We stayed at The Village, a motel on the beach that had a series of weathered clapboard cottages with tiny kitchens. But the real draw of The Village was its nightclub with a large dance floor and a full-on orchestra: trumpets, saxophones, trombones,drums, bass,a piano...These women LOVED to dance.

I have a vague recollection of Smiley, the orchestra leader's Irish charm. But it is my mom who would never forget him. You see, she had his child.

I remember that trip as being a fun one. I was 9.Me,Mom,her friend Tacy, and my dog Niki, drove Mom's Ford Skyliner 2500 miles to Santa Monica, CA. There are no pictures of Mom on that trip but I remember her wearing loose mu mu type dresses. She had naturally large breasts so the combination kept her swollen belly well hidden. The day she gave birth, Tacy and I were at Grauman's Chinese Theatre on Hollywood Blvd. Tacy sobbed so loud during the movie, Shane,that I was embarrassed. Of course I know now that she probably didn't even notice the sad movie; she was crying for her friend who was giving birth to a daughter she would never see.

Mary Leslie Sten,pumping with irreverent Irish blood was given to a Swedish family. The reason, I found out when I was 40 something; when mom's dark secret burst forth, was that Mom refused to see her child grow up condemned and ridiculed for being illegitimate. She alone would pay the price of her own sin.

There are pictures of Tacy and me and one with me and Tonto. When we left Pennsylvania I had great hopes of seeing Roy Rogers,Dale Evans or Gene Audrey but was happy with Tonto dressed in full Indian regalia. I took souvenirs back to all my friends. I would rather have had a sister.

At 11 o'clock on Good Friday, my friend, Laurel and I joined the procession of Christ to Calvary. The route here goes from Woolworths to Our Lady of Guadalupe Church over part of the mountainside. This is no easy trek. It involves two very steep hills difficult to climb in sturdy shoes carrying a bag of groceries much less barefoot lugging a heavy wooden cross-not to mention the Roman guard hitting and shoving you because you aren't moving fast enough.

Laurel and I caved after the first hill. We took the lowland route directly to the church steps. Waiting for the procession we had a conversation with a family from Walnut Creek, CA, whose kids go to a Catholic school, about some new commandments the pope has made. The woman said she wasn't a particularly good catholic but she didn't think that he could do that-that they were probably amendments to the commandments. Amendments to commandments. Whoa. Maybe he has finally listed pedophilia as a bad thing.I read somewhere recently that he said women should be more like women than men or something to that effect. Fine with me. Keep your penis but I'm serious about equal wages and having control over my body. I marched the soles off my shoes in the 70s so my daughters and granddaughters would have choice and equality in every aspect of their lives. Personally I think that even the gentle Christ would have a difficult time with some of the rigid rules the Pope imposes on women.

Last week I got a surprise email from Jon Hammond,Tehachapi's unofficial historian and expert on flora & fauna. He honored me by giving me the name Tavi Nomo'o, which he said, means Sun Woman in the Kawaiisu language, the area's indigenous Indians. He said the name reflects my bright spirit and my current sunny surrounding. How sweet is that!

It's Easter Sunday. The church bells are ringing. If I hurry I'll have time to put on my new Easter outfit with the matching shoes and sombrero & catch the 11 o'clock service.

God Bless Us Everyone. -Tiny Tim or maybe Timmy. I can't remember.

"It's a shallow life that doesn't give a person a few scars."
-Garrison Keillor

Paz en tierra.
Ruby Tavi Nomo'o