"Me, Me, Me, or You, You, You?"

 

"Nearly all men can stand adversity, but if you want to test a man's character, give him power."-- Attributed to Abraham Lincoln. In reality, Lincoln never uttered or wrote those words or words to that effect. Instead, they were said about him.

The original version of the quotation came on Jan. 16, 1883, during a speech in Washington, D.C., by the prominent writer and orator Robert Ingersoll.

"If you" want to know the difference between an orator and a speaker, read the oration of Lincoln at Gettysburg and then read the speech of Everett at the same place. One came from the heart. The other was born only of the voice. Lincoln's speech will be remembered forever. Everett's no man will read. It was like plucked flowers."

 

From the Democratic National Convention came speeches we haven't heard the likes of in a while. No sound bites, full on speeches, given with conviction, truth, honesty, promises to lower taxes for the middle class, build more houses so the middle class can afford to buy one, preserve Medicare, and Social Security, feed the children, give teachers a living wage, maintain funding for schools, give our children an opportunity to be free of pollution and bullets, overturn Roe vs Wade to provide a reproductive freedom to women, give Americans hope again.

The American Dream raised its beautiful head again when two people from State Schools worked their way up the ranks; one was bussed to school, and the other who grew up on a farm could run for President and Vice President of the United States.

Remember when the strength of America lie in its strong middle class?

Yes, we had problems in the 60's, but we had the guts to protest wars, and march for civil rights, to change the dress code in schools--and champion men to grow facial hair.

Professor Robert Reich, former Secretary of Labor, now on Substack, helped me understand how Americans could vote for a tyrant.

Trump exploited their anger.

Americans, especially the working class, have been bullied.  They have been bullied by corporate executives, Wall Street, and upper-class urban professionals.

They're angry.

In Trump, they saw someone who they thought was different.

Except that Trump is a bully.

Trump used his wealth to gain power. He used his power to target people of color, harass and abuse women, lie, violate the law, and attempt to topple our Constitution. Instead of being a leader for the people, he became an advocate for himself. He was and still is vindictive against anyone who opposes him. And then he rages at anyone who calls him a bully. And he admires Hannibal Lector! What?! (Lector is fictitious character from the movie Silence of the Lambs, who eats people.)

Trump is a "me, me, me, person.

Kamala Harris said every day in court, she would say 5 words, "Kamala Harris for the People."

"Because," she says, "what happens to one of us happens to all."

"Kamala Harris is a You, you, you person." (Thanks, Bill Clinton.)

 

From Reich:

"We have learned that Trump cannot be beaten at his own game. He cannot be out-threatened. He cannot be shouted down. He is beyond shame or guilt. He emits lies at such volume and repetition they cannot be corrected.

"The only way to beat him is by playing an entirely different game that draws on qualities that are the opposite of his, that appeals to those aspects of the American character diametrically opposed to his.

"Lincoln spoke of the better angels of our nature. Those better angels are still there but have lain dormant since 2016. Biden tried reviving them, but he didn't have the energy or stamina to pull it off. Kamala Harris and Tim Walz do."

 

And why don't our adversaries trust women?

Women, we need to roar now to convince Americans to vote for Kamala Harris and Tim Walz.

Listen to Lady Gaga go against Trump. She  put it out there. (Trump lied with an ad stating that Gaga supported him.)

https://www.nbcnews.com/video/lady-gaga-slams-trump-at-biden-rally-in-pittsburgh-95211077945

"Vote to keep Trump out of the White House like your life depends on it, no, like your children's lives depend on it, because it does."—Lady Gaga.

And then listen to that Lady sing our National Anthem. Wow, those pipes of hers rang out over the U.S. Capitol and the Washington Memorial with the clarity of an angel.  

https://www.pbs.org/newshour/politics/watch-lady-gaga-sings-the-star-spangled-banner-at-biden-inauguration

 

And now for those following Your Story Matters, here are Chapters  39 and 40

First, Fun at the Grocery Store, then a War Story told to me by the man who lived it.

 

39

 

Funny

 May 21, 2023

 

The Pink blossoms of the dogwood tree have beaten me. (I'm up to 28,630 words, aiming for 50,000.)

 There are a few scraggly blossoms on the tree, but the ground beneath has pink all over it. The leaves have taken up residence where the flowers once were. The tree is moving on.

 

BUT WAIT. I could have an extension. Does it count if I switch trees? Mom's Tree in the front yard is still blooming. I planted a twig that came to my shoulders in tribute to Mom, who loved flowers, and I love dogwoods, so I planted one in the front yard on March 9, Mom's Birthday, in honor of her. Now, it is blooming. Okay, Mom, let's go for it.

 

A few days ago, I pulled Robert Fulgrum's book, What in the World Have I Done, from my cupboard bookshelf and read the best story I have heard all week.  

 Fulgrum offered two college boys on his street a ride to work one morning. He asked what they were doing besides school and work.

"We're eating a chair."

 "What?!"

 A chair! They were eating a chair. The college professor had assigned them to do something unusual, something they had never done before, and write about it. "This is going to fry the professor," one of the kids said. 

They bought an unfinished chair and ate the back and one of the rungs. They shave off a fine dusting of wood daily and add it to their morning granola. At night, they sprinkle some on their salad. They asked a doctor if it was dangerous, and he said no, not in small doses. They may not get it all eaten by the theme due date, so they have asked if others would help them and found a willing bunch.

To further carry on the conversation, Fulghum asked what else they were doing. They have been running around the lake each morning to keep in shape.

However, they tired of running in circles and decided to see how far they would run in a straight line. They got a map of Washington (they live in Seattle) and were mapping out a route; when they were almost to Portland, Oregon, they decided it was boring and chose a European map. Now, they are finding interesting things to do along their trail. And they are finding that large tasks done in small doses can get the job done.

 Fulgrum stopped worrying about the younger generation.

Inspired by Fulghum's wanderings, speaking with people, and finding funny tales, I decided to find something amusing as I set off for the grocery store last night.

 I asked the solemn-faced kid who checked out my groceries if anything funny had happened that day. Nope. Nothing funny.

 So, I walked down to the live-wire lady with white hair and a limp, who is nearly always laughing. I asked if anything funny had happened that day. "Not today," she said, thinking, "but something happened yesterday."

 "What?" I asked.

 "A lady came into the store with no pants on."

 We both laughed. "Really? Was she completely naked, or did she have underwear on?"

 "I don't know. We scanned the store but couldn't find her. Does that story suffice?"

 "Great. Thanks. You saved my day.” Thumbs up, I exited the store.

  

40

 

Hi Jack

Jack was our friend.

He might still be our friend, but he left to investigate something beyond those skies he so loved.

Jack was a pilot in the Second World War.

As he walked past the kitchen window of our house in San Diego on the way to the front door, I would call out, "Hi, Jack."

"Never say that to a pilot," he retorted. 

Jack had a story, a war story. It should be written into a book, but I only have the short version. 

He was a navigator during the Second World War.

The navigator sits behind the pilot, and according to Jack, that is the safest place on the plane.

That proved true for Jack, for he was shot down three times and twice the sole survivor.

The third time, he was captured by a German soldier.

There was a racket around the downed plane, shells were going off, shots were fired, and the German soldier was leading Jack away from the turmoil. Jack felt he was going to be shot.

As they walked through the forest, Jack tripped, and as he did, he pulled the gun from his boot, slid it up his body, laid it on his shoulder, and fired. He didn't know if his bullet connected with the man behind him, but he ran and thus escaped.

He hid during the day and traveled at night. While lying under a bush, he watched an aerial dogfight—planes in combat. Charles Shultz's Snoopy imagines himself to be a fighter pilot yelling, "Curse you, Red Baron." 

Jack developed pneumonia during his sojourn and ended up at a French woman's farm. (I know this sounds like a movie. However, she was not a young, gorgeous French lady, but an older French woman with a heart of gold.) She was alone and living off her land, which didn’t provide much. About the only thing that grew well was potatoes. He said she wore a dress that was woven together out of cellophane. She hid Jack from the Germans and shared her meager fare with him. 

One day, the US Military front advanced to her door.

Jack came out of hiding, gave his credentials, and told the group of GIs how this woman had saved him. 

The following morning, a glorious event occurred. The GIs returned with their jeep laden with goods for the lady, food and clothing, and a trip for Jack back to his troop

Your Story Matters, Chapter 32 "What's a Channel?"

 

 

        

Chapter 32

What is a Channel?

 

It's a ravine, a ditch, or a device through which water flows, right?


Or a person who represents another and appears to speak for them.


One night, a group from The World Healing Center gathered at someone's house. There we were, sprawled about on the floor, heads on people's laps, some sitting lotus-style, all of us watching the recording of a channel called Ramtha.


When I saw J.Z. Knight channeling a warrior from 35,000 years ago, I thought it was the best show going. I had to investigate.


After my World Healing Center experience, I declared I wanted my next teacher to be a master, and for a while, I thought Ramtha was—at least, I was giving him a try.


I attended many retreats, and eventually, Ramtha formed his attendees into a school. I always had doubts about it. Was he/she for real? Or was she an exceptionally verbal person who could spout spiritual concepts and tell us she cared about our immortal soul?


Being told that if I quit the school, I would be standing alongside the road with dust on my eyelashes while watching the other students march ahead didn't bode well with me.


I quit the school.


Even though I declared myself my own master after the Sai Baba experience, it took me a long while to integrate that belief.


A significant part of the Ramtha experience was when a group of women started a weekly meeting where we shared our feelings and what it was like to have a spiritual life. We read and spoke of science, what new or unique was happening, and we liked each other.


As a result, two women and I decided to leave the school and give ourselves a graduation gift. After reading about an Indian woman called Mother Meera who lived in Germany, we decided to visit her. (Frequent flyer miles to the rescue.)


So, we three flew to Germany and, in the evenings for two days, we sat in darshan with the silent guru called Mother Meera. She was a beautiful young woman dressed in a brilliant orange sari who didn't speak while in the room.


How does one tell if the "master" is fully realized?


Beats me.


And really, there should be no separation between the master and the servant. For you never know who the master is. You could walk down the street and pass one without knowing it.


It was fascinating that she had a metal gate with a peacock embossed in it.But then peacocks are often displayed in Indian art.



There must have been 100 people in the room, on chairs or cushions. One by one, we went up to her, knelled at her feet while she touched our heads, and supposedly removed tangles from our brains.


Her presence and the room's ambiance were so silent it felt like swimming in warm Jello. No one wiggled, coughed, or cleared their throat. I left the house in a warm bubble and thought I would never talk again.


That was the experience. And I'm talking.


After visiting Mother Meera, I was appointed the designated driver as we three toured Germany. The Autobahn taught me to use the rear view mirror as much as watching the road ahead. Those Mercedes, BMW, and Porsche drivers will bump your rear end if you don't drive fast enough or are not over in the right hand and lane.


I had a problem while in the right hand lane, though. I would suddenly find that we were off the Autobahn and would have to circle around to get back on. I never figured that one out. I learned that "Ausfahrt" means exit, and a sign with a straight line means to stop or don't go in there. I drove through a street that was so narrow that we could pick the flowers displayed outside a shop from the car window—but didn’t.


One evening meal recommended by our B&B host was a restaurant above a horse arena. We had our dinner, exquisite white wine, and stunning fresh salad greens. (I don't know how they do it, but Germany had the best salad greens.) Our entertainment was watching a girl ride her horse in the arena below. The host must have seen me coming.


After walking the path built into the wall surrounding the medieval city of Rottenburg, we entered a restaurant where Sue suddenly said, "Hi Steve."


Steve Reeves was sitting at one of the tables, reworking one of his travel books. We were using one of his books to find Zimmer Frees—B&B homes that would rent for the night.


The owners of various homes would place a sign in their window, "Zimmer Free," which meant a room was available. So, you could simply drive into a town and look for the windows. Everything turned out great—down comforters and breakfasts served--usually similar to the others: a boiled egg in an egg cup, cold cuts of meat, bread or muffins, coffee, or tea.


One house, however, looked as though it was taken from the set of The Addams Family TV show. Upon knocking on the door, it opened to a c-r-e-a-k. We looked at each other, beat feet out of there, dove into the car, and broke into a laughing fit.


We skipped that house.


We drove into Salzburg, Austria, to visit the location for The Sound of Music, and saw the famous Gazebo where two romantic scenes from the movie were filmed. The first scene was of the romantic dance of young Liesi and Rolfe. The second was where Captain von Trapp gave Maria that long-awaited kiss.


When I looked up the Gazebo on the Internet, I found that filming those two scenes was wrought with trouble. In the dance scene, Liesi leaped upon a bench, slipped, and crashed through one of the glass windows. She wasn't severely injured except for a sprained ankle. She finished the dance on medication, a wrapped ankle, with added stockings to cover the bandage. If you look closely you will see that one leg is larger than the other.


When Captain Von Trapp was about to kiss Maria, the lighting in the Gazebo farted.


Thus began a laughing jag from which they never recovered.


Julie Andrews said that every time she and Christopher Plummer were about an inch from each other's faces, the lighting would give a raspberry, they would begin laughing, and fail to complete the scene.


The kiss was added later in silhouette.


It's a good thing they don't make pretzels in my hometown like the ones in Germany; I had one at every opportunity.


Those pretzels were about a foot in diameter. That shiny, coarse, salted dough had been twisted so that the top was thin, and the bottom was thick at the twist, bread-like. That way, you had crispy and soft. Just writing about them makes my mouth water.


Much to our surprise, we three agreed that the pizza in Germany was the best we had ever tasted. And eating leftover cold pizza for breakfast on a hillside in Germany is an experience I wish for everybody. (Maybe their dough is better there. That would help account for the excellent pretzels and pizza crust.


When my two friends and I were preparing to leave Germany, Maryanne, one of the friends, and I took the rental car to the Frankfort garage under the terminal while Sue guarded our luggage. A man in a white jacket said he was accepting car returns, so I dropped the key into his open palm. But as I began to walk away, I had a foreboding feeling. It didn't seem right. The man was sweating and seemed to be, as my mother would say, "Three sheets to the wind." Meaning a little inebriated.


He was trying to steal our car!


I turned around and said to him, "I left something in the car. Can I have the key to go get it?" The moment I had that key in my hot little fist, Maryanne and I began to run as though being chases by a wolf. We stopped at the car rental kiosk and breathlessly rattled out what had happened. She confirmed that, indeed, he was trying to steal the car.


Thank you, God. Thank you, thank you. I'm grateful to this day. What would have happened if he had stolen the car? Would I have to pay for it?








Warrior Women Unite. We can Keep Trump out of the White House.


Remember what a wise matriarchal mare does with a bully? She drives them out of the herd until they shape up. (Out of the herd is the worst punishment for a horse.) Once they have learned their lesson, they get a lot of love and wither scratching.


That's a momma.


Many of us are mommas, and those who aren't are imbibed with care.


Does money win elections?


I thought votes did.


Are you so undecided about what to do that you are swayed by an ad each day?


Throw money into the campaign and think that you will win it. More ads, more name-calling, more exposure, more bluster, more rhetoric. The media gets richer, the people get poorer, and the leopard doesn't change his spots.


Haven't you made up your mind already?


Don't we have a determination that doesn't rely on money?


Social media drives people. Influencers, they call them. It's free. We have voices, we have pens, we have lofty visions of a greater tomorrow. We have determination and belief on our side. Our visions are ahead, not back to lawless, gunslinger days where the little woman was kept barefoot, pregnant, uneducated, and subservient.


Women, we can win this election.


Women voters outnumber men by about one million. And we have many men behind us who also think letting a criminal slip through the cracks is criminal. Do ethics and morality matter anymore? Are blatant lies normal?


Someone asked the anthropologist Margaret Mead when civilization came into being. She said, "A femur bone."


The day anthropologists found a healed previously broken femur bone in a skeleton marked civilization's beginning.


It used to be that if someone broke a bone, they were lion fodder. If you found a healed femur bone in a skeleton, someone cared for that person and nursed them back to health.


Are we worth saving?


I hope so


The animals and the earth depend on us. Let's not screw it up.




“If you need time to chill out, refresh, and just sit quietly with what has transpired the past 24 hours, you aren't alone ...


“All I know right now is this: Vice President Harris has my full support.


“I will be looking for the rainbow after this angry storm we’ve been through, but right now I am going to just sit with all that has happened, and let things be.


“I’ll pivot in my own way, and on my own good time, thank you.


—(D Earl Stephens is the author of “Toxic Tales: A Caustic Collection of Donald J. Trump’s Very Important Letters” and finished up a 30-year career in journalism as the Managing Editor of Stars and Stripes. Follow @EarlofEnough and on his website.)

By Jo at 6:13 PM

Your Story Matters, Chapter 30, Judgments

 

 

Thank you all you readers. I appreciate you!

Here we go...

 Chapter 30

Judgments

 

Yesterday, I was listening to an audio tape in which a woman asked for help with what she felt was her problem: judging people.

In many of the metaphysical circles I've attended, one central question is, "How can I get rid of judgments?"

 You can't.

 And why do you want to? 

The person speaking on the tape was being bossed by her mother-in-law. I would expect her to be angry. But women aren't supposed to be angry.

 No, it makes others uncomfortable.

Anger is a step up from depression. The lady on the tape needed to take back her power. It was her house. Her mother-in-law was a guest. 

 And, from the sound of it, her mother-in-law was a pain in the butt. We understand. Although we are looking in from the outside and do not have the emotional attachment that the lady did. It's easy for us. Isn't that what therapists and coaches do?

Supposedly, they are unbiased observers who can see what others, under the influence of adrenaline, or ego, cannot see. It was dis-empowering for the mother-in-law to live with her son and daughter-in-law, yet it was her daughter-in-law's house.

I am growing into the philosophy that we aren't broken and do not need fixed.

 We need to grow.

 You are a discerning person. You will judge.

 How would you know if you wanted to befriend that person? How would you get the message that you should stay away from another? Did something tell you they were dangerous? How could you see that you are being manipulated and that being a doormat does not serve your magnificence?

 Being made small in one's own home is not an option.

 Do not wipe out your intuition under the guise that you are judging. Loving unconditionally is for yourself, to see yourself as whole and capable of judgments that serve you and others.

We notice what is right and what is wrong. We notice when justice is done, not injustice. We see when we are being stalked under the guise of love. There are many ways in which judgments are valuable.

 Remember the children's story The Emperor Has No Clothes?" It took a child's discernment to say, "You guys are nuts; that Emperor is butt naked."

 However, if you judge a person to be a certain way because they are different from you, black or white, male or female, child or adult, and you have categorized them before you know them, maybe you should think again. That is prejudice—to pre-judge without the facts.

 Isn't a judge someone who decides to impartially resolve a dispute?

 The impartial aspect—that's the rub.

 All too often, when people judge, they look for faults that will make them feel superior. 

 "To find the medium takes some share of wit, and therefore 'tis a mark fools never hit." —William Cowper.

 Once, I crawled the length of a football field, then back again, and my instructor was ready to ask for a return trip when someone intervened. I was supposed to have some sort of "Breakthrough," but to this day, I still don't know from what to what. 

They wanted me to believe something I couldn't accept. And they couldn't force me into it. Stubbornness built in by my mother in trying to spank me into compliance.

 I used to think self-growth had to be hard. And I admit that changing is. However, that unwritten law that we are broken and need to be fixed needs to go.

 Growth is our desire, our natural right, and our heritage. When something stops growing, it becomes stagnant and dies.

 Let's not do that.

 

 

Two Wrongs Don’t Make a Right

Women, stop this atrocity!

If the Republican party can't find a better candidate for the highest office in the land, one who respectively represents us to other countries, one who has the people's interest at heart instead of his own, they ought to be kicked to the curb and be overrun by the independents.

·         Oh, it can get worse. The Republican nominee can choose a running mate that has supported a nationwide abortion ban and even criticized exceptions for rape and incest. The candidate said, "Two wrongs don't make a right."

·         He has called Social Security and Medicare "the biggest roadblocks to real fiscal sanity."

·         He said women should stay in violent marriages.

·         He admits he wouldn't have certified the election results immediately on January 6 if he'd been vice president. He even said he's "skeptical" that Pence was in danger.

 (I guess a gallows doesn't represent anything. And then we're surprised that we have shooters in America?)

And why is the US—the land of the free, home of the brave, afraid to have a woman as President?

The suffragettes fought to give us the right to vote. Ladies, it's time to stop supporting the errant child.

A mamma horse has enough sense to kick an errant foal out of the herd until he shapes up. A mare is the Matriarch of the herd, the one who runs the day-to-day living. The Stallion is the sentinel and the protector.  A physically strong male passes on strong genes to his children.

·         People should stop giving the center of attention to the errant child.

·         (Remember women, The Trojan Women stopped the warring by refusing to sleep with their men until it stopped.)

·         Stop listening to the Pundits 24/7.

·         Stop giving the Republican Party money--oh it's the billionaires, Well, stop giving them your hard-earned money.

·         Stop allowing the candidate and his cohorts to stack the deck in their favor and take away our rights as women.

Remember Franklin D. Roosevelt? He set America back on its feet again after the Depression, and he had help walking to the podium, as he wore steel leg braces because of infantile paralysis. However, the government wanted to present a strong president, so no pictures of him in a wheelchair were shown.

John F Kennedy said, "The one who governs best is the best governor." What a concept.

We revere Cleopatra—once a Pharaoh of Egypt (for 21 years), touted as a seductress, she was actually noted for her brains, highly educated, had great command of oratory, and an ability to speak seven or eight languages—thus a good negotiator.

Golda Meir, Prime Minister of Israel, 69-74: "There is only one thing I hope to see before I die and that is that my people should not need expressions of sympathy anymore."

Eva Peron, the first lady of Argentina, champion of the working class and the poor, won the nomination for VP after she was diagnosed with cancer. (She stepped down.)

Eleanor Roosevelt is ranked ninth on a list of the 18 most admired people of the 20th century. She was the first lady of the US and served as the US Delegate to the United Nations Assembly from 1945 to 1952. She had a leading role in designing the text and gaining international support for the Universal Declaration of Human Rights.

Old story, I've told this a few times:" Dr. Gabor Mate, MD, who treated people with addictions, believes that most addictions are caused by childhood trauma, even ones we weren't consciously aware of at the time.

Mata's mother called the pediatrician when Mate’ was an infant. "Little Gabor is crying all the time."

"All the babies are crying," responded the doctor. Germany was about to invade Poland, and the mothers were anxious. The babies were responding.

What are we doing to our people?

Your Story Matters Chapter 25 Getting Published

 

I loved the publisher of my Hawaiian book, The Frog's Song. While she was doing a line-by-line edit, we got to know each other. That she published the book was an honor. I'm sorry it didn't make both of us rich.

One must note, though, not as an excuse, but as a fact that first books rarely hit a home run on the first try. I have noticed, however, that if I give the book to someone, they like it and give it to someone else. That pleases me, but it bypasses both the publisher and me. And the publisher is disappointed that it didn't sell well. Me, too.

 If it had a subtitle, perhaps One Year off the Grid on a Tropical Island, people wouldn't mistake The Frog's Song for a children's book.

When we moved to Temecula, California, we gradually regained the confidence we had lost in Hawaii. We felt something odd there, often felt lost, and longed for home. 

 Strangely, the ache in our hearts, (DD's and mine) lingered in California. DD and I would drive to a beach where pelicans flew up and down the coast in groupings of twelve or so. And when they glided overhead, I felt a definite lift of energy. They slowly flew down the beach and then gradually returned over our heads again. When I looked up, I could see fluttering fringe on their wing tips.

We performed clearing ceremonies at the water's edge to rid ourselves of the heaviness we were carrying. We were confused about what we had encountered there, how we felt "Called," and then felt we must leave. Undoubtedly, negative energy existed there. It depended on where you were. On the Kona side of the Island, it was light and fun. Not so in Hilo.

We wrote "Goodbye Hawaii" and whatever else we wanted rid of on rocks and threw them into the sea. 

In Temecula, Neil worked on a project with a fellow he had worked with earlier when we lived in California. And Neil was available to do Clinicals on their current optical instrument.

We were there for two years until the project was shelved. Neil contacted a Microscope company in Eugene he knew of and got a job there. Thus, we arrived back where we started. It was good. We were close to our first-born daughter, her husband, and my eldest grandson. 

 But Hawaii was where Coqui frogs sang us to sleep at night. And then, when we rented a house in Junction City, Oregon, we heard the not-so-melodious singing of bullfrogs at night.

 "Frog sings the songs that bring the rain and make the road dirt more bearable."

  --Medicine Cards, by Jamie Sams & David Carson, Illustrations by Angela Werneke.

 One Literary Agent told me he hated the Coqui frogs of Hawaii. Hated? That's a strong word for a frog no larger than a thumbnail. The Coquis don't croak. They sing their own name and don't harm anything—except in large numbers, they can keep some people awake at night. They eat bugs and insects, and their singing is to call a mate. They were accidentally imported from Cuba on plants—some residents don't like imports. 

Temecula was an excellent location to drive to the beach, LA, Disneyland, and Las Vegas. In Las Vegas, DD and I discovered Mandalay Bay's Lazy River. What fun, a quarter mile-long swimming pool that ran in a loop with a current that would push you along. It was perfect for a two-year-old to ride on mom's or grandma's back and dip under waterfalls.  

 The Temecula location allowed us to visit my friend Sylvia from our college days, and her husband, Greg. Sylvia and I connected in a Spanish class at UCR, remained friends, and kept in touch no matter where we were. Sylvia loved to travel and often visited us in Oregon. Our stay in California allowed us to visit and restaurant hop. Who wanted to cook at that stage? Sylvia once rented a bungalow at the Winery, where they had excellent food and view of a glorious countryside.

 I treasured a long metaphysical talk with Greg, Sylvia's husband, while Sylvia pretended to be my grandson's second Grandma.

 DD found our Temecula house when she and her son traveled from Hawaii on a house-hunting mission.

 Earlier on, we had looked around the LA, Burbank, and Pasadena areas where DD had considered getting a job. She chose Temecula, a central place and a lovely house, and we rented it from a nice man who would allow our two dogs and two cats. A 150-pound dog is a problem for landlords who don't know and wouldn't believe that Bear was the gentlest dog who never damaged anything. He was much safer than a little twenty-five-pound dog.

 Newfoundland dogs, so I’ve heard, are natural babysitters. Wendy's dog in Peter Pan was Newfoundland. In Hawaii, Bear placed himself between the baby, walking by then, and the neighbor's Doberman, barking that Doberman bark that can curdle your blood. The Doberman must have thought we were invading his territory, for we were right over his fence line. However, he was invading ours. The neighbors rescued us and kept their Doberman home after that. 

I wondered why many Hawaiians feared dogs until I found that many had macho or hunting dogs. When I took my little poodle, Peaches, with me, people went gaa gaa over her.

The Temecula house was on three acres containing a grapefruit orchard the owner didn't tend. Later, he started a turkey and chicken farm on site, but out of sight from the house. When the birds came, I offered to feed his flock, as I was experienced with chickens, and he agreed to give me the job plus a reduction in the rent.  

 The turkeys became accustomed to my voice and would gobble when I called out to them. Coyotes killed many turkeys until the owner shored up the fence sufficiently. However, some mornings, I would still find a headless turkey who got too inquisitive about who was marauding their fence line. 

One day, from the front yard, I watched a machine prune the orchard across the street. They used a humongous device with a giant blade that cut the sides of the trees while traveling down a row. Coming back down the row, it cut the other side. Finally, the blade rotated to a horizontal position and cut the tree’s tops. The result? Square trees.

The property was at the top of a long sweeping hill from town, and on the slope, vineyards stretched out in rows green with summer foliage. Wineries along the highway offered fabulous brunches, and from our house in the fresh morning hours, we would watch colorful hot air balloons drift lazily on the air currents. 

As twilight fell on our Temecula home one evening, Little Boy Darling, somewhere between the ages of two and three, looked up through the Eucalyptus tree branches and said, "It's making a net for the moon." A poet in the making.

 As was my habit, I often went out in the truck to write. One Temecula morning, with Peaches by my side, we happened upon a hot air balloon lying on the ground slowly deflating while being held down by two men holding long ropes.

 I could see through the opening at the bottom of the balloon to its top, where it had another hole and a closable flap. The air was streaming through the balloon and out that hole, slowly deflating it. Presently, from over the ridge came a man riding a horse with a dog loping along beside them. The dog trotted up to the men holding the balloon, then padded on doggy feet from one man to the other, gathering loving scratches.

 The men chatted a bit, and then the man on his horse with the dog trailing him disappeared back over the ridge.

 The men continued their job, and when the balloon was flat on the ground, they rolled it into a ball, stuffed it into the wicker gondola that was once filled with adventuring people, and loaded it into their pickup. 

 I thought of Greg, Sylvia's husband, who died last week.