Ode to the Bay

Sittin' in the mornin' sun

I'll be sittin' when the evenin' comes

Watchin' the ships roll in

Then I watch 'em roll away again

I'm sittin' on the dock of the bay

Watchin' the tide roll away

I'm sittin' on the dock of the bay

Wastin' time

Otis Redding wrote this favorite song of mine by San Francisco Bay, the Bay of my growing years and beyond, the Bay to which I migrate in early fall, the Bay of my memories.

    First, were the sounds. I'd lie in bed at night hearing the haunting calls of the fog horns warning ships passing through the Golden Gate.

    When I was five, we moved north of the Bridge, where we undertook many bay outings: China Camp where we'd buy tiny pink bay shrimp from Chinese fishermen. Their old wooden wharves and shacks continue there, preserved as an historic site; Tomales Bay where we'd head in rubber boots with buckets and shovels to dig for clams. I remember my surprise seeing my grandmother eating them raw from the shell. My childhood curiosity was piqued by the purple sea anemones clinging to rocks in the shallow water. If I touched them with a stick, they'd squirt water. Also on Tomales Bay was Shell Beach, where we'd head on hot summer days, carrying folded chairs, beach towels, and a picnic down the steep woodsy trail. I had mixed feelings about Shell Beach. The road to get there was windy and I was prone to carsickness. Once there, I'd have to deal with avoiding the jellyfish lurking in those waters.

    My last excursion to Tomales Bay was just a few years ago where I embarked on my first kayaking trip with friends.

    I'll skip the details as I wrote about that outing in my book "Notes from the Bottom of the World." As we neared the shore, I could see Nick's Cove in the distance and the thought of its renowned hot clam chowder urged me on for the final challenging leg of the expedition.

    When you live by a bay, you acquire tastes for shellfish, not only clams, but shrimp and crab. Those early culinary experiences foreshadowed a life in Chile, whose coastal waters provide an abundance of seafood, my all-time favorite being machas (razor clams) a la parmesana.

    I'll bring my bay ode to a close with another song:

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=jAjhLexlrDc

Rain and a Fire

RAIN! GLORIOUS, SPLENDOROUS, MARVELOUS RAIN! What a blessing for this parched city. My garden gives thanks; my redwood tells me it’s a happy camper. According to the weatherman, this is most bountiful rain in two years. From a second floor window, I see that the mountains have a fresh cloak of snow. Now, in the afternoon, the sun gleams, drops of water on leaves glisten and the sky is the bluest of blues. So much to be grateful for.

redwood in the rain

     I ran out in the rain to pick up the newspaper this morning and placed it in the oven to disinfect it. Then, with mug of coffee in hand, I joined hubby on the second floor to view on his computer the funeral in England of Betty, his father’s Scottish/Chilean cousin, who passed away at 89-years of age of coronavirus. On her visits here, she entertained us with her wicked humor and feisty character. While watching the service, I noticed the smell of burning paper and rushed downstairs to the kitchen, filled with a thin veil of smoke. I’d forgotten to turn down the temp on the oven since I’d baked chicken yesterday. I pulled out a part of the paper in flames and doused it under the faucet. It was the business section. Oh, well. Hubby warned that I could have burned down the house. I doubt it. I have a very efficient sniffer. The whole house smells of burnt paper.

     The day called for hot butternut squash soup. While it was simmering, I whipped up a batch of granola. Things I do during quarantine, which shows no sign of easing up. And I write (here) and read. Time to download another book. Am thinking of something by John Grisham as I’ve never read any of his books. My sisters-in-law knit during their free quarantine hours: sweaters for newborns and squares to make afghans. One sister-in-law just made a poncho for our year-old granddaughter, Mila. I’ve forgotten how to knit and crochet. I sold my sewing machine years ago and hubby knows he must sew on any of his loose buttons. I’m all thumbs with a needle.

     I think of things that give me pleasure during these lockdown days: the sound of rain, the blue sky, our backyard birds, a clean kitchen floor, unexpected emails, a phone call, a Facetime visit with grandchildren, a good book, chocolate. Surprisingly, the days and weeks fly by.