In the Good Old Summertime....

Punta de Lobos, Chile. Though the beach is windy, it’s ideal for walking along the shore where incoming waves wash up little crabs, who then tumble back to the deep again. Our son leads our group of six on a trail he discovered along the cliff tops away from the beach crowds. The only sign of human activity are the ropes of seaweed laid out to dry by the local collectors. The landscape is barren, dry and windswept, a stark contrast to the Point Lobos State Park we visited in California just two months ago that teemed with a rich variety of plants adapted to ocean clifftops. Why the difference I wonder? It’s the same ocean, similar latitude. Climate? State protection? Geography? Precipitation? Below us, stretches a long, unpopulated beach. Someone comments that soon the land facing the beach will fill up with summer houses.

Days later we head north for an apartment we’ve rented in Marbella, an exclusive community of white houses and condominiums stretching along ocean hilltops. Most of our group is anxious to hit the beach, lather on sun screen and stretch out on their towels. I can’t expose my fair skin to long bouts of sun so keep clothes over my swim suit and seek cover under an umbrella, while the others work on their tans. I feel like a white whale surrounded by lean, bronzed figures.

Walking along the wet shore is one of my beach pleasures, breathing in that energizing air sweeping off the ocean. One morning I wander the streets of this community of beach homes, admiring their gleaming facades and neat gardens. But, then, a disturbing thought interrupts my admiration. All these houses and apartments are second homes and possess all the comforts and space of city homes.  I suddenly think of those who have no home: recent victims of a tsunami in Malaysia, war refugees living for years in temporary camps, all around the globe. The inequality and injustice rattle my vacation tranquility.

Back at the apartment, I voice my thoughts.

“Don’t spoil our vacation,” says my husband.

“That’s not my intention. Just sharing my ruminations.”

            A member of our group relates how she devotes her time to the needy and that her husband is very generous with his money.

“That’s fine” I say. “I do the same … but it’s- just- not- enough.” No one has an answer for that. I’m thinking of the need for drastic changes in life styles and strong government measures.

We drive north to visit one of my favorite and long-missed beaches and walk a trail carved into the rocky shore. From there we spot sea otters. I point out wild flowers growing in that sandy soil. This is more like California’s Point Lobos.

We are not alone on the trail. January is the height of the summer season and our favorite spots have been discovered by others. We’re shocked to see the tiny beach in a hidden cove cupping turquoise waters teeming with people from the nearby town. The time has arrived to share.

On our way home I notice rows of new condominiums built on once grassy hillsides overlooking the ocean. Again I’m dismayed, this carving up the land to accommodate the very few. I know these gloomy thoughts have something to do with the book I’m reading, “The Overstory”, which reveals the age-old wisdom of trees and sounds the alarm about the massive destruction of forests worldwide. A call to arms. Not the typical summer vacation reading.

I’m left ruminating.

Thoughts on Christmas Eve

I just checked the thermometer in our backyard. It reads 90 degrees (in the shade). I hope Santa has a summer outfit. Just put the turkey in the oven, though I’m tempted to try sun-baking it. The CNN weather report informs me that a thunder storm is due in the San Francisco area, and our future daughter-in-law and our son report that it’s sleeting in New Jersey.

    What I miss about Christmas here in Chile is the smell of live fir or pine trees, a nip in the air and a fire in the fireplace. Fires were banned years ago in Santiago due to the smog. Besides, who wants a fire in this heat?

    What is Christmas without the smell of cookies in the oven? My two youngest grandkids came last week to help decorate the tree (artificial) and we baked cookies. The thirteen-year-old twins preferred going to the mall. Yesterday I made more cookies as well as the family recipe for Scottish shortbread. Christmas music on ITunes created a festive atmosphere in the kitchen.

I was up early this morning to get to a French bakery to buy their unbelievable croissants. Then to the supermarket which I expected to be empty at that time. Everyone one else had the same idea.

    We’ll celebrate at a nephew’s house tonight with his three young kids, plus sisters- and brother-in-law, and a couple of nieces and their children. It will be bedlam as the children rip open their gifts. Years ago I tried to instill some calm into this process, suggesting that “Santa” pass out only one gift at a time. It starts out well but the pace and noise and excitement build into a crescendo. Tomorrow our eldest son and wife and our four grandchildren will come for “brunch”. No doubt, our four-year-old grandson will bring his best new toy. I suspect that parked under many a Christmas tree (though not ours) will be an electric scooter – the latest rage here, propelling indignant pedestrians into a rage.

    At the end of another year, I’m filled with mixed feelings and nostalgia. I ponder upon the loved ones who are no longer here. I feel proud of my accomplishments and satisfactions. Normally, I like watching the year’s summary on television, though this year has been a tough one world-wide. I shake my head in despair at U.S. politics and sincerely pray that the American people will come to their senses. To banish this black cloud of pessimism I work to list the good things in life: family, dear friends, old and new, the beauty of the Nutcracker Suite, birdsong, the fragrance of a redwood forest, the panorama of the Andes from my window ….

A list without end.

Giving Thanks

Last Thursday my husband and I spent a lovely Thanksgiving evening with friends, my first Thanksgiving in 46 years, as it is not a holiday in Chile. But we planned our trip to California to include Thanksgiving, and it was special. The hostess prepared the traditional meal: turkey, stuffing (my favorite), homemade cranberry sauce, mashed potatoes, green beans and pumpkin pie. We went around the table giving thanks. The hostess gave thanks for her successful kidney transplant (as did her husband), my husband thanked our host and hostess and I gave thanks for all the friends who had welcomed us into their homes over the past weeks.

    I truly feel blessed with my California friends: the high school classmates who attended my book launch, former university classmates, relatively new friends who welcomed us once more into their home in my hometown, and my oldest, dearest lifelong friend.

    Blessings abounded: strolls along beaches of Monterey Bay, visited by arcing dolphins and cruising whales; views of downtown San Francisco’s sparkling Christmas decorations in the rainy dusk, my unexpected first Black Friday shopping excursion, a nostalgic stroll across the UC Berkeley campus, meeting the Ethiopian woman who bought my book for her 15 year-old son who “loves to read”, savoring the clam chowder at Nick’s Cove.

Downtown San Francisco

    Life brings both blessings and tragedies. For the second consecutive year my hometown was enveloped with heavy smoke from wildfires to the north while I was there. Lives were lost; homes destroyed. When will we learn that nature is way older and wiser than humanity and live accordingly?

Thanksgiving lessons learned.

Countdown

I’m excited and nervous! In 10 days my second book, “Notes from the Bottom of the World: A Life in Chile,” will be launched out into the world. The book is a collection of personal essays, exploring topics that inspired me – from Patagonian travels, to aging, to the writing craft.  I’ll be traveling to the San Francisco Bay Area with my husband to present my book at several venues: Book Passage, the Belmont and Oakland libraries.

    Sometimes in the middle of the night I ask myself: why do I want to do this – stand in front of a group or a crowd or a handful of people and bare my essays, my soul to them? What was I thinking? I calm myself by reminding myself that my deepest hope is that some can relate to what I say or have written. The hours of writing, editing, rewriting will be worth it if my words ring true for just one person.

    If I were to go back 15 years, I never imagined I’d be doing this. Yes, after I retired, I joined an English-speaking writing group and began work on my first memoir, published ten years later. Now I wonder what I’d be doing with my retirement days if I didn’t have writing. Of course, there’s reading, gardening, exercising and traveling, but writing is my creative outlet and greatest satisfaction.

Supermarket Serendipity

Wednesday morning in the bakery section of the supermarket. After a few brief seconds, I realized I’d grabbed someone else’s shopping cart. I turned back and saw an elderly gentleman (my age, maybe?) asking a shopper if she’d taken his cart. I went up to him and explained I was the culprit and returned his cart.

He looked very relieved and explained he was worried about a package that was in a shopping bag. He held up a small gift-wrapped package.

“What is it? I asked.

“It’s a book written by my father. I want to give it to a foreign visitor.”

My writer’s antennae immediately went into high alert. “Did you buy it here?” I asked.

“No, I had it at home. Just had it wrapped here.”

“What’s the name of the book?”

“Aldea Blanca. White Town. My father was born in a small town and later immigrated to Chile Chico in the Chilean Patagonia by Lake General Carrera.”

“Oh, I know where that is,” I said.

“My father wrote about the two towns, where he was born and grew up in Syria and the town in Chile where he made a new life. He was very grateful to Chile for the opportunities here. He raised his four children in Chile Chico and made certain we had a good education.”

“I’m also a foreigner,” I said, “and have written two books about my life in Chile.”

“Where are you from?” he asked.

“The United States.”

We both moved on to our shopping. But then I stopped and turned back to him, pulling out my cell phone.

“What was your father’s name? Where can I find the book?” I noted down the name in my cell phone.

He said I might find the book in a university bookstore, that it wasn’t a big seller. I thanked him and headed towards the yoghurt aisle.

Later I saw him in the vegetable section, buying one avocado.

Back home, curiosity drove me to Google. I looked up his father's story. He arrived in Chile in 1914 and moved to remote Chile Chico in Patagonia in 1933. There he became an active member of the community, helping to create an airplane landing field with shovel and pick, creating a public library in the living room of his home and opening the town's first pharmacy. One of his sons became a pharmacist, but I don't know if he was the gentleman in the supermarket.

What a wonderful encounter with history.

Puppy Love

Roly-poly, snuggle buns. Irresistible. Yet, it hasn’t been easy finding homes for the eight rescue puppies and their mom. My son and his girlfriend, Laura, took them in 10 weeks ago and have cared for them, fed them, cleaned up their poop, had them vaccinated and dewormed, and rescued several who fell into the pool.

                Laura and I took three of the puppies to the international school where I used to teach, invited by the Save the Strays Club in the high school. It was Spirit Week and we headed to the soccer field where the students were competing in games. As soon as some kids spotted the puppies, they rushed over to us. “Oh! Puppies!” They all wanted to pet, cuddle and snap photos of the puppies. “They’re looking for homes,” we told them. Their responses were all variations of:  “Oh, I wish I could, but we already have two dogs.” Or “My mom won’t let me.”

We walked to the other end of the field where there were some parents and teachers. More kids gathered around us and the puppies. A mom and a teacher showed interest, but nothing definite. After two hours in the hot sun and being passed around, the puppies looked as though they had enough. To reach our car, we had to walk the length of the school campus. We felt like two Pied Pipers, kids following us and the puppies, wanting to cuddle them.

Needless to say, the puppies fell into a deep sleep on the trip home, where their mommy dog was overjoyed to see them. We wondered: do dogs miss their puppies when they’re taken away?

This has been a country beleaguered by stray dogs. The congress just passed a badly-needed responsible pet owner law requiring owners to have a microchip implanted and leash their dogs while outside. The law also promotes educational programs promoting responsible pet ownership, but a change in mentality is a long way off.

In the park I often see posters with photos of lost neighborhood dogs with pleas to call the distraught owner’s phone number. Over a dozen websites exist here in the city to attempt to meet the needs of lost dogs and strays.

Caring for the puppies and their mom has been a time-consuming job for my son and Laura, but the satisfactions are have been great. The puppies follow them everywhere, wanting to be cuddled and offer love and loyalty in return.

But it’s time for each of them to go to a loving home.

Addicted

My winter days here are in a lull as I wait for the exciting upcoming event on November 6th – the publication of my second book, Notes from the Bottom of the World: A Life in Chile. With time on my hands, I’ve begun research for an idea for a third book, a historical novel based loosely on the life of my great-aunt Anne. I’ve never attempted writing a novel before and have no idea if I’ll succeed, but the research has me addicted. Like a detective, I follow the clues on the family tree my mother created: names, birth dates and some places in Scotland.

            Genealogy websites abound. Through Scotlands’People, I’ve found birth and death dates, cause of death and towns of origin. By piecing together the puzzle parts, I discovered the answer to why my grandmother and her two sisters emmigrated to the United States while in their twenties. Their mother died of pneumonia at the age of 37 when her youngest child, my great-Aunt Ida, was two years-old, and their father died 12 years later at the age of 54. Another sister, Helen, died as a child. I've been unable to find the cause of her death.

Locating information is a challenge, involving trying different spellings and dates. Even with the information I know to be exact, some searches are unsuccessful, like the date my great aunts arrived in the U.S. and the ship on which they travelled. I’ve tried passenger lists from arrivals in both New York and San Francisco between 1900 and 1910, the approximate date my mother wrote down, with no luck. I feel elated when a search reveals new information and terribly frustrated when the message “No results were found” appears on my computer screen.

I have my great-aunt’s photo albums, but sadly, few of the photos are labeled and they seem to be glued with cement. One photo I love shows the three sisters and their brother, Jack, who remains a family mystery. Hearsay has it that he emmigrated to Australia, but his sisters lost contact with him.

 I learned that the name of their house in Kilsyth, Scotland was Hood-End (I’m guessing that houses had names rather than numbers), that their housekeeper was Agnes, and that my great grandfather was a mineral borer. Viewing census records and death certificates takes me there; family members come alive. Imagining their lives occupies a good part of my thoughts these days.

Maybe I’m on the road to that novel.