Category Archives: Uncategorized

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Straw Flower Family

The straw flowers were standing lovely in three small tin pots. They reminded me of a multigenerational family clustered together and at different stages of their life. Small blossoms with closed velvet buds slept and awaited their moment to arise and take the stage. Once their bright yellow petals were sprung, they would be stiff and as dry as parchment paper. Perfect for fairies to write love notes upon. The enfant buds had a neighbor that had already fully opened. This blossom, like a dandy, displaying his new clothes and revealed his luxurious velvet orange button at his center. Across the way and glorious; a neighboring blossom lay it’s face fully open to the public. The center button was fully opened and it’s symmetrical seeds lay like a thousand tiny soldiers standing in formation creating the circle of life. Next to this beautiful blossom and nestled between the various buds was the grand parent to them all. It was an old blossom that was fully opened. The straw petals fallen aside and soft feathering seeds cascaded out and over it’s sides. These small aeronauts were ready and waiting to be transported by the wind to a new land.

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My mom planted straw flowers in her garden when I was a child. I didn’t remember them until I picked some up at a local specialty store to decorate the house for a party. I loved how bright and cheery they were. They exuded the ambience of summer, beaches and warm days. As I examined them, the thought of Dragon Snaps and violets floated into my consciousness and a picture of my mom and I planting flowers. That was the sixties. Everything was full of sunshine and promise and my mom drove a van with huge psychedelic flowers on it. Flowers, peace and love were a part of everyday life. This was obviously a flower that was meant to bring joy.

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It’s official name is Xerochrysum Bracteatum. We know it as the golden everlasting or strawflower. It’s a flowering plant in the family Asteraceae and it’s native to Australia. It was first described by Étienne Pierre Ventenat in 1803. Étienne Pierre Ventenat was a French botanist born in Limoges, France. He was the brother of the famed naturalist Louis Ventenat. He devoted his life to the study and the documentation of the plants he found in the greenhouses and the gardens of Europe. In 1850, the straw flower was developed in Germany and new colors were propagated. So now we have not only yellow; but bronze, purple and red. It was initially known as Helichrysum bracteatum back then and this continued for several years. In 1990 it was moved to the genus Xerochrysum and now it’s part of the daisy family. The strawflower is found around the world and grows in many different habitats. Butterflies, bees, grasshoppers, beetles and moths rely on this hardy blossom for sustenance. Crafters use them for potpourri and making wreaths.

Strawflowers are easy to grow. They are heat tolerant and survive well in poor soil. If you decide to grow them, the most important thing to remember is-water them lightly. I’ve got mine outside now and they seem to be thriving in full sun and with just a watering or two a week. On cloudy days, they are a reminder of sunshine and and hold the promise of summer and warmth in the days ahead.

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Falling Into Fall Love

Photo by Roman Kraft on Unsplash

Fall is a time to love. It’s coming quick. We are in the last summer days of August. We had some heat and we had some unusually cool days too. What we did not have was rain. But here comes fall anyway. Falling leaves, new colors in the naturescape, brisk air and excitement of the holidays on the way. The stores become bright and fun with an array of merchandise that’s beautiful and jolly.

Fall is a time to get warm and love finding ways to do it. Building a fire, finding the perfect cozy blanket and drinking warm, comforting drinks. Fall is for cooking-serious cooking. Baking and stewing and creating delicious new foods that are hearty and full of spices. Foods that are sweet and warming that bring joy to the belly and the brain. Foods that when you take a bite, you become alive with warmth and joyous memories. It’s almost ridiculous what food like this can do to you.

It’s a time to be with friends and love ones if you have them and love life with the very core of your being. The season is about celebration and everyday is perfect for a new reason to do something fun or meaningful with anyone you can get to come along. It’s a time of year that’s inspiring and awesome.




Every year of my life has been punctuated by the brilliance of fall and all the wonderful events that take place this time of year. Even as a small child, memories were created that were embellished with sparkles and glowing lights that emphasized the joy and warmth of the season. It started with the excitement of going back to school. The anticipation of meeting a new teacher and seeing if everyone was still in your class. Halloween rose over September like a big hot air balloon filled with spooky treats and stories and the fun of creating a new costume, different than last year and of course, always better. The anticipation of hiking city sidewalks in the dark with crowds of parents and kids dressed up and asking for candy. Going from door to door and your neighbor excited to see you and wanting to know who you were.

Halloween evening passes at a brisk pace. First the preparation and then the rush home from work before it gets dark to get the kids ready. Then we are out the door and into the first really cold night of the season. We walk, we smile and call greetings to new and old friends. Up and down pathways we go and then our legs are tired and it’s time to head home. After counting the candy, we pass out and fall into a deep sleep.

The next morning we wake up to a new holiday rising. The promise of good food and family love and friendship. Thoughts of huge, juicy turkeys with steamy apple and nut dressing oozing into the baking pan. Golden apple pies shimmering with a dusting of sugar and cinnamon. The promise of Christmas, further away, but a shining light that will guide us into winter.

The leaves are golden and glorious and falling; leaving branches bare in preparation for winter. Animals scurry to collect the last portion of their reserves for the coldest days of the year. They prepare their nests for nestling and staying warm during a long winter’s sleep.

Fall is here. For one more time, one more year, we prepare, we enjoy and fall in love with life all over again.




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Yoga Sweet Yoga

Photo by Sanju M Gurung on Unsplash

I went to Yoga today and had my first hot yoga class. It wasn’t officially hot yoga, but there were 50 people packed into one small studio, our mats just inches apart and everyone breathing deeply. The air filled with CO2 and heat. The sweat began to pop through my skin and run in rivulets down my head chest and back. I was sweating! It had been awhile. Even though I was working out and sometimes quite hard, I just didn’t sweat anymore like I used to. It felt good and cleansing. I dearly wanted more room around my mat, but I acquiesced to the group activity and eased into the positions as the instructor called out poses and counted; urging us on with a mix of eastern philosophy and showtunes.

As I held poses, my legs and hips ached from a week working and sitting and driving. Five days of intense activity and this probably should have been a day of rest, but I was hungering for endorphins and to loosen my joints. After about 20 minutes, my muscles relaxed and gave in and my movements began to flow. My breathing kicked in and I was able to breath away the pain and focus on strengthening of key muscles. It was the magic of Yoga. Part Eastern philosophy, part new age exercise craze. A discipline that had been around centuries, but had just recently really become the hot new exercise of choice for newbie Americans. We Americans we love our hardcore sports. Football, marathons, baseball and a whole host of athletics disciplines that were our favorite sports and required intense concentration and effort. In contrast, Yoga was more about the flow of energy and through continuous practice, the body adapted and strengthened. It’s not something that can forced and if you try to force it you don’t really become a true Yogi.




Yoga originated in ancient India and there is quite an array of disciplines. Some of these disciplines are spiritual and some more based in developing muscles and postures for maximum performance. The wonderful thing about Yoga, is that it’s centering, relaxing and rejuvenating. If you want, you can chant or if you don’t want-then don’t. It doesn’t matter. It’s just about poses and really that’s enough. The simplicity and the complexity of Yoga are beautiful things. Like some many of the wonderful things in life. The best part is the effect on your spine. The spine being the core of human movement and stability. The positions of Yoga stretch the supporting muscles and ligaments and open up compressed spaces that need some fresh blood and oxygen. The fresh fluids and O2 cleanse and wash away exhausted cells and used up nutrients. They flow into this neglected and deep center of the human body refreshing these hard to reach spaces. Like the ocean sending in new waves one after the other, circulating over the earth’s surface and refreshing the land.

Of course there are people that have known about Yoga for a long time. I grew up in a community of hippies and communes. At the public school, my fifth grade teacher would darken the room, push the desks to the wall and lead us through simple yoga poses. This was over forty years ago. It’s wonderful to see the practice reaching all communities and people of the world now. Maybe that’s another wonderful thing about the internet. We can learn about things that might have frightened us in the safe environment of our home, where no ones looking and find out some of this stuff really is ok. It’s not magic, it’s just tried and true practice of exercises over the centuries that work for the human body and make us feel better.It’s a practice that helps humans overcome grief, anxiety and confusion in a very direct and simple way.

Here are some poses that do exactly that. Downward Dog. You look like a dog stretching with your head down. This is great for relieving back pain.  This is great for relieving back pain. The stretch of the position aligns your vertebrae, opens up disc spaces and stretches the supporting muscles and ligaments to give them somewhat of a break from the monotony of the hard work of holding up your spine all day long. Blood rushes to the brain and into your central nervous center invigorating your mentation and coordination.




Another pose, and a big favorite is Savasana. This is literally the pose for everyone and if you can’t do any other pose, you will probably be able to do this one. You lay on your back and completely give in and relax. That’s all. Just lay down and do nothing, except of course breathe. This connects you to your life giving breath, which will ultimately give you peace with your body and life. The goal is to think of nothing during Savasana, but your breathing. I’ve had several Yoga instructors teach that this is the most important pose of Yoga and it should always be for full five minutes at the end of class, no matter what. Here you touch base with what you’ve accomplished for the preceding hour and it’s time to relax and absorb the benefits.

These are just a few poses and benefits of Yoga and some of the reasons why I love it. It’s just like life. When you are in a Yoga class, you never really know what’s coming next, but you learn to relax and breathe through it. It’s a great lesson to learn for enjoying life too. Because you never know what excitement is around the bend; so remember, just breathe and you to will move right through it too.

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He Deserves One Too

Photo by Mihai Stefan on Unsplash

I was standing in a really long line at a famous lingerie store and I noticed I was holding my breath. I was realized I was feeling really uptight. My muscles felt taught and my face rigid. My breathing was shallow. Catchy music play over the shoppers with a sexy woman’s voice singing about how she was going to be in love and her chosen love object would be too. The line behind and front of me was comprised of women. All the women were different and none really looking like the huge artsy images of flawless women scantily clad in a all styles and forms of lingerie that one could possibly imagine. Their bodies were thin, except they miraculously had been strategically enhanced with  bountiful and voluptuous curves.  Their stomachs were muscular and taught. Their facial features perfectly symmetrical and skin like a dewy peach. It was amazing, because I don’t think it really mattered. We all wanted the lingerie anyway. We were all kind of immersed in a world of beauty, music and heavenly sweet perfumes. I decided I better relax and enjoy it and started deep breathing. Focusing on my breath, diligently counting, I relaxed. The bright colors lifted my mood and were joyful. Everyone was having a great time in this store. It was exciting and fun to look at the gleaming displays and the clever combinations of fabric and lace. Women laughed and giggled together as they pulled out daring see through concoctions. Other women held their husband’s hands and pulled them through the aisles, their husbands with dazed and happy faces absorbing the overflowing femininity.

The sales staff were young and wore outfits from the stores line. The shop girls were energetic and willing to help you find your size or lack of and talk about the state of fashion and why was everything made so small nowadays. Not that they had to worry, but they were kind and commiserated.




I let myself become immersed in the experience and welcomed the entertainment. It was a great break from the serious job of nursing. Here I didn’t have to worry about accurate doses and finding just the right specialist. This was all play and fun. I watched moms as they followed their daughters, commenting and encouraging. As I pulled open a wide black lacquered drawer, the drawer slid out effortlessly and an array of gorgeous satin and silks in every hue of the rainbow peeked out. A daughter and mom stood next to me oohing and awing and this time the daughter was encouraging. Her mom chose a pair of glittering silver satin briefs. “Mom, yes, you have to get those, good choice mom!” Her mom, laughed and popped the briefs into her store bag. “I’m glad you’re getting with it again, Mom!” I guessed mom had been through something. A failed relationship? Sickness? Death of loved one? Who knew? That was middle age, my age. You never knew what was next. One day you could be sailing along and then a hurricane hit and ripped your sails to shreds. Hopefully, you could get up again, so far I did. And I hoped everybody did. My neighbors, my friends, all the people in the world. I didn’t want anyone to be overcome and not feel like they couldn’t get up and try again.

Something as simple as a bright happy store was helpful and encouraging. It bust through the cave of a bad experience and created light where the light had been snuffed out by a life trauma or bad news. Life went on and people had fun. You could choose to relax and enjoy the show or lock it out and continue down a dark path. Of course, it’s not as easy as just walking into a fun underwear store. There are so many kinds of depression and ways to overcome it that this story could actually be a book; and yes, there are so many books about the subject already. But I regress, because this story is about a store and people and how it means absolutely nothing, but can mean very much depending on the individuals experiencing it. It gives Kudos to the corporate world and Madison Avenue advertising executives who develop and contrive these businesses that entertain people. Of course, it’s business, it’s to make money, but isn’t it a wonderful way to do it? To bring joy, excitement and hope to so many people and doing it all with just silky, pretty underwear.




Photo by Demetrius Washington on Unsplash

Many women will gag at this concept, because they believe that products like this objectify woman and promote a certain treatment of women as sex objects. I can’t really say that they are wrong, but I just don’t like to waste my energy getting mad and prefer to see why it works rather than why it shouldn’t work. And maybe some corporation, someday will create a store like this for men. That would be a really fun store. I can picture it now, hard rock blasting over the speaker with huge posters of gorgeous athletes modelling all kinds of form fitting designs. I think everyone would love it and then men could stop having to buy their personals at large boring chain stores with house cleaners and construction materials. Why shouldn’t they have a special store too? Why shouldn’t they have fun too?

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The Creeper

Oh my creeping fig. It was so beautiful. It grew luxuriously and spread across the shingles of my old house like a cool green blanket. It absorbed the powerful rays of the sun that shown down on the hot summer days. Days that were 112 degrees at 10 am. Those rays that heated the redwood skeleton, a hundred years old. Radiating through lathe and plaster and pulsing until sundown when finally the pressure fizzled out with the approaching cool darkness of the night.

“You better get rid of it”, my neighbor counseled me. “My house was covered with it and it destroyed the shingles. We had to have all the shingles replaced and it was so expensive!” I looked across the street at the house directly across from mine, built around the same time. Old photos, taken before the house was burned to the ground by an angry drug dealer, showed a small quaint cottage covered in beautiful dark ivy. It was a fairytale cottage before the fire, but now it sat modernized. The weathered old shingles replaced with new beige siding, windows of vinyl and hollow doors. Perfectly modern and functional. The creeping fig, now a distant memory. The bones of charm were still there; but who knew when or if ever someone would be willing to revive it. I didn’t want the fig to ruin my shingles. I had seen how they secreted a fluid as strong as superglue. Once it attached, the vine could not undo it’s own cement. As a branch of the plant was pulled away;  paint and sometimes wood would come with it. I could just let it be and meld with the house. Allow it to have it’s symbiotic relationship with the old shingles and stucco.

 

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I looked at my house and saw the tree like plant, ascending the stucco of the front porch and spreading around my front door and windows. It lent an old English vibe to my little cottage. The birds loved it too and had made a nest just above the entry of the porch. When we came out the front door, they would quickly jet away until we were gone and the coast was clear. Eventually small lantern shaped pods sprung free from the clusters of small dark leaves. I’d seen these in vintage paintings of foliage and fruit. So this is where they came from!

It was lovely. It cooled the house and the birds loved it. So, I kept it. It grew thick and dark and spread down the sides of the house. The house was cooler and my electric bill was so much lower the year before I trimmed it back to paint the house. Eventually, I had to paint the house and the painter assured me, “I can’t paint beneath those vines.” Only the twisted root jutted from the soil now. It looked like a miniature haunted tree from Grimms fairytales. The root was twisted with gnarled miniature arms which were once the platform the vine that had covered an area at least one thousand times it’s size. A tiny green leaf was starting to emerge from the back . The vine was alive and hadn’t given up. I felt triumphant and hopeful a new vine would soon be complementing the new paint.

Found in the high desert; especially in historic neighborhoods. It’s official name is Ficus Pumila. It’s know for it’s vigorous growth and ability to withstand transient severe weather conditions, such as frost or drought. It can be considered an invasive plant and somewhat parasitic, but like everything else it’s the origin of the perspective. It climbs quickly and sometimes it seems like overnight it will ascend at least one to two inches.

If you find yourself lucky enough to have one, here are some basic tips for care and promotion of the beautiful vine that will quickly cover most surfaces and create a healthy and verdant scene. Water your creeper lightly with fresh water from your garden spigot.  City water is fine-these plants are hardy and will drink gratefully.  Please be careful not to  drown the roots or they will get moldy for sure and possibly rot and perish.  Plant in partial sun, which is enough to stimulate reproduction and keep it steadily climbing and spreading. Those rays of sunshine filtered or coming from an angle will provide enough light to stimulate the photosynthesis process and produce lovely deep green, verdant foliage. Plant your creeper  in sandy soil with moderate nutrients. This hardy plant likes the frontier life and to fight for it’s existence.  It will thrive off a meager diet of nutrients.   Lastly, admire and encourage your climber. Your climber will perform for you and become beautiful. You will receive the gift of wonder and having known you protected a living and beautiful thing that flourished with your care.




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The Old Circle

Summer is coming and it’s the best time of year in Southern California. My favorite city was once a farming town, founded by a group of entrepreneurial bankers from the midwest. The land they purchased was an alluvial plane descending from the Santa Ana mountains. On the other side of this mountain range are the beaches. The cool fog drifts over almost every evening and then burns off with the first sunlight. When seen from the right angle at a certain time a day it looks tropical and you could swear you were driving into an island. Palm trees jut up against small green mountains with a backsplash of blue sky and puffy white clouds. The city started as a farming community that sustained itself on citrus crops. Those farms are gone now, along with the groves that released a heavenly sent every evening at sundown and blanketed the city with a heady, intoxicating perfume.
Summer is hot here. It’s all about very light clothing, no sleeves, mostly shorts and tall glasses filled with ice and sweet liquid. They call it the dog days of summer. If you are feeling particularly ambitious, it’s wise to rise early and get everything done in the coolness of the morning. As the day progresses it’s time to hit the porch and do nothing. Just like the dogs. Lay back, try to breath and don’t get overheated, because there aren’t too many ways to cool back down. Now we have indoor showers, air conditioning and refrigerators. Back then, you had to improvise. Sleeping porches were common and the family would gather on the second story to catch the night breezes and chat about the happenings of the day as they drifted off to sleep. Once you get used to the heat, it’s wonderful. The body relaxes, the skin opens and breathes. Everything and everybody slows down and it’s summer-time for vacation!




When summer hits, the main event is the fourth of July. People from all over the city head into the historic core for a good old Fourth of July parade. The local school bands and the Rotary are in full force. Candidates for city office ride by in old Thunderbirds or new souped up Mustangs with a young gorgeous pageant queens at their side. People set up small encampments with chairs, blankets, drinks and food and settle in to enjoy the good old fashioned spectacle. Laughing with friends and neighbors and feeling thankful that they landed in this place.
The city was planned with a circle at it’s center. It was meant to symbolize a crown. The crown of English royalty that invested in the small inland colonies of California and provided financial backing to make sure the farms grew and prospered. A hundred years ago famous racers and their vintage Stutz and Fiats tore around the circle to complete one hundred screaming, terrifying laps at more than 100 miles per hour. Beautiful grand farmhouses were erected along it’s borders for the more prominent business leaders and politicians. Many had carriage houses, tennis courts and later swimming pools. Now the races have a become a historic relic and many of the homes are gone. For those that remain; some are well-preserved and some not. Some are modified beyond recognition. It’s a mish mash of eclectic vintage architecture lined with dusty palms, ancient pepper and oak trees. It’s old and lovely and full of history that’s intriguing. The circle has persevered and remains a landmark to Southern Californians. It’s easily seen from the air and serves as a landmark for pilots.
Farming gave the city, it’s first purpose and history.




Over a hundred years have passed and now there are other reasons to live here. As farming phased out, development and industry took over and were a success. Some of the old orchards still remain up in the hills rising above the city. Beautiful old citrus trees stand majestic and silent with globes or orange and yellow fruit hanging enticingly from their branches. Small noises of animal life punctuate the quiet as birds fly over the canopy singing joyfully.
This is summer, this is history, this is Southern California.

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Pug McSnore

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I walked in the door and the little old pug was snoring on the carpet in the entryway. It was a very exposed place to be sleeping and seemed a bit odd. She was a loyal little girl and probably fell asleep waiting for me. Her snoring was somnolent and every time I listened for more than a minute, I became hypnotized and started to doze myself. She was in a deep sleep and I called her name. She didn’t stir. I bent over and said her name more loudly and still she didn’t move an eyelash. I nudged her and she snored on. Then she stopped breathing. I pushed her and her body moved like a soaked sock full of sand. The thought rushed to my mind that she maybe she had passed, but hadn’t she been breathing just a moment ago when I walked in the door? Suddenly her legs stretched and she inhaled a deep noisy breath and got to her feet. She looked at me and wagged her tail. I proposed to her, “C’mon, let’s get something to eat.” She was off like a rocket and shooting to the kitchen.

mcsnoreThat’s a pug.  They love food.  They love fun.  They most definitely must have descended from the Sybarites.  My sweet little pug even has my scheduled memorized so she knows when it’s the best time to head into the kitchen.   She knows the routine and as soon as she hears my footsteps she’s there to greet me with her huge soulful eyes and dog smile. She spins with joy and snorts to the heavens that it’s time to eat!  She’s expectant and watches my every move. Anticipating a small morsel of something, anything.  She believes in equal opportunity. No food is discriminated against.  She gets chubby quick, so I hold back.  It’s so fun to feed her, but when she gets too round, she can barely waddle.

Ms. Pug McSnore likes to cuddle too. She makes a warm companion,  with a thick coat that feels like velvet. Her little body is warm and comforting and she makes a great winter cozy.  She’s the antidote to insomnia.  Take her to bed and you will quickly find that her deep breathing would seduce any insomniac into the  shadowy land of Nod.  If only physicians could prescribe pug snores rather than sedatives.




Taking a pug out in public like having a living  social network follow you everywhere you go.  Constant exclamations of “Oh, she’s so cute!”, ” I love pugs!”, “She’s so funny!”, ” Can I take her picture for my girlfriend?” follow you as you move through the store, the groomer’s, the dog park and even the parking lot. People are happy when they see a pug and by the end of my errands, I’m smiling unconsciously and I’m happy too.   The world is happy because of this one little Ms. Pug McSnore.

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Salvage

Photo by Nathan Anderson on Unsplash




I was fortunate enough to have the opportunity to attend the Redlands Historical Glass Museum auction some weeks ago. I wandered through the coolness of the host’s dark, ancient house. The air was calm, but gently stirred by the other guests attending the function.  We all moved quietly and carefully, navigating spaces between ancient furnishings, books and each other.  Long tables were set out with small delicate glass dishes that sparkled and caught the faint rays of light permeating the room. Beautiful antique furniture, carved carefully and with love, stood sturdily and elegantly in their places.  The dark wood glowing and emanating a warm and earthy smell with hints of oil and polish.  The walls reached upward toward lofty ceilings coated with glossy dark paint, the color of an overripe strawberry.  I gazed upward at the vaulted ceilings coated with ancient plaster. Small rivulets of cracks twisted indiscriminately across the palette of plaster. I knew the air was cooler up there, because I could feel it circling softly around my head.  Burnished mirrors hung strategically around the room to reflect  light that managed to make a path into the dim room. This was salvage.  Preservation.

When I moved into my old house over a decade ago, I was entranced by the thought of waking up everyday surrounded by old wood, wavy glass, carved molding and soft wood floors. The essence of many lives lived, were within the walls and permeated the old structure.  The home had been well cared for and loved and that’s why she stood so solid and still as the decades past.  Her joints and fittings holding strong and true.  Her foundation rising  rock solid from the old farming dirt she stood upon.  She had been cared for well.  This was preservation.

Part of preservation is salvaging.  It’s hard to find new parts for old houses of the same quality from hundreds of years ago.    If you get into the process, it’s important to connect with resources and delve into it.  Preservationists are a unique breed.  They usually love history and everything left that’s still tangible and connected with it.  Every part is valuable, even old nails, fittings and broken tile.  You never know where that odd piece might fit.  To connect with another likeminded salvager is a joy. To know another person that understands the joy of finding that perfect piece or working on something until it becomes just what you need to complete a project.   Salvagers often pass pieces back and forth just for the joy of sharing a find or finding it a safe home.

It’s not easy work.  Old house parts are musty, dirty and old chemicals often cling to the pieces.  The parts of an old house are put together so well that it’s difficult to wrench pieces free.  Besides using brute strength, you have to use grace and coordination to make sure you twist and pull just so, or the piece maybe fatally deranged beyond repair. You must pry and  tap with just the right amount of pressure as not to leave marks in  old wood grain or on old metal pieces. Why do it?  Why expose yourself to hot old houses caked in grime and toxic chemicals from the past?  Because beneath it all lies the treasure and a legacy.  A legacy of craftsmanship that stemmed from people being proud of their trade and working hard in every sense of the word. Craftsman, who worked with their hands and crude tools to create beautiful and incomparable pieces of a caliber that is little seen today.




Among my travels perusing the various local events that offered to lovers of history  I ended up at the Peter Weber House in Riverside the other day. I had some vintage light fixtures I’d found abandoned in my alley and thought they may come of use to  a local restorer. The Old Riverside Foundation manages the salvage program there;  they  have a great collection of salvage and I needed a front door too.  The Weber house is a work of art and a fine example of old world craftsmanship.  Weber, a local architect; who built his home from scratch in the 1930’s, created artful patterns using brick and carved wood.  Every inch of the house, from floor to ceiling has a creative flair. Many of the designs are Moorish in origin and inspired by his travels abroad.  He brought back a treasure trove of design inspiration which he incorporated into his home. Stars carved into wooden panels,  painted turquoise, coral and green, punctuated the panels in strategic locations.   It’s a tiny home, but completely magical in form. As I walked through the home, inspiration hit me and I tried to picture myself carving intricate wood paneling and placing brick in unique patterns to build my walls. Luckily, I had the morning free to daydream and take my time walking through the home.    On the way out, I picked up a really cool bumper sticker for a dollar to help save the Riverside Chinatown archaeological site.  This was a perfect morning to me, this was preservation.




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Paint Now




This is my mantra as of late.  I’m trying to be decisive about the colors to paint my house.  It should be easy, right?  Maybe, but maybe not.  I’ve learned recently that there are a lot of factors to consider.  I’ve also learned it’s easy to get caught up in the minutia.

First color. So many colors. More than ever before.  Over the past ten years, paint companies have become quite sophisticated and broadened their perspectives.  The last time I painted my house, the choices were definitely more limited.  There were the appropriate colors to use and that was it.   There were a few breakthroughs along the tropical lines, but mostly the palettes were sedate.

It’s exciting and beautiful to experience all  of the new pigments and I’ve found myself diving into color psychology.  Color has the ability to conjure up emotions and create ambiance.  I’ve been noticing that most houses are pretty sedate.   I’ve done some research and experts recommend that you blend in with your neighbors and not disturb the neighbor with distracting colors.   I’ve driven through countless neighborhoods to derive inspiration from the available palettes.  Some neighborhoods are quite colorful.  People using color liberally.  Bright colors abounding and calling out like colorful jungle birds. One colorful neighborhood in particular was colorful neighborhood in a historic downtown where people collect antiques and hot rods.  The culture here is patriotic and fun and a celebrated university is nearby.  Some other neighborhoods are subdued and tasteful. The colors make sense and blend seemlessly with the environment. This sensible and clever neighborhood was another historic university town. But the University here is private, well established and ranks beside schools such as Yale and Harvard. The top minds in the world gather here to be trained.




I live on a alley, so what is my environment? I have black pavement lined with green bamboo. Some broken fences, occasionally garbage, an old shed with a two tunnels running under it. One of the tunnels is  used by my cat, possums and squirrels and the other tunnel is inhabited by lovely bees.  My house is historic, a teacher built it and loved it.  She built a house for her sister across the street and there used to be a well worn path between the two. The houses were painted white then; as all middle class bungalows were.   Should I stay true to the era and history or go for something new and entertaining?

Probably not.  It wouldn’t suit the tastes of modern America where we have a myriad of choices for everything.   Not saying that’s a bad thing.  It’s all part of the process of advancement.  Evolving as Darwin would put it.  So where are my Darwinian inclinations taking me to?  To all kinds of colors and wishing I could use them all. I have at least three favorite themes; western, tropical and psychedelic, but probably western is the most acceptable for a house built in 1916 in a quiet family neighborhood. So this would lead to browns, tans, greens, reds, blue and maybe patriotic purple. The choice is there and I’m warming to it, but it’s not like the first time I chose a theme for the house. The first time, I was trying to bring out the best bungalow characteristics of my bungalow at that time. I was trying to incorporate elements of history while making a new statement.  For the green, I chose a deep forest green.  It represented health and growth.  A great color for that stage of my life, when I was raising two children and working on my career. I had four colors to create with rather than the standard three. I chose claret red, a blush tone and white for the other three. I tried to choose colors that struck a chord with earth elements. I ended up with one earth color, the green.  Bungalows were conceived as a new form of dwelling that was simple, practical and closer to nature.  The bungalow lifestyle was to inspire health and honor are connection with the earth.  Wood moldings and flooring were the major elements and the outside siding was often not painted and the wood stained  As America grew and prospered, painting became the trend and if you could afford a tinted paint, you were declaring your affluence.




The question is, should your house color really be some personal quest to reflect your personality? Or should it just be a practical process that’s not emotional in any  way. It’s funny  how some of us would never really think to deeply about a house color choice and then those of us who analyze, ponder and consider endlessly.  I found myself kind of tortured by the whole thing, which is such a contrast to how I felt about picking house colors a decade ago. I used to be excited by the idea and was very sure of myself and the statement I wanted to make to the world.  I wanted  to make my little craftsman, the best restoration possible on a single mom’s income.   This time; having lived through aging, menopause, children growing up, going away, getting married, family deaths, sickness, a tumbling economy, the emergence of the internet, a war and significant changes in the fabric of daily life, I found myself questioning a whole lot of things that didn’t even have anything to do with painting a house.  Somehow each color would stimulate my thoughts and my brain would be off on a jaunt contemplating the ways of the world and my place in it.

Photo by Talles Alves on Unsplash

Finally, the process was wearing me out.  I decided to drive through more historic neighborhoods and just pick a theme that looked nice and that I could picture myself going home to everyday.   Once home,  I looked everything over and then cut swatches from the paint store color wheel.  I  picked colors that felt good and would blend harmoniously with the neighborhood and nature.  I decided to pick and stick no matter what. My stomach churned and my throat muscles clenched.  I did some deep breaths and convinced myself this anxiety was ridiculous.  I smiled my brave smile; my everything is always OK smile.  I conjured up my family member’s voices in the back of my head, coaching me and telling me I could always paint over it and start over if it didn’t work out.  I buckled down and picked.

The next day I handed the colors over to my painter with my deepest apologies for my indecision and delay. We went over the scheme and where the colors would go.  They were kind.  I played it cool.  The deed was done and I prayed secretly that I’d figured it out.

 

 

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Drive of The Artists


Photo by Rob Morton on Unsplash




Being a field nurse definitely has it’s perks. Especially if you enjoy getting out and seeing the sights and the land where you live. The other day I had an appointment  out in the East Valley beyond Moreno Valley and decided to take the back roads from Corona. This means taking Old Temescal Canyon Road to Cajalco Road and then heading up towards Lake Mathews and then traversing along  a two lane highway that passes Perris and then feeds into the East Valleys. The best part of this drive is when you reach the top. The air is cleaner and cooler up there and the sky a clear, happy shade of blue. Hawks and assorted birds are abundant. The view is spectacular. On a clear day, Mount Baldy is magnified and visible. Defining characteristics are easily made out. The cities of Chino, Ontario and Rancho Cucamonga sprawl before the mountain base and street grids lay like a tattoo against the valley floor.

Back in the 80s the Inland Empire was still a sleepy and slower kind of place. Downtown Riverside was filled with antique and thrift stores throughout the historic downtown. It was a treasure trove of history. Historic buildings remained untouched by progress. Many without plumbing to the upper floors. The shops were jam packed with vintage dating back to the 1800’s.  The Mission Inn, the historic gathering place of auspicious city fathers and visiting presidents,  was struggling to arise to it’s former glory. The Inn rested, waited and hosted the public in the truest sense of the word. A restoration and fight to preserve the unique national landmark was underway.




The shops were filled with old paintings that depicted the landscapes and vistas of the Inland Empire. a consistent theme was one of the mountains and valleys in varying shades of dusky blue with a hazy purple and pink sky. I always thought these artists had  great imaginations and were embellishing what they saw. Now having lived in the area for more than 30 years; I realize I was wrong. At certain times of day the landscapes do become an assortment of dusky shades and of blue and green and the skies morph into a purple and pink haze.  It’s absolutely stunning and moves the soul. These views beckon the past often depicted in old cowboy novels and a past that is not really that far away. Riverside had managed to stay lightly developed until just recently due to it’s distance from Los Angeles. I love that these paintings appear to embellish and veer off into fantasy, but are in fact a realistic interpretation of how the valleys and mountains appear here.

These lands are the high desert.  Sometimes receiving water and sometimes not.  More than a hundred years ago, brave men and women came to seek a new life, better health and opportunity in this harsh, but forgiving landscape. Leaving cold and crowded cities for the sun and room to grow.  The air was dry and clean and the land unspoiled by industry and harsh chemicals. It was a place to start new and become great if you wanted to.  If you worked hard enough, success was yours.  The climate was warm compared to the frigid climate of the East.  Muscles and tendons relaxed and the lungs opened.  It was relief not to have to fight off the cold. The energy freed from the burden of fighting against the elements was directed into new and exciting adventures.




Moving across the ridge, I drive through countryside dotted with small developments. It’s scrubby and green at the same time and birds soar overhead relishing in the clean, clear currents. As I drive, I wonder how long these areas will remain fairly unspoiled and host this relaxing drive. I  quickly remind myself to stay present and appreciate this. This is the best gift that anyone could receive and it’s ongoing and there for the taking.