American Football

Interception


Strong offense, no defense.
Facing sin when sinned against
Cherries down the drain.

Snaffle Bit

I like to ride horses. Currently I ride western pleasure.

I used to ride saddle seat. The bit used was a snaffle bit as seen in the picture.

About 15 years ago, my (then) husband gave me a key chain shaped as a snaffle bit. The keys attached to the D rings at the ends of the snaffle.

Today I went for my usual walk along Shelter Island. I wanted to take my camera, yet my key chain was too heavy to carry as well. So I unhooked the house and car key from the D ring.

What was left were 13 keys. I have no clue what those keys are for. Just baggage I guess.

Thoughts on a Sunday evening.

Sunday Morning Haiku

Donne In

Battered Enthrallment;

Reason, agent by design,

Taken again, done.

Mammoth Men I've Known

Dear Readers,

Several years ago, I took a ski trip to Mammoth Mountain with my next door neighbor. I originally wrote a short story, which you can find here, about that trip. Here is the more complete story.

“Mammoth Men I’ve Known.

(Title by Ginny)

One morning in January around 6:00 a.m., I awoke to a loud banging on my front door. I opened the door to see a soft fog washing over the neighborhood in the morning light. My sleepy eyes could barely make out the misty silhouette of my neighbor, Bill. He was 81 at the time, and his wife, Ginny, was 82. We lived next door to each other in Point Loma, a hilly section overlooking downtown San Diego. Despite his age, Bill remained physically active with walking, hiking, and lifting weights. He was dressed in camp pants and a hiking vest, and he seemed completely unaware of the hour and my pajamas.
"Hey, Wendy," Bill said, "The annual ski trip to Mammoth is next week. I know you love to ski. Why don't you come along?"
Bill and his two WWII buddies had been skiing at Mammoth Mountain in the Eastern Sierras for 40 years. He became very excited. "You know, at Mammoth anyone over 80 years old is entitled to free lift tickets. We share a condo, and there is an extra bedroom if you want to come along."
This made an alluring offer for an inexpensive ski trip. But what an odd group we would make, three WWII vets in their mid 80's, and one woman in her late 30's. I considered the emotional upheaval I was experiencing at the time. I had left a miserable job, and I was having difficulty letting go of the past. I had worked for the Navy, and I had encountered an unsavory group of people engaged in some questionable dealings. In addition, my direct report had made sexual overtures to me. When I refused, he harassed me until, at breaking point, I quit. My mind replayed scene after scene from the years at the Navy, entire conversations verbatim, as I tried to grasp the scope of what had happened to me. Frequently, I referred to my brain as a “broken record.” I considered all this quickly, with Bill standing there at the door waiting for my answer. An escape to the Sierras presented an irresistible diversion. I felt some momentary concern about how this would appear, especially to Ginny. Yet my desire to ski and to get up to the mountains outweighed my concern. My previous trips to the Sierras always proved to be refreshing. I expected the same from this trip. I took the offer despite appearances.
"O.K.," Bill said, "we leave Sunday. By the way, we always cook a large turkey when we arrive. Then we eat that for lunch and dinner all week. Since you're a vegetarian, you will need to bring your own food."

Sunday morning John arrived to pick up Bill and me. John was gregarious, and very friendly. I think he sensed my reticence to join a group of WWII vets, and he made a valiant effort to put me at ease. We loaded the van with our food and gear. Bill took the driver’s seat, and I rode shotgun as we went to pick up Jim. My discomfort with the arrangement began to swell. Even though John seemed happy to have me along, I did not know him or Jim. I could not shake the feeling neither one wanted a woman to go along, but Bill had insisted.

We drove to pick up Jim, who, Bill had informed me, was an engineer. I knew what to expect. My father had been an engineer, and they are a different breed, a good breed, as they invent the most useful tools of everyday life. And they always want to fix whatever is broken. But generally speaking they are not the most outwardly exuberant people. Jim was true to form, and very quiet.

We took off heading up highway 15 to 395 north, which skirts the eastern Sierras and heads into Oregon. Bill handed me an envelope with several $20 bills inside.

“Here, you’re in charge of the kitty. We all put in $40.00 each, and all expenses are paid out of the kitty. Then we divide what ever is left over equally. So that way, it’s fair to everyone.”

This presented me with a problem. The trip had come up so quickly, I had only enough time to go grocery shopping and to pack my clothes. I had not withdrawn any cash from the bank. I had assumed I could card as I go, and get cash in Mammoth.

I said nothing to the men about this. I felt a bit embarrassed to be caught unprepared, and I considered my dilemma quietly.

When we reached four corners at the junction of 395 and highway 58, we pulled into the gas station to refuel the van. Bill told me to go pay for the gas with money from the kitty.

Quickly I made some mental computations. It takes 2 tanks of gas to get there, 2 tanks to get back, for a total of four tanks. There were four of us, thus I was responsible for one tank. Since I had not contributed to the kitty, I surreptitiously slid my credit card out of my wallet, and I went in to the station to pay for the gas.

I surreptitiously slid back into the van. Bill started the engine and we continued heading north up 395.

Without warning, Bill asked me how much money was left in the kitty. I panicked. I stuttered. The cat was out of the bag, so to speak. When Bill discovered the truth, he yelled at me.

“Hey, you broke the rules! Listen, we’ve been doing this for forty years and we always do it this way so it’s fair to everyone.”

Jim joined in and was scolding me too. John appeared to be enjoying the scene, although he took my side, and he tried to convince Bill and Jim to go easy on me. I tried to explain the logic behind my decision. Trying to reason with the men did not help. I had broken the rules. I wondered how many more unspoken rules existed.

“Well, that’s what you get for inviting a girl along!” I said. “How am I supposed to know the rules, if you don’t tell me upfront?”

Apparently Bill did not have a response, because he glared at me in silent exasperation.

The rest of the road trip went smoothly, although I remained very quiet. I tend to be shy, although I am comfortable stepping out of my shyness to initiate and join in on conversations. However, I clammed up after the rule breaking incident.

We arrived in Mammoth around 2:00 pm in the afternoon. The streets were clear of traffic, a good sign that the ski runs would also be clear. We went into the management office of the condo complex to check in. Bill asked the clerk for a calculator.

“Ok,” Bill said us, “the room is $169 per night, and we are staying 4 nights. That’s $676, plus with room tax the total is $787.52. I already paid $250 for the deposit, so you each owe 1/3 of $787.52, which is $262.50, and you each owe me 1/3 of the deposit, which is $83.33.

Arguments between the men ensued, as Jim and John tried to convince Bill that his calculations were incorrect. Indeed, they way he had figured it, the three of us would be paying the entire bill, and he would be getting a free ride. I stayed out of the fray, although the clerk and I shared some bemused looks between us. The arguments went on for about half an hour, and finally the men came to an agreement on the split. I paid what I was told to pay, but to this day I do not believe it was the correct amount.

After checking in we unloaded the van. Immediately, Bill put the turkey into the oven. I had the single bedroom downstairs, and I became more uncomfortable when I realized the bedroom arrangement in the condo. The condo had one bedroom and a loft. The sitting room had a pull out bed. Bill informed me the three men would be sharing the loft. If I hadn’t come along, they would not have had to share. One would have the bedroom, one the loft, and one the pull out bed. This made a far more logical arrangement, especially for John, who needed a hip replacement and found it difficult to climb stairs. I began to feel very out of place.

I unpacked, and then went to the kitchen. I made a fragrant tomato based vegetable soup, adding in fresh tomatoes, butternut squash, fresh basil, and herbs de Provence. I poured in a little red wine to round it out. The soup had a certain sweetness to it from the vegetables. The fragrance was lovely, but the scent of roasting turkey overpowered the aroma.
I set the table, and ladled soup into the bowls. Bill carved the turkey. We sat down to eat and quickly the men fell silent and did not look up as they ate.
When the meal was just about done, Jim got up for seconds. "There's more turkey," Bill said. But Jim took seconds of the soup. As Jim sat down, John looked up and said, "Remember Peleliu?"
"And the wolf packs?" Bill said. "There were Germans all around us...wolf packs surrounding us. We knew they were there....couldn't hear them! Submarines all around. They were there...couldn't hear them, but we could feel them."
"Not until radar," John said. "short wave...undetectable, the escort carriers...the high frequency direction finders. And hedgehogs."
They spoke in phrases, nodding in agreement. I heard the words "Normandy," "88's," "Utah Beach," "U-boats," "Doenitz." The conversation continued on as if I were no longer present. More accurately, they were no longer present at the dinner table in a condo in Mammoth. It was sixty years ago, and they were back in the war.
I listened without interrupting. I enjoyed the history lesson, and I took it as an opportunity to hear firsthand from those who were there.
The next day, I awoke, dressed for skiing, and headed to the kitchen. I poured myself a cup of coffee. The men had already eaten breakfast, and Bill offered to serve me some “gruel.” I looked into the pot on the stove. The pot was about 3 quarts in size, and the cereal filled the pot at least to the halfway point.

We’ve already eaten, so you have to finish this,” Bill said.

“Thank you, Bill,” I said, “but I really can only eat just a little. I usually don’t eat much for breakfast, just coffee and toast or fruit. That’s way too much for me. I’m sorry but I can’t finish all this.”

“Well, you have to finish it. We’ve already eaten and we can’t waste it. It won’t last overnight,” Bill said.

I spooned a little of the gruel into a bowl and tasted it. I added a lot of sugar.
We were out the door quickly, and at the lifts before the mountain opened for skiing. It was a clear day, about 50 degrees, and the conditions were perfect. For some reason, Bill had come to believe that I had never skied, and he wanted to give me lessons first. We started on some of the blue runs, and Bill gave me many excellent points. He seemed amazed at how quickly I was learning to ski. Soon Bill and Jim went off to the black diamond runs, and I went with John to ski the intermediate runs. Since it was Monday, the mountain was nearly empty of people. With no lines at the lifts, we made countless runs...up to the summit, ski down to the lifts, over and over. In fact, all week the mountain was virtually empty, and not once did I stand in line at the lifts.

For most of the day, the beauty to the Sierras had the effect I desired. My anguished thoughts about the Navy subsided, and I focused on the serenity of the mountains.
That night for dinner, I made vegetable lasagna, and served some to all. Bill carved more meat from the day old turkey. The men fell silent with their heads down as they ate their dinner. When Jim got up for seconds, Bill said, "There's more turkey." But Jim took more of the lasagna. As he sat down, John looked up and said, "Remember Peleliu?"
"And the wolf packs?" Bill said. "There were Germans all around us...wolf packs, surrounding us. We knew they were there...couldn't hear them! Submarines all around. They were there...couldn't hear them, but we could feel them."
"Not until radar," John said. short wave...undetectable, the escort carriers...the high frequency direction finders. And hedgehogs."
A sense of deja vu swept over me. This was the same conversation as the night before verbatim! Again the men were reliving the war. They knew their cues instinctively, who would say what and when. This scene repeated itself each night for the entire week. Jim went for second helpings, and John began with "remember Peleliu?"
These men spoke quietly showing little emotion. However as I listened closely, I began to sense the dread and speechless terror they had felt while surrounded by a silent, invisible evil, the German wolf packs. I began to sense the triggers that dragged them back to war each night. But I also sensed that in these rituals established over the decades, they had found acknowledgement and confirmation that their fears had not been exaggerated, reassurances only they could give to each other. The evil had been real.

That night as I lay in bed, my mind wandered back to my job at the Navy. I tried to refocus on the day, the peaceful snowy slopes, and the feelings of sailing unencumbered down the mountain. Yet I could not keep the broken record still. I kept replaying in my mind this episode or that conversation. I wondered what I could have done differently.

The next morning, I was last to the kitchen for breakfast. A 4 quart stock pot simmered on the stove.

“There’s plenty of gruel left over for you, Wendy,” Bill said. “You will have to finish it for us.”

I looked inside the pot, which was bigger than the pot from the day before. Again, the brown, sticky gruel filled the pot to at least the halfway mark. I couldn’t possibly finish the left over amount, let alone put a significant dent into it. I wanted only a cup of coffee, yet I spooned a small amount of the hot cereal into a bowl and ate it.

I said nothing to Bill about this. I knew he would be upset about wasting so much food. Yet, he was responsible for making so much. I watched his frustrated expression as he poured the leftovers down the sink to clean the pot. It was a sad waste of food.

We headed off to the lifts, and again I skied with John. My mind cleared almost instantly, and I could feel my nerves relaxing. The mountains may not have this affect on all people, but for me, I have always been able to live in the moment when there. Moment by moment, the glorious sights, the piney smells, and the peaceful sounds guided my thoughts through my senses. I forgot all about the Navy while gliding down the slopes.

That night at dinner, the talk amongst the men turned to the war again.

As I recall the whole week, the trip had a certain feeling of repetition. Each morning we ate gruel, and the amounts of gruel, which Bill made, became increasingly greater. Each evening, the men ate the aging turkey and talked about the war. Sometimes I felt as though my presence was inconsequential to the unspoken rules and rituals, as the men would abide by them out of habit. And sometimes I felt I had intruded on something highly personal.

And each night as I went to bed, I fell into my own ritual, replaying the memories of my time working at the Navy in my mind, although I fought it. Over the years, I came to believe that watching the men fall into their conversations of the war acted as a trigger to replay my memories of a difficult time. However, what I went through was insignificant compared to what these WWII vets had endured. And eventually my broken record stopped playing.

I recall some humorous moments skiing with John. He was my “designated partner” in skiing, since neither one of us wished to take on the moguls nor the black diamond runs. I liked John very much. He was very friendly, and a gentleman. He tried hard to relate to me. And he tried very hard to get me to open up. Yet he respected my space as well. In retrospect I regret not being able to open up to him, although my stress levels were just starting to subside. Besides I think he truly enjoyed being seen on the slopes with some “young chick.” On day three John convinced me to try a very short black diamond run that extends from the Knee Deep run, and lies between the Stump Alley and Old Camelback runs, all of which are blue diamond. I took the switchbacks very slowly, as I felt gravity pulling strongly as soon as I pointed my ski tips down hill to make the turn. Perhaps my caution in the turns caused the mishap, or not. But about half way down the run, I fell forward down the slope. I was making an upside down snow angel, with my head pointed down hill, and my legs flailing ungracefully behind me at all angles. I am so glad no one got photos. Every tiny movement I made to right myself resulted in the beginning of an uncontrolled slide down the slope. Poor John with his bad hip was already at the bottom of the run, yet he climbed up the slope to help me stand upright. Then we skied down together.

On the last day of skiing, I had gone off on my own to ski alone for a while. I told John I would meet him back at the van. I made it back to the parking lot before he did. I got in the van, and thinking no one was around, I took off my top to take off my sports bra. I was briefly topless. As I pulled my top back on, out of the corner of my eye, I caught sight of John looking in the window of the van. It was one of those “Kodak” moments. I know that he knows that I know. He knows that I know that he knows. Yet nothing was ever said. He got a full frontal flash.

I will always recall this trip fondly. After I got past my initial discomfort, I began to sense a small link to their experiences, experiences that we all should remember in the hopes of preventing future wars. And I felt a link to them while they tried to make sense of a trauma which defies words.

Perrhaps these three men see their annual ski trips to Mammoth as nothing more than ski trips. Yet I sensed something deeper. They gather each year for a remembrance of their experience in the war under the guise of a ski trip. They will not have many more trips. I felt honored by the invitation; in forty years this was the only time they let in an outsider. Now each year on my ski trips to Mammoth, I will remember their remembrances.

Wednesday Morning Haiku

Untitled

What the Sweet Science?
Left Hook or Counter-puncher
Or Duck and Cover?

Wednesday Morning Haiku

Greek God


Bared ear of barley,
In the attic of my mind.
Stalking hidden wealth.

The Masterpiece

pure fiction

The Masterpiece

On a pristine Sunday afternoon, my wife and I stood at the corner of Girard Avenue and Prospect Street, facing that common dilemma between two people out together with no plans. We each desired to go a different way. We had just finished eating brunch in La Jolla, a coastal town overlooking the Pacific Ocean north of San Diego, and our home for more than 30 years. I wanted to go down the hill to La Jolla Cove to watch the swimmers, scuba divers, snorklers, kayakers, all the human life that swarms to the ocean on a balmy day. The advancing arthritis in my knee and hip joints had prevented me from taking my weekly swim out to the ½ mile buoy and back. Gradually I had become outwardly content to sit on the bench and watch the ocean waves breaking over the rocks. Underneath the waves, the water teemed with stingrays, garibaldi, kelp, and tiger sharks. Life above the water joined in, and the water became one world.

However, the car was parked at the upper end of Girard, and my wife insisted that we shop while making our way back. “I would like to see the ocean,” I insisted. “Honestly!” she said with a certainty that she would get her way. “We have lived here for 30 years. We see the ocean everyday.”

She began strolling down the avenue, window-shopping along the way. She slowed a bit, aware that I hadn’t joined her yet. I glanced westward to the ocean, only a block away. Then I relented, caught up to my wife, and escorted her while she shopped. She stopped at Armani, Escada, and Polo, among other places typical for La Jolla. Occasionally we encountered friends also out on a beautiful Sunday afternoon.

At the upper end of Girard Ave. we went into the second hand shop run by the local charity. Over the years we had donated many discarded items to this shop and Mary knew the manager there well. The two women fell quickly into a tireless conversation.

I ambled through the store somewhat patiently, and made my way towards the back where a large sideboard stood in a dark corner. In the dim light, I noticed what appeared to be a carved frame slightly behind it. I pulled the frame out and discovered a painting covered with years of grime and dust.

The painting surprised me. Despite the obvious quality,it appeared to be unsigned. The artist had depicted an exquisite ocean vista with the water glistening in the sun. The waves crashed into huge bluffs lining the north end of a white sand beach as a storm approached from the horizon. The brush technique seemed skillful, and yet the pigments were raw and unblended. The cadmium green was distinct from the prussian blue, as was the verdigris from the ultramarine. Despite the purity of the pigments and the clean lines between them, or perhaps because of it, I could feel the movement of the water and the sea foam undulating over the waves. The years of dust and neglect had not dulled the details and raw colors. The glowing, numinous nature shone through the dirty glaze.

In a flash I was back on the shores of my childhood where I had grown up, where as a youth I had gone clamming, and played in the tidewaters, catching urchins, mussels and sometimes lobsters. Suddenly I could smell and taste the salt water of the Atlantic and hear the rushing sound of waves again. The sand between my toes irritated me, and the undercurrent pulled against my legs relentlessly.

As I stood there reminiscing and reliving the sights and sounds and smells of my youth, I was struck by the vividness of those memories. Despite the decades, which had elapsed, those memories seemed more real than my weekly experience visiting the Cove. The Cove lured me to its shoreline, but still it could not impress upon my senses the same pleasure and intensity as had the shorelines of my youth. As I studied the painting, it occurred to me that when I was a boy, the salt in the ocean seemed saltier, the blueness of the water seemed bluer, and the sound of waves crashing against the shoreline was as thunder echoing through deep chasms. Just as an old Polaroid yellows with time, my mind’s pictures had yellowed. But the joy I sensed in nature had yellowed more so. I longed for those feelings again, and I became determined to restore the painting to its original glory and hang it over my fireplace.

An old tag on the corner of the frame said the price was $125.00. I felt certain the painting was worth far more, and that I had discovered a masterpiece nonchalantly relegated to a dusty corner of a thrift store, its true worth buried for years.

I carried it to the front counter where Mary and the shopkeeper were still talking.

“You want that?” Mary said.

“Yes!” I said. “Look how beautifully the waves move and how the sun shines through the water showing the transparency. It almost looks like the Cove, don’t you think? I will have it professionally reframed and hang it over the fireplace. Look at the quality. It must be a masterpiece of some sort, worth thousands of dollars,” I said confidently.

“We’ve been shopping and I have only $50.00 cash left. Will you take that?” I asked the manager.

We all had a laugh, and the shopkeeper agreed to the price. I carried my newly acquired masterpiece out to the car, overjoyed with the find. As I lifted the painting into the trunk, I noticed a signature on the backside of the canvas. I had not considered looking at the back for a clue to the artist. It read: “Arthur Dobson, age 13.”

A 13 year old boy had painted this masterpiece? For a moment I felt duped, even though I had paid only a nominal amount for it.But then I understood. The 13 year old Arthur Dobson had communicated directly with the 13 year old boy still inside of me. Instead of disappointing me, this revelation endeared the painting to me and made its restoration that much more important.

On the drive home, my plans for it changed. I would do the work myself to reframe and restore it.I wanted to personally wipe away the greyness from the raw, unblended pigments masterfully applied to this canvas.


. . . . . .



At our annual holiday party, the painting became the subject of conversation between some of my colleagues.

“It doesn’t appear to be signed,” Phil said. “ It looks to me to be of the Luminous School. What do you think, Douglas?”

“Perhaps it’s out of the Hudson River School; it’s an excellent example of Romantic Realism. I would say Bierstadt or Marple. Margaret and I have a landscape by Fredrick Church hanging in our living room. Had to have it insured for $1,000,000. Sorenson, have you had it authenticated yet? How much did you pay for it?”

I ignored the crassness of the questions, and the blatant lie Douglas had just told. No way does he own an authentic Frederick Church.

“It’s sort of embarrassing, and I really didn’t want to talk about it,” I said modestly. “The previous owner didn’t know what he had on his hands, and I don’t want him to find out. I am having it authenticated, but you see, I really got a steal. I only paid $7500.00 for it.”

. . . . . .


Mary does not approve of the little joke I played on the society set in La Jolla. Whether I paid $50.00, $7,500, or $750,000 for my masterpiece, what does it matter? The days are approaching when I may not be able to walk to the Cove to feel the mist rising in the air, to hear the thunder of the crashing waves, or to see the teeming life splashing around with joy.

Yet, now I understand that the Cove was but a proxy for what I truly missed: the intensity, clarity, and sensuality of my young life. I missed the raw, unblended pigments of the shorelines of my childhood. I missed the singularity of the unintentional purpose of a 13 year old boy. Now when I long for those clear and boundless sensations again, I will not long for a walk at the Cove. I will look to the masterpiece by Arthur Dobson, age 13, which hangs above my fireplace.

My Ally of Oriflamme Canyon

Not all of my camping trips are to the mountains. When I first moved to San Diego, I discovered the wild diversity and lovely, secluded spots of Anza Borrego Desert State Park.



One year I decided to explore Anza Borrego on my own. I needed some time to myself, and I wanted seclusion. I had no plans for a campsite, although I had reservations at the developed site adjacent to Palm Canyon and Indian Head Peak, just in case. I took off around 5:00 a.m. with my gear and an old, worn out map.

I headed down S2 and finally pulled over to the side. I wasn't sure about which way to go, but I knew I wanted to stay away from Whale Peak, certain to be a favorite with campers and visitors. I got back on the road, and drove slowly, looking south for any kind of trail.

I passed what seemed to be an old abandoned road in a wash, but it was faint. The map showed no markings for it. Perfect! I turned down the wash.

I drove slowly trying to stay on the trail, which frequently disappeared. The driving was difficult; deep sand, huge boulders, and debris from the years of flash floods blocked my way.

The trail began gaining altitude, and soon I was looking into a small chasm to the left. There appeared to be cottonwoods, but how odd in the desert. Suddenly,the trail took a sharp left turn and headed down the hill. At the bottom was the most exquisite oasis, a running creek with a waterfall, grassy banks and about a dozen cottonwoods providing shade around the pond. I parked the truck and pitched my tent on the grass.

The day was perfect, not too hot, and I enjoyed the exploring. When dusk fell I made a light supper, had a glass of wine, and sat peacefully enjoying the sound of the waterfall and the solitude of my little oasis. Later I fell asleep easily in my tent.

Very late in the night violent winds awakened me. The gusts were at least 30 to 40 miles per hour. Luckily I had secured my tent well. Even so, I wondered if I were not inside to help hold the tent down, would it have flown away?

The banshee wind howled mystically through the small chasm. The cottonwoods acted as vocal cords for the gushes of air blasting in from the west. A full moon lit up my summer weight tent through the netting.

The howling continued, but suddenly I was aware of footsteps circling my tent. Every hair stood on end, and I almost froze with terror. They were most definitely human foot steps I heard, pacing around my tent. I had a rifle with me, but even so I could not find my voice or the courage to get out of the tent to confront the intruder.

Eventually the footsteps stopped. I fell asleep at around daybreak and had the most fantastical dreams.

When I awoke, the sun was overhead and the winds had completely died. The silence rattled me. I gingerly unzipped the tent door and stepped outside.

Rings and rings of coyote tracks circled my tent.

A coyote! To this day I don't know why, but at that moment I felt a kinship with the coyote who visited me that night. He was my protector in the desert. My ally in Oriflamme Canyon.

I found out later that in this particular area of Anza Borrego, illegal gold mining continues, especially with cyanide. Those who venture into the area have occasionally been shot at for daring to explore.

My coyote kept me safe.