Hurricane Charley, Mile Zero, Highway One (photos)

Take One.

We moved inter-island weaving down the chain of atolls and sandbars, following the signs to the end of the Highway One, to the striped cement buoy marking the southernmost point of the United States, painted yellow and black, like a hornet, with red for danger, or for communism. The howling wind whipped the sea into a froth as the tentacles of the hurricane approached land, having already hit landfall somewhere in Cuba. We could almost stand into the wind at 75° angles, as we defied gravity. I was oblivious to the danger, my first hurricane. Palm fronds, sharp as glass, like weapons flying through the air as if thrown by a carnival knife thrower with the scantily clad lady rotating on the roulette wheel. Always a gamble. The wind eddied and curled as if to strip us down to the bone. A green coconut landed at my feet, I scooped it up and gleefully thought of how I would use it at. At the end of Whitehead St., the liquor store was still open for business, so we bought some rum and made coconut water drinks and wended our way back to our Key West hotel room fighting the gale force winds. I fixed salmon with jellied coconut, not quite formed into nut meat, and I drained off the water for drinks. It was brackish, a bit disappointing, tasting of sea, brine and vaguely perfumed. More like drinking a musty dog. The rum helped hide the disappointment. Though we were still far from the epicenter, the wind howled like a banshee and passed us by. Morning broke with clear skies, and you could see almost all the way to Cuba, the hurricane having devastated Havana yet again. No refugees on the horizon. Businesses reopened hoping to catch a stray tourist or two in their nets. I bought a damaged Mile Zero T-shirt and cut off the sleeves, like a black muscle shirt with a big green Zero on it. Jimmy Buffett’s Margaritaville was doing a brisk trade on Duval Street, the bar was lined three deep, even though the sun was barely up. Living on the edge of the continent, exposed to the vagaries of weather, you live in the moment, the calm before the storm drove home the temporal quality of life as we imagined it. 

MILE ZERO

In the distance, a small open boat 

struggles to stay afloat in the following sea—

hopefully not a raft of refugees, not in this storm. 

On the edge of the continent, 

we are small specks of coral sand juxtaposed 

between the Gulf Stream and the Florida Straits.

Lightning lashes out, strikes with a vengeance. 

The cement buoy marking the edge of the US, 

says 90 miles to Cuba. It’s 94 miles, but it’s less poetic.

The line of sight is 3 miles to the meniscus of the ocean.

We are connected by distance and allegiance. 

A sign says Begin Highway One North at Mile Zero. 

The alpha and the omega, the beginning and the end, 

freedom and communism trading places 

where the Atlantic meets the Gulf of Mexico. 

A memorial to the thousands of Cubans

who lost their lives at sea, seeking freedom 

and asylum from the storm.

9/13/23 Write On! with Susie Terence (this is from a collage—see below).

We are caught between the juxtaposition of empty space and the edge of the sea, as lightning lashed the surface of the water with a vengeance. In the distance, a small open boat struggled to stay afloat—hopefully not a raft of refugees in this storm. Each of us is connected by distance and allegiance. The rippling sea as it stretches from island to island, is a molten cloak. We stood on the edge of the continent, so small in our insignificance. The street corner, bisecting Whitehead and South Street, where the cement buoy that marks the edge of the continent informs us that it’s 70 miles to Cuba. Begin Highway One N. at Mile Zero. The alpha and the omega, the beginning, and the end, freedom and communism trading places where the Atlantic meets the Gulf of Mexico. It’s a memorial to the thousands of Cubans, who lost their lives at sea, seeking freedom from the storm.

Old Florida blogposts.

• Hurricane Charley, Mile Zero, Highway One (photos)
• Confessions of an iPod Roadie
• Letter from Fort Jefferson, Dry Tortugas, journal
• Missive from Fort Jefferson, Dry Tortugas, journal

Mr. Nunes’ bison bull calf, Lagunitas, ca. 1982 (photos)

While scanning my tear sheet archives, I stumbled across some poor scans of old photos…. If I ever find the negatives….Mr. Nunes feeding Nickel, the bull calf bison while a scandalized Hereford heifer looks on incredulously as he feeds her hay to the stranger. Lagunitas, ca 1982.

I wonder what the heifer thought of the bison? It looks like the only romance going on was with the hay. Old Man Nunes was so proud of his little bison calf. What was he thinking? (Besides the price of beefalo.) Bison are completely unpredictable and are bulldozers when it comes to fences.

There's a backstory, bison are part of the fabric of my childhood. When I was a kid, there was another bison—yes, we called them buffalo—in Nicasio right by the church. The only reason why Belle the Buffalo stayed put in the church pasture was because she liked the other cows. I used to save my buffalo head nickels and named them all Belle. 

Tuesday was bank day at school. I was in second grade. We had a little manila envelopes with rope ties and we were encouraged to save a nickel or a dime a week so I put all my most treasured coins, Indian head pennies, buffalo nickels, and liberty dimes in those little envelopes thinking that I would get the same ones back again later from Bank of America, in the old brick Grandi Hotel in Point Reyes.

Then one hopped up Saturday night some hoodlums came out and shot the poor buffalo for no reason at all. Or, so the story goes. We were all devastated. Or so I thought, you know how gossip misdirects itself.  As it turns out, she up and died for no real reason. That’s the official story. Maybe it was natural causes like age, or disease. But I suspect some guys did shoot at her. It was that kind of an era with loaded gun racks across back windows of pickup trucks.

So, when Nickel showed up, we were all insane with joy. I used to take my grandmother up to the ranch for a visit (today would’ve been her 130th birthday). It was a case of Meet the new family pet, Nickel. I wonder what happened to the little bison when Old Man Nunes died. He was fence-resistant as I recall. The bison, not Mr. Nunes. 

Now there are fancyass palaces on Portola Road (the fire road to the Lookout) once my own private Eden, and I can't imagine they'd tolerate a wayward bison.

Both Tony Senior and Tony Junior have crossed the rainbow bridge, and Nickel, too, I presume. I always meant to collect Tony Junior’s folklore. Too late. I heard that the youngest brother, Mel Nunes, who was a few years ahead of me in school, became a volunteer fireman for the Woodacre Fire Department—still lives at the ranch. Maybe I’d better pay him a visit before it’s too late.

Retro Russian River Poison Oak Festival photo redux

Some of my retro 1980s Russian River Poison Oak Festival photos from The Paper were published in the Press Democrat. Daylighting these old negatives is always good. Thank you Maci Martell.

Musing on mallows (photos)

Abutilon ssp., Indian mallow, wild cotton—but the shiny leaf is wrong—a Hybridum? 
I searched the web to credit the photographer, nope. Oldest v. was 2021. From Facebook.

An old friend from the Cazadero days, Marc Nassar, now living in Lisbon, posted a photo of a gorgeous globe mallow of sorts on Facebook. In his author photo, he wears a T-shirt that proclaims, in art we trust. He often posts images of pure beauty. 

So I often leave comments on his page, in part, to acknowledge the post, a habit of acknowledging the other, developed during the height of the pandemic when we were all so isolated from each other. But I also cannot resist the fleeting tangibility of beauty. (See Breakfast of campions.)

We stumbled upon each other on Facebook via old photos I had posted of a poetry reading, ca. 1998 at Marc’s house in Cazadero, of poets Mike Tuggle, Jim Dodge and Elizabeth Herron—this, after decades of isolation. It was something like 2 to 3° of separation, but Facebook often works in mysterious ways, telescoping time and distance into time present.

Morning aubade (photos)

The coyotes are howling at both ends of the valley—in broad daylight. Harvest moon has come and gone. Earlier it was a family of small owlets who still can’t properly hoot. Soon, Bucky and his old father with the hoarfrost dipped nose, will daintily dink their way down from the hill to get their morning drink from the creek. They have no fear, now that hunting season is over. Last night was supposed to be first frost, but again, the grass has no dew on it, so we can’t see the lacework of the orb spiders laying out their crocheted webs on the dry grass. Even the dew is forsaking us.

I love lying in my flannel sleeping bag listening to the morning chorus of birds. Mostly ravens patrolling the valley muttering grock-grock, and the small screech owls in the trees are having trouble getting the correct sequence of their hoot on, so I can’t tell what species they are, not great horned owls, nor burrowing owls. One-note towhees and chupping robins add to the morning’s cacophony. The robins and warblers are getting hammered on the clusters of madrone berries. Soon the quail will add their smik-smik sounds in the underbrush. The bluejay adds his metallic squitch-squitch scissor sharpening sounds to the score. 

The redtail hawks no longer circle this valley, nor call it home, but an opportunistic red-shouldered hawk moved in and has raised a family, she is constantly squawking like a fishwife, at war with the ravens and crows who are now barking like dogs. No love lost between them. I prefer the redtails with their lonely tcheer sound. My totem animal. I heard one redtail passing overhead, why do they no longer stay here? 

Who said nature was peaceful? It’s one massive turf war out there raging tooth and claw. A hummingbird lectures a poison oak bush with its mip-clicks. The gray squirrels are busy scolding each other in the bay trees down by the creek. I love waking up in the tent, knowing I don’t have much longer where I can sleep outside like this. Poignant reminder of passing time. Yesterday, I had to secure the tent, really a rickety summer gazebo, from the fierce winds bellowing in from the east. It rocked like a taut jib sail, the tie down ropes singing like harp strings. 

Yesterday I finished stacking the rest of the cordwood for winter. Like a draft horse I pulled 20 small wagonloads of wood up the hill. Mostly dense cypress and fruitwood. Day three of my second COVID booster, I’m puffing, but I feel surprisingly good. First sun illumines the buckeyes, small golden orbs. The deer are hungry, eating the jackets off the toxic buckeye. 

So much love and hard labor is required to clear out my grandmother’s old garden orchard after a half-century of neglect. Last week we took 16 loads of debris down to the road to the county chipper, we are fire hardening the land. We will haul 20 more loads down to the road, and repeat again the following week. Two little old ladies with broad backs and battery-operated chainsaws who refuse to succumb to the vagaries of age. My hips hurt from hauling wood, but this winter, my cousins will stay warm. 

The tongue of low lying morning fog is infrequent these days and because of it, the trees—especially the redwoods and firs—are aging out, dying from pine beetle infestation and a profound lack of water. A tinderbox of a pocket canyon waiting for the hunger of a match. The last time this valley burned was in 1942. The first thing that drew me to poetry was the the wind in the fir trees sounding like ocean waves. And the bluejays making similes. I didn’t realized how much I missed keeping rhythm with the seasons, especially the long dance of the fall. Saying goodbye to my childhood. Maybe for the last time.

THE RAPTURE OF THE DUTCH GOLDEN AGE

While I watched the birds flit in the skewed rafters of Scheve Jan,

Oude Kerk, my friend pointed to a worn inscription on the stone floor.

I got down on my hands and knees in order to read it,

and shrieked, as I was sprawled atop a Petri dish, the graveslab 

of the father of microbiology, Antonie van Leeuwenhoek, 

a draper who perfected the loupe and the aquatic microscope.

He, who discovered kleine diertjes, cavorting wee beasties, 

animalcules frolicking in the rainwater and in the canals of Delft—

delven means to dig, and so he delved a canal into the obscure arts.

He was the first to witness unnamed creatures of an unknown world—

paramecia, protozoa & spermatozoa—I don’t even want to go there.

In winter light, the church was too dark for my camera to record,

I needed spectacles to see. But at that moment my feet 

(& knees) gave me a more pious vision. I was so enthralled,

I overlooked the plaque of that other master of ultramarine shadow 

and light, I came too late to see—Vermeer, and his camera lucida, 

but at a vlooienmarkt in front of City Hall, I found antique Delft tiles 

painted with dragonflies, and a beatific saint rising above the marsh.

9/27

Observationes microscopicae drawn by Antoni Leeuwenhoek, 1682 Wiki

CASUALTIES OF WAR (photos)

Mohammad Mohiedine Anis, 70, sits in his destroyed bedroom listening to music. Joseph Eid, WaPo

In that viral photo of Aleppo, from the Ides of March, 2017, an old man, Mohammad Anis, sits on the bed, the fallen headboard like the lid of a sarcophagus. He sits, with pipe in hand, he’s pushed back the bedspread covered in plaster dust to make room for his thoughts. He stares at the gramophone, the needle poised, the hand crank at the ready. He contemplates at the possibility of music during a time when the idea of home is gone,  the vinyl record is done. Only the hissing remains. The floor is strewn with rubble, jigsaw puzzles, pieces of plaster ceiling and wall have joined him. Who will find the hard edges to solve that puzzle? The man from Aleppo refuses to leave his home, the city of his ancestors. We can’t see his two cats napping in a wicker chair in a larger photo. The shutter is askew. There’s a crib in the corner by a petchka stove. A samovar. A pile of books, pages fluttering like bird wings, the window transoms are open to let the morning air in, but the glass is shattered by the impact of missiles. His collection of old cars, gone, he makes plans to rebuild for his children, children. A remnant of a lace curtain luffs in the breeze, a reminder of a gentler time. There is a lull, a momentary silence of grief embedded in the midst of this senseless jihad of a war. He raises his pipe to his mouth but the ember has gone out. He has no words left to explain this life.

Russian missile strikes a flat in northern Kharkiv, Feb 24, 2022. Sergey Bobok,Time

First Syria, and now Ukraine, we witness the handiwork of a despotic Putin intent on making war on civilians, we watch the six o’clock news, in real time, with no buffer. In Kharkiv, Ukraine, the photos of war are played out again, like a cinema trailer, only in real time, the entire body of a missile has pierced the ceiling and embedded itself in the floor like a strange pillar or plant. There is no one in the room. Only a mirror and the crucifix on the wall bearing witness. The bed is folded over into a couch. The occupant gone, but alive. Miraculously, the chandelier is intact. The table is set for breakfast, the keyboard covered in thick dust, the rubble on the floor, Soviet era concrete scours the nostrils. On the window ledge, plants in need of watering lean crazily towards the light. The computer screen and television are dressed in dust ghosts as if a child had breathed on them in order to draw a picture. There is no easy way to comprehend these civilian casualties in the midst of a senseless war. Soon the man will return to his flat to survey the damage. Kharkiv holds the line, Mariupol has fallen. My friend Miceál lands in Lviv with medical supplies and 10,000 bodybags. Meanwhile, the midst of all this chaos, a babushka, whose friends are learning the art of the sniper, is baking bread for the Ukrainian soldiers, she is offering bread and salt to welcome us to the world stage.

The mountain of many names (photos)

The mountain of many names. This iconic mountain in West Marin once had a Miwok name, but that is lost. Dewey says it’s Oyen Mucsis, but no one really knows. It has had many, many settler names. The Russian names and the Californio names are lost. James Black was merely an owner, so it was called Black’s Mountain. As in the man who paid the taxes. It was a name on a geodetic map. We never used it because we didn’t even know it was his mountain. In those days, who had geodetic maps? Who can own a view like that?

As it lay dreaming, it was variously called Knuckle Mountain, Sleeping Elephant, and Elephant Foot Mountain, that’s what we called it when I was ten, and Marin hadn’t yet been invaded by the rockstars—so we can’t blame them. From the top of Mt. Barnabe, it looks like an elephant’s foot. An elephant dreaming of the sea.

As for the current coloquial name Elephant Mountain, it was called that long before Jesse Colin Young moved to Inverness and named his album after it in deep homage. Banana of the Youngbloods knows the backstory, he confirmed to me that a local, Hannah Bauer, gave them the name. (NB Hannah grew up in Sausalito.)

And yes, there were once elephants here, once upon a time, both mastodons and mammoths—and they grazed on the lush sweet grasses of the verdant lush plains that rolled all the way out to the Farallon Islands. They wore the rocks smooth itching their butts near Goat Rock. And then they all died. 

But the mountain that arose from the depths as pillow lava, is sleepwalking towards the sea. It endures our the fog of our transgressions, it forgives us our erosion of names, and still it feeds our imaginations. This mountain of many names.

From a Facebook photo post, you can see it here, but for this blog I used my latest iteration of the mountain.

• BLACK MOUNTAIN
• Channeling the clouds on Elephant Mountain
• Three views of Elephant Mountain (drawings)
• Two colored pencil drawings, Elephant Mountain, 
• Two pastels, Elephant Mountain
• Black Mountain after the fire (colored pencil drawing 
• Elephant Mountain & fog, (colored pencil drawing)
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Watusi cattle of Wilson Hill (photos)

And on Wilson Hill Road, Stubbs Ranch, are some extraordinary African Watusi cattle. Mama bathing her calf, I suspect the older calves are hers too by the way they hang on her every breath. No, she’s not a hermaphrodite. They have weird bellybuttons. Bulls also have dewlaps on their necks, and brahma style humps on their backs. Check out those horns! Those horns are used somewhat like a car radiator to cool their blood, not to gore you. But the Watusi cattle are related to the original longhorns, that is, the Egyptian Hamitic longhorn, also ancestor to Mexican (and Texican) longhorns.

The following article on Watusis was so windy it was practically a hurricane, so I paraphrased it. You’re welcome.

“Ankole-Watusi cattle with their distinctive large-diameter horns, trace their ancestry back more than 6,000 years, and are referred to as "cattle of kings."

Long-horned, humpless domestic cattle were established in the Nile Valley by 4000 B.C. Egyptian or Hamitic Longhorn, appear in pictographs in Egyptian pyramids. Over the next 2.000 years, the Egyptian Longhorn migrated from the Nile to Ethiopia, and to southern Africa.

By 2000 B. C., humped cattle (Longhorn Zebu) from Pakistan and India also reached Africa. When the Zebu reached Ethiopia and Somalia, they were interbred with Egyptian Longhorn to produce the Sanga -- the breed spread to the Sudan, Uganda, Kenya, eastern Africa, becoming the base stock of indigenous African breeds. The Sanga had Zebu characteristics, pendulous dewlap and sheath, upturned horns, and a neck hump. Modern descendants of the Sanga, however, vary greatly in size, conformation, and horns.

Particularly remarkable are the cattle found in Uganda, Rwanda, and Burundi. In Uganda, the Nkole tribe's Sanga variety is known as the Ankole. In Rwanda and Burundi, the Tutsi tribe's Sanga variety is called the Watusi. The Rwanda common strain of Watusi is called Inkuku. 

Chasing sundogs and sunbows again (photos)

A right-handed sundog hid behind a sunbow, refused to show its face, but the lake saw it.

Neither my eye or camera could see the left sundog, but Nicasio Reservoir captured it.

At Wilson Hill, a right-handed sundog hid behind a cloud, refused to show its face, it was a long wait.

Driving north to Two Rock, I had better luck capturing the right sundog hiding behind a cirrus cloud.

Chasing sundogs and sunbows again. They were elusive as sprites. A sunbow—aka a parhelic circle, is formed by ice crystals in the cirrus clouds, refracting light like prisms. I could only capture one sundog at a time, aka a parhelion, it was so bright. I thought I could capture them at sunset, but they disappeared. So much depends upon the angle of the sun in the sky and the time of day... and timing is everything. I took an entire afternoon off to chase the rare sundogs.

Since neither my eye or my camera could see all the sundogs at once, I resorted to using lake reflections to capture the left sundog. The lake was a vast mirror. But the sundogs were distorted by the cirrus clouds. They were way more intense than in these photos. The invisible left sundog was trapped on the surface of the lake. I had to use a bush to block out the reflection of the sun, and was nearly blinded for my efforts. The upper and lower sundogs remained invisible.  

Driving north over Wilson Hill Road to Chileno Valley, I had better luck capturing the left sundog hiding behind a cirrus cloud. It was a long wait but worth it when it reappeared. But as the sun set near Two Rock, the sky turned all dirty rainbow as if tinged with smoke, on both sides of the sun. Impossible to capture.

I am still searching for that elusive moment when the sky is covered with myriad rainbows and multitudes of sun dogs with long arms. I saw something like that once in the 1990s, the buttermilk sky was like a shimmering sequined dress made of rainbows and diamonds. I may have attempted a photo but in the days of actual film, we were much more stingy with our media. And knew what wouldn’t adequately record well on film.

For a better explanation of parhelia see my other post Facebook) or here on my blog: Chasing sundogs (photos) You can see the parhelic circle more clearly there. There is always one sundog on either side of the sun, connected by a circular rainbow. The parhelic circle extends from one sundog to its twin, which is part of a much larger arc. They are like angel wings of the sun. But timing is everything.

Chasing sundogs (photos)

Late afternoon sun, one sundog, and a sunbow—aka a parhelic circle, which is sort of like a fogbow, caused by ice crystals in the cirrus clouds refracting light, at Nicasio Reservoir, Elephant Mountain, and lake reflection. I could only capture one sundog, aka a parhelion, it was so bright.

There was one sundog on either side of the sun. See the vague horizontal band of light coming from the sundog? The parhelic circle extended from one sundog to its twin, and was part of a much larger arc. Poor iPad struggled, didn’t catch the sundog reflections in the lake. It was like being inside a large prism or Fresnel lens. 

Each ripple on the lake carried a small reflection of the sun and sundogs. Today it was a case of trying to take a photo of one thing, and getting something completely different and unexpected. Hence, the synchronicity. Sometimes you have to let go of the idea and go with the flow. Truth be known, I didn’t see the sundog right away, until after I had taken a photo, it was so bright.

What I originally meant to capture was the reflection, I was intrigued by the little ripples so like sketch lines. Sometimes you have to let go of the idea you’re planning to take a photo and go with the flow. Truth be known, I didn’t see the sundog right away, it was so bright. A rainbow is a symbol of an end of a rainstorm, while a sundog is a harbinger of more rain, or snow on the horizon.

I had a hard time capturing it. it was so bright. There was one sundog on either side of the sun. See the vague horizontal band of light coming from the sundog? The parhelic circle extended from one sundog to its twin, and was part of a much larger arc. Poor iPad struggled. Didn’t want to use my camera, as I once burned out the imager on my favorite camera taking photos of reflections one winter afternoon, late. I underestimated the power of the sun. So I may have just sacrificed my iPad camera. But sundogs are so rare.

Didn’t want to use my real camera, as I once fried the image sensor on my favorite camera while taking photos of late afternoon reflections at Schooner Bay one winter afternoon, when I underestimated the power of the low December sun. See how the sun blasted out the image when I tried to capture both sundogs? I could barely look at the iPad screen, so I was practically shooting blind. So I may have just sacrificed my iPad camera. But sundogs are so freaking rare…. ya hadda be there. So, a ew days later, there was another sundog. Chasing sundogs and sunbows again (photos)

Breaking the spine of the drought (drought journal) (photos)

before the deluge

Dec 11, 2021

Dec. 16, after the deluge.

Breaking the spine of the drought. Winter light on Elephant Mountain, the Nicasio reservoir is still way too low—even after last month’s deluge. And all those Mt. Tam reservoirs are overfull. The good news is that water will finally fill Kent Lake and spill over into Lagunitas Creek, which means an actual real salmon run after years of no fish.

The old bridge is underwater, but the old road isn’t 

But both Nicasio and Soulajoule reservoirs are still way too low… Haven’t seen Stafford Lake, but I suspect it too is still low. The drought ain’t over yet. Nicasio may be a shallow reservoir, but in sheer acreage, it’s huge, so, if there was a lot of rainfall all over Marin, it would have filled up fast. But it didn’t.

There is less than 23” of total rainfall in San Rafael, a little over 21” in Fairfax, and 11” in Novato. And less than 13” total rain at Dillon Beach. Not all the stockponds of West Marin have filled. Some are, yes. 

We have been more or less in drought mode since 2010-2011, with two exceptionally wet years in 2014, and 2016—hence all the wildfires. We’ve had more drought years than deluge years since 1975. See how the water is up to the old bridge, left of center. Now, we’re up to the usual low-water mark level of winter. No longer extreme drought conditions. But we’ve still got a long way to go to break the pattern. See that tree line above the water? That is the shore of the lake.

Woodies under the floorboards of the Woodpussy (photos)

Note the size of the large brass screw above them, for scale.

As I was cleaning up trash and the last of the old Woodpussy sailboat floorboards, preparing for the upcoming storm, I was startled by a pair of tiny hibernating baby woodies, the somewhat rare reclusive Marin forest, or wood scorpions. I carefully replaced the floor boards after I took their prerequisite Cecil B DeMille close-ups. They were too cold to even move, so I had a captive audience. Note the large brass screw behind the second one for scale. Such exquisite, if scary, perfection. And yes, of course I screamed. I usually do, as I am initially repulsed by them. They are the stuff of nightmares. I was haunted by recurring dreams of finding scorpions in attics. I got exasperated and invented a new ending where they didn’t sting me. I must’ve been reading too much Levi-Strauss for my folklore classes. Luckily, these little guys don't know the fable of the scorpion and the fox that it’s inherent in the scorpion’s nature to sting. Startled, surprised, and absolutely gobsmacked by them, and I am also in utter awe to catch a glimpse of these shy little creatures. I can count the times I’ve seen them on one hand. Well, maybe two. That rare, yes. We grew up with them but never even knew of their existence. I remember rolling a rotted log down by our old oak tree and there was a family snoozing under the log. I screamed and climbed the hogwire fence. They eventually waddled off. I felt so betrayed, somehow. Then the penny dropped, they were also under the house where I used to play, when I crawled to get the cats….and they never once stung me. I got inpetigo, and other odd ailments, but not scorpion stings. Most people will never see an Uroctonus mordax, no matter how wood-wise they are. When I look at their incredible beauty, I am in awe that such complicated creatures even exist in this world. And I get to witness it. They are fairly docile, you would be hard-pressed to get them to sting you. And even if they did, a beesting is much worse. And if I had a UV light, they’d fluoresce teal blue vs. yellow. These little guys were too cold to move away from the direct light. They just watched me warily, scuttling in a circle to face me, as if to say, I’m too small. Not a tasty snack. Apparently they taste like very tiny lobster. A good thing I don’t like lobster. I guess I’ll be leaving the rest of the Woodpussy boards in situ until they move along.

• Scorpion under a pot for Earth Day
• Camping in Baja
• The Wood-Pussy

Persimmons (photos)

Ripe persimmons hanging from a bare tree like small fiery suns, are a poignant sign of winter. These Japanese Diospyros kaki or Hachiya persimmons, were picked on Arroyo Road in Forest Knolls. How many times did I pass that tree and never noticed it when I was walking home from school? Unripe hachiyas are astringent and inedible until they are soft as an over-ripe tomato. My grandmother always said, you’re not supposed to pick them until after the first frost. But this year, the frosts have been so light, I got tired of waiting for winter to come. 

Like quinces and medlars, they are completely inedible until they are bletted which is a polite way of saying approaching the rotten stage. Persimmon trees really don’t want you eating a persimmon until it’s beyond ripe. Patience is required. If you bite into an unbletted hachiya, it will take the skin off your teeth, give them fur jackets, not to mention, strip the roof of your mouth, and leave your uvula wizened to the size of a peppercorn, and you will be speechless, I guarantee it. Who had to look up uvula? Not what you thought, right? 

I hated persimmons as a kid, probably because I tried to eat an unripe one. It’s an acquired taste I’m still trying to cultivate, because of their health benefits, I must admit I’m leery, but I am willing to revisit them. Just not raw. When they’re ripe, you can freeze and eat them like custard. Be sure to use a good silver plate or sterling spoon, the acid reacts with metal. Kind of like a battery. I remember watching my granny scoop out the vermillion frozen pulp and eat them on late winter afternoons, with sheer delight. But I never acquired a taste for them.

Or you can make persimmon bread, or pudding, my favorite—an excellent boozy Christmas pudding, but it requires finesse with baking powder, baking soda, soda and buttermilk (or yogurt) to neutralize the oxalates and proanthocyanidins and antioxidant phytochemical enzymes (insoluble tannins and gallic acid). Aka better living through chemistry. (Diospyros means divine fruit of Zeus in Greek). And it also requires a lot of emotional support booze before, during, and after. And then, after baking it, you have to booze-bathe the little puddy weekly. And of course, have a tot yourself to keep it company. It’s a long-term commitment relationship. After all, it is a kind of fruitcake—they don’t like to drink alone. Not to mention the hardsauce. 

I’ve long since lost my granny’s persimmon bread recipe, along with her fruitcake recipe, but here’s one by James Beard, whom she admired. It calls for a lot of bourbon. Here’s a simple version that uses both kinds of persimmons. She probably got her boiled pudding recipe from Bon Appétit! Or if boiled or steamed pudding isn’t your cuppa, you can try their baked persimmon bread recipe, which sounds like pumpkin bread dressed in persimmon pajamas. Or try persimmon bread pudding. No recipe given. You’re on your own here, wildcatting it, as it were. Both persimmon bread and pudding freeze well.

The short, squatty Japanese variety, or cultivar, Fuyus, or Fujus, look like little sumo apples with dimpled bottoms, and  are eaten crisp. No waiting, or bletting necessary. Freezing them will help ripen them too. 

Our native American persimmons, Diospyros virginiana, aka sugarplums, or possum-apples, grow on the eastern seaboard—especially in the greater Mississippi Valley. There is also a southern black species, D. texana, chapote, or tzapotl, from the Nahuatl. There are both male and female persimmon trees (and some are switch-hitters, alternating sexes), like persea, aka avocados, and like avocados, they evolved oddly to entice certain ice age megafauna, such as mammoths, mastodons and giant sloths to nosh away, so they could, erm, well, propagate. The persimmons, not the megafauna. I was told they are all good dried—the persimmons, not the megafauna. Let’s just say they had a unique seed dungheap distribution system. (The persimmons.) As for ripening tips, I’ve never seen any. But they do need to be bletted as well.

There are over 400 species of persimmon, Ebenaceae family, most are native to Eurasia. Apparently the slow growing persimmon heartwood, a species of ebony—think black piano keys—takes a hundred years to form. Patience is required. Persimmonwood also makes the finest golf clubs in the world. Ebony, a rather lousy raft material, is also so dense, it sinks in water. You knew that, right? Fore! Birdy? Or is it a mulligan? Where’s my snorkel? I think I’ve  lost the score. Or was it the plot? Think I’ll have a ‘nother neggnog. Cheers!

See also

• 
  
• True Quinces

• In defense of California Bay Laurel
• Defiant Fruitcakes
• Wild Apples

RIP, Buddy the Cat (Florida Journals) (photos)

The wind was blowing the whirligig, but Buddy couldn’t hear it.

RIP, Buddy the Cat, who at age 19, was nearly old enough to visit the local bar, that’s something like 133 in cat years. I tried to warn my friends that his time had probably come, as he was pissing on the hall floor. I was always stepping in it barefoot. No odor, renal failure, I knew the drill too well. My favorite cats, Cheetos and Jack, both orange bhoys, died of kidney failure. Poor little guy slept on the couch the last few days. No more midnight yowling. And of course, no one wants to hear that their pet is dying. At least he didn’t die on my watch. 

Whenever I was on the couch, Buddy the Cat liked to parallel park along my calf, snoozing hard, it’s a tough life being a cat. Whenever I went outside, he hovered nearby, like a constant shadow. He was deaf as a stump but responded to percussive sounds.

But he also kept me sane under impossible circumstances. He was my constant flame, my fan club, and my tormentor. He had a hellacious medianoche howl. He was able to reach a much louder velocity than what I was able to record on my iPad. He would throw his head back like a little wolf, and he kept me awake most nights with his yowling. So much so, that I needed to visit the bar. Drive me to drink, he did. He always shut up and made baby squeaks whenever he saw me coming, he knew he wasn’t supposed to howl. And he went running off whenever he saw me, he knew the score. So I had to sneak my iPad around corners in order to catch him in action. 

I only knew Buddy for three weeks, while catsitting. Not too sure how long that is in cat years. First, there was the cool cat whothehellareyou and whathaveyoudone with my master beloved, I’ll keep my distance and be terribly aloof—week. Then there was the OMG you are my entire universe wherehaveyoubeen allmylife week. And then the lovefest commenced. But I could see how he was beginning to falter, and I knew him well enough to recognize the signs of renal failure. I tried to tell my hosts when they returned, to say their goodbyes, but it was news no one wants to hear. 

A stone-deaf pale flame Siamese colored Persian with a lion haircut, he pretty much followed me everywhere once he realized I was not only the catsitter, I was the gravytrain, the head scratcher, the face washer, the ear massager, and master tail-butt itcher all rolled into one. A few nights after my friends returned home from their concert series, the yowling magically stopped. Even they were surprised. Something was up. Buddy’s card. Gonna miss that little guy, but not his particular rendition of the song of his people.

When I moved his bed outside to the back porch, he was a happy camper.

Facewashing the cat (photos) (Florida journals)

I just cleaned Buddy the Cat’s face with eye drops and a wet toothbrush—he loves it—plus eye medicine. He helps me scrub his little face. I did his ears inside and out too, as they were not very clean. And he went apeshit, he was cross-eyed, and groaning with pleasure, trying to stick his hind feet into his ears and everywhere else. Right now he is grooming his head. He is about 19 years old and his hygiene is sadly lacking. If he wasn’t so old I would give him a bath ASAP.

Buddy the Cat in ecstacy, falling over backwards for a little noserub. He decided I might be alright after all. Gonna miss the little guy. He is a lovely creature. When I scratch his back at the base of his tail, he licks his front, especially his bib. It’s very clean. Since he needs to brush up on personal hygiene skills, this is good. When I first scratched his spine at the base of his tail he didn’t like it, now he thinks it’s wonderful. Lots of head butts. Right now, he is washing my elbow, as well as behind his own ears. Who knew that my elbow was so dirty?

Buddy the inside cat is studying for a PhD in quantum mechanics. That is how he can be both inside and outside at the same time. He also has a minor degree in cat opera, and has the lungs of a Pavarotti. I keep stalking the cat to record his hideous meows, and he always cottons onto me. Imagine this yowl at quadruple the volume, and a sustained yodel, with more vibrato, longing and saudade to it—carrying on for five or more minutes at a stretch, going off like clockwork all through the night. 

Meanwhile, the back porch raccoon decided that the food scraps I put out for her needed a good washing—including the old bread I put out yesterday. Nothing worse than a bad cook making bread soup with cat kibble.

Fasciated bananas (photos, drawing) (Florida journals)

La sonreia de los bananas. Yesterday Ana, the good care provider, brought me a large bunch of bananas from her garden. I think they’re bananas, but they could be platanos. Yesterday I bought what I thought were small bananas at the store, they turned out to be tiny platanos. Ugh. Bitter in the mouth. Ana brought me 15 bananas, and one is a double, so 16. Fasciation. Fascinating.

Buddy the Cat (more cat pix) (Florida journals)

Buddy the Cat quizzically eyeing the stranger. 

Buddy just realized I was standing there. He misses his humans. Apparently I will do, but just barely. Especially since I started cleaning his eyes. He loves that. Poor thing. Whoever bred Persians with punched-in faces oughta be forced to eat out of cat bowls with his hands ziplocked behind his back. What a stupid trait. 

It took some doing but I managed to get his face clean. He loved it. I soak a toothbrush in eyedrops and rub his face he helps me. He strokes the toothbrush and then licks it, he’s quite funny. He is 19 which is the equivalent of 133 human years. He does have teeth, I convinced him to play with me by touching his paws and he grabbed my hand in his mouth. He was very gentle, but firm. I’m trying something new tonight, as I’m rather desperate for a full night’s sleep. I brought him on the bed with me. He seems to be happy. He hasn’t yodeled in several hours. I got five whole hours uninterrupted sleep.

In this photo he just squeaked softly, as if mumbling to himself. That I can live with. But not the howling all night long under my window. When does he sleep? I’m fairly certain he is deaf, and is probably near-blind as well. Possibly senile. His yowling sounds as if he was lost or abandoned. Not a caterwaul yowl. 

When Buddy loses the plot, he can crank it up several decibels. I keep stalking the cat to try and record his hideous meows, and he always cottons on. Imagine this at quadruple the volume, and a sustained yodel, with more longing and saudade— for five or more minutes, going off like clockwork all through the night. I wanted to post a video of his medium howls, but the file is 35 MB. When I can figure out how to trim it I will post it. Can’t seem to access the clip function on the iPad version of a movie.

Mi vida loca (cat pix) (Florida journals)

 Mi vida loca. Ana, the weekend care provider arrives today, she is an angel, the other care provider is terrible, plays on her cellphone all day, cada día. Pero Ana se limpio todo la casa. She takes care of my musician friends’ mother, Justa. I am a majordomo orchestrating the house, and I am also responsible for a bevvy of cats who understand todo en español Cubano! Este lenguage es muy rapido, no Rs, no Ss. Todo inmersión. 

Meanwhile, Buddy the Cat yowls his bilingual two-note aria, he is searching for his mortal beloved. I cannot tell him that no matter how many doors he visits, Kirk no esta aqui. The cat has taken to howling beneath my window every night to show his displeasure. I need earplugs and a full night’s sleep. Mi mente explotándo en tongues. Buddy, a declawed flame Persian with a ridiculous lion haircut, is the victim of a careless owner who wanted a plush toy, found safe haven here en la casa de los gatos. He is yodeling in the stairwell, which is an echo chamber. I know he is senile and deaf, I wonder if he can hear himself better there. 

He is 19, which is the equivalent of 133 human years. He has a chronic eye infection, I wonder how much he can see, because sometimes he tumbles down the stairs, and uses his paw like a blindman’s cane. He doesn’t seem to have teeth either. The four feral outside cats, the opossum and the raccoon are blessedly silent. Thank God there are no longer any cockatiels in the mix. But a cloud of escaped zoo parrots from Hurricane Katrina fly across the sky chattering up a storm.

Bad Scanner Day redux, with Jay Daniel

And today, on my Facebook Memories thread, this story of my attempts at scanning negatives of Jay Daniel (Lapidus) at a photography exhibit at the Falkirk Center in 1985 popped up. I had no idea who he was—other than I recognized his face from the wayback days—until I scanned the negative with his paycheck on it. It all fell into place. 

And so, I searched for him on Facebook, and that was the day we became virtual friends. Again. I had no idea that all of this synchronic alignment that dates back to our high school daze at SF Drake HS, happened on the day of Jay’s mom’s birthday. How cool is that? Happy 93rd birthday Mrs. Lapidus, indeed. 

Mrs. Lapidus, Jay Daniel photo

Today is the one-year anniversary of the day synchronicity rolled up its shirtsleeves, and was found hard at work aligning the stars just so. I guess the story isn’t yet done with me.

A year later, I still don’t have the good Epson scanner to finish the job. The price went through the roof. It now costs more used, than when it was new. But I have hope that I will find one I can afford so that I can finish the job. As I recall, there was also yet another a massive wildfire that kept us all on our toes with our evacuation piles at the ready. And we were several months into solitary confinement and sequestration.

I have at least six more fat albums of negatives of poets and artists to scan…but it’s too hit and miss with the old scanner that wantonly chops off people’s hands and heads. I did, however, nearly finish scanning my newspaper archives. To do: few files of of musicians that also need TLC. And my travel negatives. Progress has been made and measured in gigabytes.

• Bad scanner day