I’m dreaming of a white Thanksgiving

It’s been snowing up and down the California Coast, the mountains of Sonoma County are dusted white. The Mayacamas range, where the Kincade Fire was, can use the snow (it was already hit with several deluges) because the melting snow will soak into the soil vs. mudslides. And we really need precipitation in any form, because of fire danger. We seem to be having a white Thanksgiving on every pass in CA above 1000 feet. Geyser Peak was white. As was Mt. St. Helena. Snow level was quite low. All the Bay Area peaks, including Mt. Diablo and Mt. Hamilton are covered with snow. Snow showers in the Santa Lucia Mountains in Monterey County too. The Grapevine got so much snow it closed the road, same with Tehachepe. Windsor, which is than warmer than Grafton, or Occidental, was 26º. It’s colder yet in this northeastern gulch near Occidental. It was downright frigid in Tahoe as well. Southern California got some rain too, but the fires have been so severe, they’re in danger of massive mudslides and lahars after the rains. It’s raining there now, and it’s a toasty 48ºF now. Crazy times. A white holiday season of ash and snow and mudslides. Happy Thanksgiving.

From a FB post added, rev. 11/20

ASH AND SNOW (more of a quatrain than a haiku)

Yesterday’s mountains,
covered in ash from wildfires,
today, are dressed in lacy
garments of snow.

11/28/19

A CHANCE OF SNOW (a quatrainish haiku)

It’s warmed up to 39° 

The forecast, a real chance of snow.
Time to put on some real shoes, wool socks,

time get my down jacket out of storage.

PETRICHOR BOUQUET

The pitter-patter of tiny feet 

on the windowsill,

children of the storm,

a petrichor bouquet! 

Update: bleedin’ell, 

it’s a dragon’s roar now.

Stomping grapes on the roof.

The power just flickered. 

There goes the Internet.

Ah, dust and beeswax candles, 

the scent of trapped summer

and the corpses of insects.

Power is back on, a garish reminder.

The WiFi gods must be crazy.

The rain is pounding on the roof,

unbelievably noisy,

like thundering hooves

settling into the storm.

From a FB post added, rev. 11/20

Linguistic racism

I just called out the senior center lunch lady for being racist. I was talking to Giselda, a volunteer, in her native language, Spanish. I am always eager to practice my Spanish, a legacy from John Oliver Simon. The Lunch lady butted in, and said she thought she was in a foreign country. At first I thought she was joking, but then she chapped me up. She said, This is America, don’t you know how to speak English? I was gobsmacked. She had known me for months, if not a couple of years, and this was the only time I had ever spoken Spanish in the kitchen. The MAGA hat should’ve clued me in. I said, For the record, I’m Irish, and I speak English most excellently. And I can write as well, too. She said Speak English, we don’t want no illegals around here. As if speaking Spanish were somehow illegal, or made me illegal. I was flummoxed. I said, My family has been here since 1904. Spanish was the first European language in California, after myriad native languages were expunged. Russian and liturgical Latin were also spoken here too. I love language. I can speak some Portuguese, Italian as well. There is no mandated, or official language in America—you can legally speak any language you prefer. I might have roped in the Treaty of Guadalupe Hidalgo too. I was on a roll. I said, I will speak any language I like. You really don’t want to take me on. Then I walked out. Think I’ll speak to her in Irish next time. Or perhaps in Quechua. Because I can.

Gale force winds tonight

So far, so good. We still have power in West County— not true for the folks just up the road. Which means we still have wifi. Lifeline. The wind is definitely sighing, the swaying pines sound just like the stormy ocean outside my window. It’s like waiting for the vikings to land on a windy night. We also had a downpour last night. So that lessens the chance of another fire. The pillage and burning part is courtesy of PG&E. Unfortunately there was not enough rain to cancel the PG&E power outage. Nothing quite like sitting in the dark, clueless, waiting for more wildfires to bloom on the horizon.

Hello, bed.

It seems my back has other plans for me today. Friday’s small shoulderblade spasm decided to blossom on both sides. Yesterday, I could barely take a breath, driving was pure hell. Sleep helped, but it’s back with a vengeance. Hello, bed.

Between grant writing bits, I  taught two days of poetry classes in Oakland, for another grant, including reading and typing up kid poems.

I also helped my cousin move stuff out of the Nicasio house over the weekend—many, many stairs, many, many boxes.

Living feral, I slept in several strange beds. Met a new pussycat named Seamus Heaney. I also care-provided for a friend for two days, shopping, cooking, cleaned house, did massive loads of laundry, etc. I even managed to write a poem.

To make matters worse, I’m trying to avoid Advil as I took so much of it when my knee was injured. I worry about my kidneys. Can’t take Tylenol. Wine, not so much, but it’s a bit early, isn’t it? I’m sure it’s wine o’clock somewhere, but I haven’t had brekkie yet. At least this time I remembered to tape my knees, so they don’t hurt.

It was a very stressful and most busy week. Every single poet did not get heir work to me in a timely manner, causing all kinds of grant traffic jams. Not to mention headaches and eye strain. At one point I was wearing two glasses so I could read the fine print. But I got that blasted grant in on time. I did.

Now, to bed.

AT YURION’S GARAGE

We dutifully lined up for latte & sticky buns
at Yurion’s old Forest Knolls Garage.
Memories collided with time at warp speed.
Don would’ve snorted and scoffed—
a fucking boutique in his garage?
Axelgrease-laced beer was more his swill.
Where gas-pumps once stood,
islands of organic produce bloom
in ecstatic gentrification. Don’s

traditional greeting, Hey Asshole,

would offend their delicate senses.

At the trailer court, someone lights up.
Some things never change.
The skunk odor takes me back.
Everyone’s looking rough around the edges,
Both young and old—there’s no escaping it.
The lattes obviously aren’t working.

Once, in front of Yurion’s Garage,
I got caught up in a swarm of bees,
my long hair became a net.
As I swept past the gas station sideways,
my red mare developed wings.
Don, with his Lucky Strikes
rolled up in a teeshirt cuff, ciggie in hand,
scratched his head as she danced sideways
right into the gas bay and out the other side
while the swarm, in an uproar,
fiercely protected their queen.
Like many, they were looking for new digs.
Such sweet dreams were on the move,
but Don’s greener pastures had turned to ash.

11/17/19

CAC grant to bed in record time

The CAC multi-artist grant is done and this time it is in well under deadline! Not taking any chances. Not like the last grant I wrote that missed the deadline by five minutes due to a technical failure at Poetry Flash. Everybody was online today, and the CAC site kept crashing, But I persisted. I lost data, reinventing the wheel & reposting corrections under 30 seconds was a challenge. Time for wine & chocolate. Can’t believe I’m done. Still dreaming that I’m writing it. Here’s hoping.

Writing the John Oliver Simon legacy CAC grant and the problem with late poets

I need to finish my CAC grant narrative, but I’m so tired I want to weep & then there’s the budget page still to do. The CAC website keeps crashing & then I lose data. It’s due tomorrow & poets STILL haven’t sent in materials. Feeling let down & frustrated. And now my back is threatening to spasm. That’s all I need.

If I could get the poets to send in their stuff in, that would help. I’m quite miffed by their extreme tardiness. One late poet just got his materials in. But now I can’t download anything because I need a stable WiFi connection for my laptop. So that sucks. 

I’m not about to drive down the road just to find strong WiFi. And my cell doesn’t work out in west Marin so I can’t even call Brennan. I mean I’m literally sleeping on people’ couches, and living feral, so I can meet my commitments, and get this grant in on time, and instead I’m spending most of my time herding cats. Why do I even bother?

Every single poet did not get their work to me on time, causing all kinds of havoc. I feel so betrayed. I thought Tobey and Brennan were late enough, Sophie didn’t even bother to check her email but at least she sent everything in organized, at the last minute—but Tureeda sent in nothing at all. Nothing. Susie offered to call her. I needed a letter of support from school, I was able to fabricate a bio, sample poems, kid poems, freshen up the letter of support, etc. It took some doing, but they’ll do. All this lateness means I just wasted two hours recreating her information, whereas I should be using that time to finish the grant. Everything is uploaded onto the CAC grant site. Now I polish and prune, look for loopholes.

This problem exacerbated x 4 poets means that I’ve literally squandered and wasted hours and hours trying to get the info I need from them, instead of writing the grant. Don’t they get that? Frustrated, I am. And the irony is if we get the grant, it means lovely residencies for them. Free teaching money. Tardiness to the extreme is not helpful or conducive to grant writing. 

I always knew organizing poets is like herding cats. But this time I’m really annoyed. My back hurts, I have such bad I strain that I can’t see, and I haven’t had a full nights sleep in ages. I really feel betrayed. Ok, I’m done with the uploads, some minor tinkering after my brain recovers, and in it goes. Wish it luck. Submitting a grant electronically means you can no longer kiss the envelope for luck. 

Ah, first rain, or is it merely a fizzle of a drizzle? Gawd, even the rain is late. But the acrid odor of petrichor, blood of stones rises up to greet me, and I think how writing this grant has been like squeezing blood from stones. I don’t think I ever want to have to do this again. I keep thinking what would John have done? Forge ahead. I think of all the grants that we wrote together and how much I learned from him, this is what sustains me now.

NEVERMORE

The raven who shared the chilly morning with me 

had several things to say 

but I could not understand a thing he said. 

I was thinking of T.rump.
The raven sat up and said crock!
I was thinking of that Florida woman
who espoused alt-news to defend T rump
While slinging hash on a friend’s post.
The raven said Waka-waka. Crock!

It’s all crock. And then he flew off.

Nevermore. He warbled and cheebered 
I sat there admiring his song.
He dipped one wing, as if in salute.
A veteran of the dark skies.

Julia Vinograd: Our Lady of Telegraph Avenue poem published

• POEM ON THE PASSING OF JULIA VINOGRAD, STREET POET was published in the anthology, Our Lady of Telegraph Avenue, Zeitgeist Press.

Counting my DNA before it’s hatched

There was a story my Aunt Jane told me that my father Joe had some French blood, which he denied. He said he was pure Corkonian Irish by way of San Francisco. We never knew what to believe. But a DNA test revealed that the family rumor to be partially true at 3%. But upon closer inspection, it looks like it could be from Brittany, which was settled by the Welsh.

See, here's the problem, Joe's grandfather Michael Hurley, an Irish speaker, came from Cork, and settled in Weymouth, MA, where Joe’s father was born. That left slim possibility that Michael's wife, Joe's grandmother was of mixed blood. And Joe's mother Viola Mae Heaney was born in San Francisco, but her family was said to be from Boston, via Ireland. What was Viola's mother's maiden name? One way or another, we're back to an unaccounted for great-grandmother again. There's a Canadian in the woodpile somewhere.

Viola Mae Heaney, b. SF, 1906, died ca. 1936 -1940.

But the DNA math doesn't add up. If I were to go back 3 generations to a great-grandparent, that would be 12.5%, and 4 generations (100 years), or my great-great-grandparent, that would be 6.25%. Seven generations would be 1.56%, and eight generations (200 years) would be a mere 0.39%. All this is compounded by the fact that in France it is illegal to collect DNA, I suspect that Ancestry plugs the gap with the closest connection. Also, my DNA math doesn't add up, 9% is not 12.5 %, ergo, it's no a great-grandparent.

Someone said DNA doesn’t work like fractions. It’s more like soup ladle with holes. You get what you get. All I know, is that this is the third time my DNA sequence has been updated, and each time, the French percentage diminishes. It went from 8% to 3%. Unreliable French!

Whatever, the math, I might or might not have had a stray French-Acadian ancestor from Nova Scotia, who had a Native ancestor sometime in the 18th c. That got me looking at various possibilities. The rest of me, all 94% is pure Irish ( first estimate was 91%). No Viking, no Anglo blood on my maternal grandmother's side, at least. So that part of the ancestral story holds true. Recently that French DNA was split to include an odd 2% English/Welsh/NW Europe (Belgium/Finisterre) splash—well, our family name is Walsh, after all.  So that’s up for grabs.

Then again, I found this on the Ancestry page: approximately 40 sequences are taken, and averaged out the results, which might account for my odd numbers. Furthermore,

The next level includes Low Confidence Regions. For each of these regions, the possible range includes 0% and does not exceed 15%. Since there is only a small amount of evidence of genetic ethnicity from these regions, it is possible that you may not have genetic ethnicity from them at all.

According to The Untold Story: The Irish in Canada, the Irish were among the first settlers in the Canadian Maritime provinces, and that the Irish language predated that of French and English. I think this odd bit of flotsam sheds some light on my mysterious DNA results uncovered 3% French (it was 8% which in my bones, I knew it was wrong.) I suspect some Cape Breton/Acadian ancestry, and a stray 1% Native American ancestry—probably Micmac, given that the Acadian DNA was from Cape Breton Island.

 My maternal grandmother, who came from the small fishing village of Bantry, used to tell me a story of how the Irish and the Micmac/Mi'kmaq and the Morimac peoples joined forces. She insisted that there were Irish loan words in the Mi'kmaq language, not that she even spoke Mi'kmaq, an Eastern Algonquian language. The equivalent of yes in Irish is ach, and aqq in Mi'kmaq. (How on earth did she manage to find that in the pre-internet days?) But I found no other words that were similar. She said some of the Micmacs had blue eyes and red hair. But suddenly, with this post, her story, from the oral tradition, gains some credence, however slim the DNA record is.

WILDFIRE JOURNAL 7

And PG&E said, Let there be light. Then half of Sonoma County burned down. Time to decommission PG&E. Third time’s a charmed fuckjob in my books. Everyone who was affected by the outage should refuse to pay their bills all at once. And this isn’t the first time. it’s part of a long standing problem that’s decades in the making. Let’s call it negligence. It all began when PG&E gas lines blew up a San Mateo suburb. Whatever did PG&E have against San Bruno to blow it up like that? And now it’s burning down half the state? I see it coming, Pg$e, the musical, Edipuss is wrecked. Fire is at nearly 77,000 acres, 30% contained. Geyserville, Alexander Valley and Healdsburg are still under evacuation orders. PG&E shut down the power grid for most of Northern California—to prevent wildfires, so we’ve been without power for nearly a week, and then the colossus forgot to shut down its own part of the grid at the Geysers? And guess where the fire started. Congratulations, PG&E, you just sponsored the largest mass evacuation in Northern California history, when 150 thousand county residents were forced out of their homes by the Kincade fire—because of your negligence. Instead of spending the rate hike tariff on rebuilding infrastructure, you chose to give bonuses to stockholders and CEOs. May you all burn in hell.

WILDFIRE JOURNAL 6, a poem

WILDFIRE JOURNAL 

I’m sitting by the half empty reservoir
Watching the fire trucks and horse trailers go by.
Wildfire smoke stacks up to the west,
seeking the coolness of the Pacific Ocean.
The wind is picking up,
the dry summer grasses gyrate, a frenzied dance, old as the hills,
the air carries the odor of summer picnics and more—
the souls of trees released to the sky.
A pale ash veil coats the car, muting its red paint to salmon.
The sun has barely reached its zenith,
long shadows claw toward the blue shadows of the night.
Without lights, the entire Bay Area was rimed—
studded with an extraordinary tapestry of stars.
And the coyotes sang arias to the waning moon in chorus.

WILDFIRE JOURNAL 5

WILDFIRE JOURNAL: We're all gathered in the parking lot outside the community center basking on the sun. It's a street party of sorts. I'm reading poetry while waiting for my iPad to charge on the generator, my car is taking too long to recharge it and I worry about the car battery. I have contingencies, I park on a grade in case I have to pop-start it. Having a working car right now is tantamount to survival. My gauge has dipped below the half-way mark.

Still no power in most of the North Bay, and PG&E is planning yet another power shutdown. We never got any power restored during the golden window of opportunity. So it’s all moot.

There are evacuees sleeping in their vans all along the roads of West Marin. While waiting for my iPad to charge, I read an unintelligible poem called Irish Poetry by Billy Collins, I'm thinking of calling Sam to come down the hill as there is free lunch and iced coffee. Coffee!

But I don't know where my cellphone is, and besides, it doesn't get good reception. Time to kill, I flip to another random poem: what was the likelihood I would turn to a poem by Molly and Sam’s uncle, called Colonoscopy, the title says it all, and I realized, No shit!

We're all being reamed out and annealed one way or the other by this wildfire. Even Paul Muldoon has a few rhymey bits in this issue of PEOTRY, and yes, it's really spelled that way on the cover, I kid you knot.

Reminds me of some of the kids I teach poetry to, who can't spell poetry on their poetry journals, but they're been burned out of their homes. I'm supposed to be teaching them poetry about fire, floods and other disasters, and here I am smack dab in the middle of it all, an involuntary evacuee, staying in an abandoned house with no water or power, worrying about whether or not

I have enough gas to get to the nearest gas station with electricity—over the bridge to RIchmond, the twisted intestine of the Bay Area. Truth be known, I need my tablet charged because when the sun sets, its only yourself that needs looking to in an empty house in the dark. Downloaded bits from Netflix, and Solitaire helps me make it through the night. That, and a poncho to cover my head, it’s that cold. Dressing requires strategy.

The stars outdo themselves dazzling us with their brilliance, despite the smoke, because there is no artificial light whatsoever in most of the Bay Area. All the Pleiades sisters have their dancing shoes on, and the Milky Way is a river of light. The sliver of a fingernail moon is a promise of the light that will return. We've set our clocks back to the early 1900s, and I think we are the better for it.

WILDFIRE JOURNAL 4

Gawd, a bath....my kingdom for a bath—or even a shower. I’m holed up in Nicasio, there’s no power and the well is on an electric pump. But I can light the gas stove with matches, bypassing the ignition. My matches are in bad shape. Most are too soggy to ignite. But I find an old lighter wand, out of butane, but the striker still works. Ah, the magic spark of flint. I make camp coffee, and camp toast. Gobs of Irish butter and raspberry jam dribble like blood on my street-find cashmere poncho. I suck it off, not wasting what little water I have. It’s been so cold, I live and sleep in the turtleneck poncho, it’s like wearing a large cat.

I scouted the lake for a likely spot to dunk my head. The water is low, and the mud is deep. Zana said water heaters have a faucet at the bottom. May not be warm but potable. Compared to others caught up in this mass evacuation, my exodus spot is sweet. I have propane. I can heat water. What little water I have. TG my car has always been a big messy go-bag. I’ve several bottles stashed under the seats. Wine too. At least I can recharge my iPad in my car, and can get limited cellular exception by the lake. I still have nearly a half a tank of gas. All is good. 

When I returned from Hawaii, I had planned to do some writing, instead I’m thrust into barebones survival mode. All thoughts of writing about Hawaii are gone. I can’t even look at the photos. Right now, it’s day by day survival mode, or as Anne Lamott would say, bird by bird. I watch the wild geese and pelicans  dip and sway on the lake. Today is a red flag warning. The winds are expected to pick up again this evening. We’re not out of the woods yet. You can see the smoke columns from here. The sunlight is red. I mourn the loss of Pine Flat ridge in the Mayacama Range, all the old historic homesteads are gone. Ember, ash and coal mantra.

WILDFIRE JOURNAL 3

Kincade Fire, 8AM, Thursday morning, from Occidental Road. That’s not fog. —MH photo

Much more smoke has blown south this morning, Tues. The winds have shifted. Hopefully they don’t have the velocity of Saturday night’s howling winds.

The Kincade FIre on the Mayacamas Range is now  estimated to be at 74,324 acres and 15% contained, but Saturday night’s 103 mph winds  really fed the flames, which reached the historic 2017 Tubbs Fire boundaries. The lack of fuel, acting as a firebreak, may help to contain the fire along those old boundaries.

Last report I heard, firemen from across the Western United States have joined our exhausted firefighters, and they were concentrating on saving Windsor.  Meanwhile, the kincade fire is frogmarching its way northeast towards the direction of the wind, Cobb Muntain and Middletown in Lake County. Here’s hoping the Tubbs, the Atlas, and the 2015? Camp Fire left little fuel for the Kincade Fire to take purchase.

Most of northern and western Sonoma County, some 190,000 people, were evacuated Thursday through Sunday, the single largest evacuation in California history, which created colossal traffic jams on both the bay bridges, and to make matters worse, the Carquinez Bridge was out of commission due to another grass fire in Vallejo in Solano County. Not sure how it started, someone said wind-blown embers from the Kincade Fire.

Mandatory evacuation notices have been lifted for most of West Sonoma County, but more winds are expected tonight,and the wind has shifted the smoke south. So we’re all holding tight.

Sonoma County supervisor Lynda Hopkins reported: “The next 24 hours will give our amazing firefighters — now more than 4,000 strong, with 10 helicopters, 444 fire engines, 53 dozers and 30 water tenders — a fighting chance to increase containment....our firefighters fought like hell, and saved entire neighborhoods overnight in the Shiloh Ridge and Lockwood area. I want to be very clear that without the mass deployment of firefighters — we are now a mutual aid event, which means that we have firefighters from across California as well as other western states — we would NOT have been able to make this stand. I am filled with gratitude every time I see a fire truck... and there are hundreds here both out on the lines and awaiting orders at the Fairgrounds incident command post, with insignia from communities across the state.”

Though mandatory evacuation notices have been lifted in western Sonoma County, but there is no electricity, or water which makes it easier for us to stay in place. People are sleeping in vans along many West Marin roads. Most of the evacuation centers, both human and animal evacuation centers—are filled to capacity. In general, neighbors, near neighbors, and strangers are all pitching in to help each other out. A steady parade of trucks laden with alfalfa for the horses, headed south.

There have been other fires in Contra Costa County, a small fire in Lafayette, and in Southern California, the Getty Fire, closing I 405, and 618 acres have burned, with 10,000 people evacuated. So many fires, I can’t keep up, nor do I have the bandwidth. I have to hunt for cellular reception sweet spots. The sweetest hotspot, if I can still use that term, is by the Nicasio Reservoir, with a view of Black, or Elephant Mountain, it’s hazy, due to smoke.

Freezing cold this AM, no heat, my hands take turns freezing as I type. But cold is good. I could kill for a shower, dump my hair in a bucket. Otherwise, all is well.

https://www.kqed.org/news/11782314/what-you-need-to-know-sonoma-countys-kincade-fire

WILDFIRE JOURNAL 2

Evacuation Diaries: I will be needing more gas soon, I’m down to a half a tank. I’m hoping the Richmond Costco will be open but  I don’t want to attempt it if I 80/580 is congested. People are still fleeing from Santa Rosa area and all the motels and evacuation centers are full. I’m pretty sure there is no gas to be had anywhere in Marin. No power means no gas pump, or credit card machines. I heard rumor that there’s power in Petaluma at 101, but is there any gas to be had? I imagine the mass exodus has impacted availability. And I’m sure there’s price gouging going on. And I’ve got a slow leak in my tire. 

I had to evacuate late at night from Sebastopol with a fully loaded car, and only 15 pounds of air in that tire. So I drove slow down the back-backroads to Nicasio, No traffic at all. Only the stars. Not like all the feeder roads to Hwy 101. One massive traffic jam that lasted for hours. This was the single largest mass evacuation in California history. I’m still wrapping my mind around that one.

I heard that all the bay bridges were still jammed bumper to bumper yesterday with the latest Santa Rosa exodus. Thanks to Facebook friends, I can keep appraised, and wait another day or two if needs be, but I will need enough gas to get to point B, wherever that may be. And enough air in that tire. It seems to be holding. TG for slow air leaks. Planning ahead is tantamount to survival.

I also need to drive around a bit to keep my iPad charged, Very spotty reception requires more driving. The iPad is the only link I have to the outside world at this point. I can get reception at one pullout along the Nicasio Reservoir, I am in line with the cellular towers on Big Rock Ridge, but it’s a very small, if distant window. At least the view of Elephant Mountain is spectacular in the morning.

Radio is freakin useless out here. No reception. Sometime I can get KPFA if the wind blows in the right direction. Messenger and Facebook remain the best way to keep in touch. I’ve asked friends to post fire updates on my Facebook page, whenever possible. At least when the pages load, I can keep apprised. Text is better than links.

My cousin’s Nicasio house, where I’m staying, is empty, and boarded up from the accident, it has no power, the water is down to a trickle, because it’s on an electric pump. Not gravity fed. The water supply is whatever is left in the pipes. I have bottled water in my car. At least there is a propane stove so I can make my morning tea. Breakfast was camp coffee, camp toast. Gobs of Irish butter, raspberry jam dribbled all over my warm poncho. At least we know how to live large and be happy despite all odds.

Think I’ll visit Sam in Forest Knolls in a bit to see how he’s getting on, his landlord Jay has a generator so if it’s  running (generators need gas), I can plug in there. I need to make sure he has food, so I will stop by the San Geronimo community Center, my old alma mater.

More high winds predicted. Any news on the status of Kincade Fire, someone said it was back to 5% contained.

WILDFIRE JOURNAL 1

Yesterday, an old friend chastised me for the amount of firestorm posts I’ve posted on my Facebook page. As it turns out I had adequate reason to be concerned as I did have to evacuate to the empty house in Nicasio. I was completely devastated.... I’m sure she meant no harm by it, but the effects were gob smacking, as keeping abreast of the news was the only way I could stay calm and rational.

I’m safe in West Marin for now. No power. So I’m on limited cellular. And I have to travel to the Nicasio Reservoir  to find any cellular reception. There are only three spots where I can get reception.

Facebook won’t always load but Messenger works. Please send me updates about the progress of the fire spreading west to Forestville and Sebastopol. I can’t get radio reception, and few places where I can get cellular reception. 

I’m by the Nicasio reservoir looking at Elephant Mountain. It has become my talisman. The lake is the only place where I can pick up a weak cellular signal from T-Mobile.

Sad, all night long trucks hauling trailerfuls of horses and hay headed south. Returning empty, going north for another load, unsung heroes. I can bear almost anything but the thought of those poor horses makes me weep. Maria Perrin’s cousin in Sebastopol needs someone with a horse trailer. Spread the word.

I’m keeping an eye on my charge, Sam, I made him some camp coffee, and his landlord Jay Potter set up a generator. Jay rocks, he fixed my low tire with an old school bicycle pump. It was down to 10 lbs pressure. Now has 40 lbs. That was pretty scary evacuating—driving down from Sebastopol on a low tire with my car loaded to the gills, as no gas stations are open.

WILDFIRE JOURNAL.0 Evacuate!

I’m driving north towards the fire like a mad demon racing the clock to rescue my stuff. I’m jetlagged coming home from Hawaii to an inferno. Status of West County is on standby evacuation. Just went to Mandatory Evacuation! Fuck. I can see the wildfire from Stony Point Road. Slamming it. I haven’t even unpacked from Hawaii. All I have are inappropriate clothes. And now I’m rescuing my stuff. On some level, I never unpacked from the Tubbs Fire. How many more trips down the stairs can I endure? Stuff is highly overrated. 

Oh the joys of mandatory evacuation. Onward. Made it to Stony Point Road vía Llano Road. All the main roads are jammed. Thank you WAZE and Google Maps! I’m headed south. Everyone is evacuating from West County using the main roads. Not me. With this many people on the move, it’s like a traffic jam on steroids. Hwy 116 is jammed, Hwy 101 is jammed. Backroads rule. Almost in Petaluma. West Marin, here I come. Phew, what a run, my car crammed to the gills, on a dangerously low tire, to boot. No way to get air. This fire really presses home that all that memorabilia should be scanned. Fire makes ephemera of the past. 

Someone give me an updates please, before I get out of range. I only have my iPad. NIXLE phone alert is not reliable in a pocket canyon. No cellular reception. The horror of the Tubbs Fire was enough to last a lifetime. Now the Kincade Fire, both courtesy of PG&E. Our world is forever changed. Ok, so my middle of the night wakey-wake paranoia was justified, there were 3 fires in Sebastopol, Healdsburg and Santa Rosa, but firemen were right on it. I scanned the sky for signs of unusual light, and sniffed the air...so far, just the stars. 

I lost all internet, but text eventually came through via 1-2 intermittent flickering bars on my iPad. No bars at all on cellphone. None. Browser is absolutely useless in a situation like this. Text via FB and Messenger is the best way to get info out. Sort of like SMS text. My friend has an old school wall phone that doesn’t need electricity to receive alerts.We were told last night that the power would go out, so that made it doubly alarming to say the least. 1AM, no power or cell, but iPad has 1-2 bars. Normally I have zero T-Mobile coverage. A relief, to be not completely cut off. Power on @ 11:30AM. Yes. Dear PG&E, we’ve no way of getting news of the fire when you cut power to protect grid. Not everyone has reliable cellular service. #Rural #NotRocketScience

WHILE TRANSLATING LORCA DURING THE WILDFIRE

Translating Lorca, from one of John Oliver Simon’s poetry recipes, my mind went way south. Rather than uselessly cry jetlag inspired tears in a Petaluma parking lot, as Sinead gets her hair done, I bought eye drops, & wrote a poem to the Mayacamas range, still burning. My throat is raw. I am careful to take small sips of air, as my N95 mask was packed away from the Tubbs fire. I foolishly thought I wouldn’t need it again. And here we go, again.

Madre, llévame a los campos
con la luz de la mañana,
a ver abrirse las flores
cuando se mecen las ramas.

Mother, take me to the countryside
with the light of morning
to see the flowers open
when the branches sway.
—Translation of Frederico García Lorca

WHILE TRANSLATING LORCA DURING THE WILDFIRE

My imagination wants to take me to the mountains
to witness the incandescent light of morning
to see the late blossoms opening their small hands
to the Diablo winds trembling the harp strings of reeds
in the marshes where the egrets and herons
patrol its dark depths for fatted frogs and curled snails.
My mind wants to fly to where the branches sway
to the rhythm of dark sap coursing
to the song of distant rivers and birdsong.
But the sodden sky is the color of putty,
all the trees have been reduced
to their lowest common denominator,
carbon and smoke and ash
as the wildfire devours the ridges,
barns, and vineyards with an insatiable hunger
and a prodigious thirst that cannot be quenched.
No birdsong, only the dark wind whispering
secrets into the pale ear of the sky.
A lone raven caws his one warning note
over and over again.

Kincade Fire

As I was headed down  Occidental Road to Santa Rosa, and points south to work, I took a quick photo of the Kincade fire, which started last night at the Geysers, thanks to PG&E, again. Here we go again. Wasn’t the Tubbs fire enough? This does not look good. I’m still jetlagged from Hawaii, and now this, WTF.

Tule elk cull at Pt. Reyes

In general I am in love with the Golden Gate National Park. However, what has happened out on the Pt Reyes National Seashore, with the National Park Service falsifying reports in regards to the Drake’s Bay Oyster Farm in 2012, and now the same thing seems to be happening with the elk versus the cattle on the point, I am disillusioned with the NPS. One of the reasons why the Pt Reyes National Park was created, was to prevent rampant development, and also preserve the historic dairy ranches operating on the point. Currently ranching occupies 30% of the land, 70% of that land is wilderness. The rancher are not against elk. That’s a false narrative cooked up by eco justice warriors.

This schism that has developed between the historic agricultural use versus wildlife is a deep grievance because I witnessed the beginning of the Pt Reyes National Seashore. I know the backstory. And for this reason I cannot support the Center for Biological Diversity’s claims, and I now also distrust the NPS or GGNPS in regards to Pt Reyes because the larger agenda is to destroy the historic ranches on the point, in favor of urban recreationists, and to hell with historic facts. Remember the Drake’s Bay oyster fiasco? We’ve seen them in action and they re not above twisting the facts and ecological reports to suit their agendas.

The imported tule elk are diseased. And yet protestors are making such a racket over the culling of a handful of elk at Drake’s Bay, when there are more than 700 elk on the point, and the point was only supposed to sustain 300 elk? I don’t like the double-speak, and the manipulation of facts to suit a political agenda. 

I don’t mind the Conservancy, or some of the work that the Center for Biological Diversity has done, but I dislike their gaming and hidden political agendas. Once upon a time I thought the NPS and environmental groups could do no wrong.To my naive way of thinking they were upholding the vision that Teddy Roosevelt had put in place, but now the NPS too has become a self-serving organization. It saddens me to no end. Ditto that with many of the eco-warrior groups—especially the Center for Biological Diversity, and another group closer to home, SPAWN, has joined the ranks of manipulating facts and misrepresenting ecological reports  to suit their political agendas.

https://sanfrancisco.cbslocal.com/2019/08/09/point-reyes-ranching-elk-culling-proposals/

https://www.mercurynews.com/2019/08/09/point-reyes-national-seashore-proposes-20-year-ranch-leases-culling-tule-elk/

https://www.marinij.com/2019/09/23/point-reyes-elk-advocates-claim-censorship-by-park-service/

https://www.sacbee.com/news/local/environment/article233662527.html the Sacramento Bee article, if you can call it that, is the most biased of all. It really is an opinion piece parading in elk’s clothing.

Napali Coast

After traveling nearly 80 miles in a Zodiac, this is the half-way point. The sea is calm so I’m still smiling. The next leg home will be brutal with afternoon waves whipped by an oncoming storm stacking up on the diagonal. Trough and crest. Rise and fall. Slide into the trough at an angle, but hit the next crest head-on. We nearly ran over a startled sea turtle basking in the waves. Dip and sway. Like riding an unsteady horse side-saddle, over very rough terrain. At least no petticoats were involved.

California time, island time

Sitting in the dark, in a stranger’s house, on California time, not island time. Drinking tea and trying to convince my body that it’s OK to be up at 4 AM. The tropical air is balmy and the stars on this end of the island are much brighter than at home, where frost rimes my windshield. But then, I have no home, other than what I carry inside me. That was taken from me. What is home, other than a collection of memories, of things both ordinary and plain, that fill our waking thoughts. The stars, my constant guide.

Mammatus clouds

Mammatus clouds over Hawaii, 

the conception and cradle of life.
We descend towards the sea.

Flying to Hawaii

Outside my window, an untrammeled wilderness of clouds rear their heads over a sterling sea, and one can almost hear the rustling taffeta gown of the Pacific, laced with positive imprints of the air currents. Clouds commute toward the land, and out to sea again in Peregrinó colors—capturing fleeting glimpses of the spectrum, and the burnished gold of the morning sun is a deep ache of copper, or perhaps it’s Homer’s wine-dark sea, beneath us. An odyssey of thought escapes its earthly confines, as we wing west to the land of the ever-young. Or at least a hunkering back to the beginning of time. Perhaps we are all pilgrims here. Some are arriving for the first time, others returning home. One way or another, it is all a journey. A cluster of fishing boats, huddle like whitecaps on the outer banks. The wind singing arias. Strong headwinds leave us in suspended animation. Cirrus and stratocumulus clouds, odd lone whips of fog, perhaps a squall, I think of how useless the rain is on the ocean. Then a scurry of mare’s tails, scud clouds surfing on the surface of the sea, all following the currents, seemingly alive, a sentient slipstream or a dance cotillion. Clouds give way to the illusion of continental shapes, or ice sheets. Then, for a moment, I forget my worries, and think I am among the Gods. I am mesmerized by the separation of sea and sky, the horizon is both obscured and melded by the clouds. And that dark beyond, the great unknown, is both the nursery of stars and the crèche of death. The curvature of the earth is a subtle plain. Below us, the Marianas Trench, the deepest place on earth, and beneath us, the Farallón Islands, slip by unannounced, they are the last landfall and handholds of the Pacific Plate migrating north to return home to Pangeac depths, but the poles are shifting, north is changing its mind once again and the ice is melting, all that archaic sweet water, slipping into the bosom of the sea from whence we came.

Miracle Mile, sans elms, under a glaring sun, a nightmare

All the historic elms are gone from the Miracle Mile, once an old railroad bed, now a main artery that connects San Rafael to San Anselmo, so now it is an afternoon nightmare to drive with the westering sun hovering over Mt. Tam, blinding us all. The trees got Dutch elm disease in the 1970s, from a non-native wood boring beetle. We went to great lengths to save them, never knowing that the sudden oak death, too was festering on the horizon. Elms also once lined much of Sir Francis Drake Blvd, some still stand at the San Anselmo-Ross border, Shady Lane, and Ross Ave. But disease ravaged most of them. Massive elms were the quintessential shade tree of Marin. They even lined the main road out of Novato that became Highway 101 at Olompali. Now most of the trees are gone. Felled by an imported disease. After George Lucas bought Amazing Grace Music, once an old gas station on the Miracle Mile, he rebuilt it, and also redid the center divide from United Market to the hub. A curious mix of native and non-native species. He did a great job converting the old gas station into a viable space and Amazing Grace Music certainly is a venerable business worth saving considering the alternative was to level it. He also bought the old drugstore next to the San Anselmo Police Station and razed it, and turned the lot into a park—replete with a fountain statues of Indiana Jones and Yoda. Al least he kept all the old trees intact there.

added & revised 10/2021

COYOTE MOON

The chickens were clucking up a storm at sunset

when the coyotes began plotting

under a waning hunter’s moon—

the chickens fell strangely silent.

2019 CAC Artist panel application

I’ve taught artist-in-school residencies in rural & urban schools in California since 1979. I’ve received 7 individual CAC AIR grants in Sonoma & Napa counties; & the Montana Arts Council. I’ve participated in CAC multi-artist residencies, received a PBS/KQED AIR grant, & two Oakland Cultural Arts Council grants. I’ve led arts workshops in the Western US & Florida, as well as in the Bahamas, Netherlands, & the former USSR. I’ve won fellowships and awards for my writing, art, and teaching residencies. I worked for alternative newspapers, writing news, & arts feature stories. I’ve trained artists and teachers through arts organizations, including California Poets in the Schools, Artists in the Schools of Sonoma County, Rural Arts Services, 

I’ve taught in a diverse range of communities throughout California. My ongoing work brings me in contact with a wide and diverse range of artists. I’ve photo-documented artists—especially poets—since 1979. I volunteer at the San Geronimo Valley Community Center, working with elders, and I have had art displayed at several of the the art exhibits at the art center. I was a featured poet at the latest Petaluma Poetry Walk, & am a coordinator & emcee for the Watershed Environmental Poetry Festival.

I have worked 20 years in Bay Area schools, teaching poetry and art to historically underserved schools including Oakland, and Hunters’s Point, in San Francisco, developing culturally relevant arts programming to meet their specific needs. Before that, I coordinated arts programming for 20 years in rural Sonoma County. I have worked with all ages, and demographics, including inmates at Napa Stare Hospital, and elders as well. How needs were determined was by meeting with the host client before the residency and creating an arts program to meet their specific needs.

I got the CAC grant!

Spirit Rock (pastel and paintings), White’s Hill for a show, Where We Call Home

Today’s experiment for a show, Where We Call Home, chalkboard paint on canvas board, stabilo pencils, and Nupastel, wet pastel drawing. I quit working on it when I got too cold to work. My nose was running like a sieve. I wanted another piece for the upcoming art show. Maybe this one will work. I used chalkboard paint for gesso.

Because everything is so compromised, I’m amazed I can function at all. A tooth whitener applicator brush was my paintbrush. Working on canvas board was more successful than working on canvas. But I still can’t rework areas very much. So, it’s all or nothing. And detachment. A lot of detachment.

Just past White’s Hill, Flanders’ Ranch, Loma Alta Ridge. Wet pastel. It took me three days of angst, to get started, and 45 minutes to draw....nothing like a looming deadline. I used wet prismacolor pastel, mostly conte crayons, some carb-othello pastel pencils and wet construction paper. Looks painterly, huh. The secret is water, the pastel becomes buttery. You get the best of both worlds: painterly, and a drawing.

They took all three pieces, the two versions of White’s Hill (acrylic, wet pastel), and this one (wet pastel & stabile pencil). They may hang all three, if there’s room, tho two pieces are the limit. SGV art center, Where we call Home. Benefit for the Center. Opening Oct 5.

So if two pieces sell, then I can buy either the big bolshoi Nupastel set (96 colors), or the Carb-Othello stabile pencils in the wooden box. Decisions, decisions. I’ve made a deal with myself, to enter every show I am offered, and to try to sell enough art to cover my basic materials. So far, I have been in 4 art shows at the San Geronimo Valley Community Art Center. This is after decades of not showing any art at all.

A couple of failed pieces

Asbestos angel, assemblage

I made many pieces for the upcoming Where We Call Home, this assemblage exists only in a photo as the particleboard I used turned out to be asbestos. It was the living room wall that was destroyed when the meth head crashed into it on the 4th of July.

Petaluma Poetry Walk schedule

13 cool things about the Petaluma Poetry Walk
September 12, 2019 | Argus-Courier (Petaluma, CA)
Author: David Templeton | Section: Entertainment 

PETALUMA POETRY WALK
Sunday, Sept. 15, 11 a.m.-8 p.m.

One of Petaluma's most distinctive and unique annual event, the Poetry Walk steps out for its 24th consecutive year. Here's what's going to happen.

11 a.m. - Hotel Petaluma, 205 Kentucky St. - Sonoma County Poet Laureate Maya Khosla, plus local poets Barbara Swift Brauer and Camille Norton, Hosted by Terry Ehret.

12 p.m. - The Bank, 199 N. Petaluma Blvd. - Poets Terri Glass, Martin Hickel and Erin Rodoni. Hosted by Kevin Pryne.

1 p.m. - the River Front Café, 224 B St. - Readings by Diane Frank, William Greenwood and Jeanne Powell. Hosted by David Magdalene.

2 p.m. - North Bay Café, 25 N. Petaluma Blvd. Poetry readings by Arnoldo Garcia and Nina Serrano. Hosted by Daniel McKenzie.

3 p.m. – Copperfield's Books, 140 Kentucky St. - Forrest Gander and Maxine Chernoff. Hosted by Gwenn O'Gara.

4 p.m. - The Phoenix Theater, 201 Washington St. Lucille Lang Day, Ruth Nolan, Susan Cohen, Barbara Quick and Jack Foley will read from "Fire and Rain: Ecopoetry of California." Iris Dunkle hosts.

5 p.m. - Petaluma Historical Museum and Library, 20 Fourth St. - Phyllis Meshulam and student poets from Cal Poets and Poetry Out Loud. Hosted by John Johnson.

6 p.m. - Aqus Café, 189 H St. - Poets Raphael Block, Albert Flynn DeSIlver, Maureen Hurley, Michael Koch and Gail Mitchell. David Magdalene hosts.

For more information on this event and these poets, visit PetalumaPoetryWalk.org.

Let's face it.

Whether or not you have ever personally attended Petaluma's legendary Poet Walk event, which has taken place annually for nearly a quarter of a century, you have to admit, it is a pretty remarkable thing. Dozens of poets from student to professionals, some pretty famous, all reading their poems out loud in eight different locations (cafés, bookstores, theaters, museums and banks) for a total audience of up to 1000 poetry-loving pedestrians over the course of eight glorious hours on a sunny Sunday afternoon in downtown Petaluma.

Folks come from all over to experience this entertainingly literary movable feast, some just dropping in for a reading or two, other's following along to catch every single syllable. This year's event will begin at Hotel Petaluma, and conclude with a two-hour poetry party at Aqus Café.

And of course, it being a poetry WALK, there will be brief moments of ambulatory conversation and curbside camaraderie as the group moves from one location to another. It's basically a great big blast, and though no one's giving out scores or anything, the folks who actually know something about some of the featured poets, and the history of the walk itself, do find that knowing a few extra tidbits can prove useful, especially when first-timers have joined the fun.

Here then, to give you some assistance, are 13 cool things to know (so you can share them, when appropriate) about the 24th Annual Petaluma Poetry Walk and some of the poets who will be participating.

1. The Poetry Walk was founded by Petaluma poet and artist Geri DiGiorno in 1996. Sonoma County's fourth official Poet Laureate, DiGiorno has been a tireless supporter of poetry throughout the Bay area. She once conducted an experiment in Petaluma's Putnam Plaza, where for one hour she approached passersby to offer them their choice between a crisp dollar bill and a book of poetry. After one hour, she'd given away twice as many books as she'd handed out bucks.

2. This year's opening acts of poetry, kicking off at the Hotel Petaluma at 11 a.m., will feature readings by Barbara Swift Brauer ("Rain, Like a Thief"), Camille Norton ("A Folio for the Dark") and Maya Khosla ("All the Fires of Wind and Light"). Khosla is the current Sonoma County Poet Laureate, serving though 2020.

3. The first Sonoma County Poet Laureate was named in the year 2000. Many of the past Sonoma County Poet Laureates have participated in the Poetry Walk. Just in case you have the opportunity to weigh in, the County's past PLs are as follows - Don Emblen (2000-2001), David Bromige (2002-2003), Terry Ehret (2004-2006), Geri Digiorno (2006-2007), Mike Tuggle (2008-2009), Gwynn O'Gara (2010-2011), Bill Vartnaw (2012-2013), Katherine Hastings (2014-2015), Iris Jamahl Dunkle (2016-2017).

4. Martin Hickel, who will be reading at noon at the day's second venue, The Bank (corner of Washington and Petaluma BLvd.) - along with Terri Glass "The Song of Yes") and Erin Rodoni ("Body, In Good Light") - assists Poetry Walk founder Geri DiGiorno with the organization of the event. He has served as organizer of the Marin Poetry Festival and Sunset By the Bay Reading Series. He is a member of the Revolutionary Poets Brigade in San Francisco.

PETALUMA POETRY WALK

Sunday, Sept. 15, 11 a.m.-8 p.m.

One of Petaluma's most distinctive and unique annual event, the Poetry Walk steps out for its 24th consecutive year. Here's what's going to happen.

11 a.m. - Hotel Petaluma, 205 Kentucky St. - Sonoma County Poet Laureate Maya Khosla, plus local poets Barbara Swift Brauer and Camille Norton, Hosted by Terry Ehret.

12 p.m. - The Bank, 199 N. Petaluma Blvd. - Poets Terri Glass, Martin Hickel and Erin Rodoni. Hosted by Kevin Pryne.

1 p.m. - the River Front Café, 224 B St. - Readings by Diane Frank, William Greenwood and Jeanne Powell. Hosted by David Magdalene.

2 p.m. - North Bay Café, 25 N. Petaluma Blvd. Poetry readings by Arnoldo Garcia and Nina Serrano. Hosted by Daniel McKenzie.

3 p.m. – Copperfield's Books, 140 Kentucky St. - Forrest Gander and Maxine Chernoff. Hosted by Gwenn O'Gara.

4 p.m. - The Phoenix Theater, 201 Washington St. Lucille Lang Day, Ruth Nolan, Susan Cohen, Barbara Quick and Jack Foley will read from "Fire and Rain: Ecopoetry of California." Iris Dunkle hosts.

5 p.m. - Petaluma Historical Museum and Library, 20 Fourth St. - Phyllis Meshulam and student poets from Cal Poets and Poetry Out Loud. Hosted by John Johnson.

6 p.m. - Aqus Café, 189 H St. - Poets Raphael Block, Albert Flynn DeSIlver, Maureen Hurley, Michael Koch and Gail Mitchell. David Magdalene hosts.

For more information on this event and these poets, visit PetalumaPoetryWalk.org.

5. One of the earliest Poetry Walks, in 1999, featured a performance by actor-poet Roberts Blossom, best known for playing Old Man Marley, the spooky, snow-shovel-wielding next-door neighbor of Macauley Culkin in "Home Alone." The late Blossom (he died in 2011), then a resident of Berkeley, read his poems from the second-floor balcony in the former Reade Moore Books.

6. Among the readers at the 1 p.m. event, at the River Front Café, is poet Diane Frank ("Letters From a Sacred Mountain Place"), who is also professional cellist, performing with the Golden Gate Symphony in San Francisco. Also reading at the River Front are William Greenwood and Jeane Powell.

7. Arnoldo Garcia, one of two poets performing at North Bay Café at 2 p.m., is the founder of Poets Against War & Racism, using poetry and performance to counter the normalization of war and racism. Performing alongside Garcia will be 84-year-old Nina Serano, of KPCA and OZCAT.

8. The Poetry Walk is free to attend, but is not free to produce. Currently, there is a GoFundMe campaign in operation, hoping to raise $2,000 to cover the bare bones of expenses. Additional money raised will go to supporting next year's 25th annual Poetry Walk. You can contribute at GoFundMe.com/f/petaluma-poetry-walk-2019.

9. The 3 p.m. session, at Copperfield's Books, will feature two major award-winning writers. Maxine Chernoff is a 2013 National Endowment of the Arts Fellow and a professor of creative writing at San Francisco State University, and the author of more than 20 books of poetry and fiction. Forrest Gander, of Petaluma, in the 2019 Pulitzer Prize Winner for Poetry, for his book "Be With." The reading will be hosted by Gwen O'Gara.

10. At the Phoenix Theater, the 4 p.m. reading will include five poets – Lucille Lang Day, Ruth Nolan, Susan Cohen, Jack Foley and Barbara Quick - whose work appears in the collection "Fire and Rain: Ecopoetry of California." This even will be hosted by Iris Dunkle.

11. Student poets from the Cal Poets and Poetry Out Loud programs will be presenting their works, along with poet Phyllis Meshulam. The bilingual programs encourage personal expression and appreciation of the arts. Poetry Out Loud, a program of competitive poetry recitation, was created in 2006 by the National Endowment for the Arts, under Sonoma County's own Dan Gioia.

12. Albert Flynn DeSilver, one of the five poets reading at the day-ending party at Aqus Café, was Marin County's very first Poet Laureate, serving from 2008-2010. The other poets will be Raphael Block, Maureen Hurley, Gail Mitchell and Michael Koch.

13. Each of the eight events at this year's Poetry Walks will include a "host." Three of them – Terry Ehret at 11 a.m., Gwenn O'Gara at 3 p.m., and Iris Dunkle at 4 p.m., are former Poets Laureate of Sonoma County.

Autumn Roundup: Fall, the 'mellower season' officially begins
August 26 - September 12, 2019 | Argus-Courier (Petaluma, CA) PETALUMA POETRY WALK (Sunday, Sept. 15, 11 a.m.-8 p.m.) – One of Petaluma's most distinctive and unique annual event, the Poetry Walk steps up for its 24th consecutive year. Here's what's going to happen. Beginning at 11 a.m. in the ballroom of Hotel Petaluma (205 Kentucky St.), where host Terry Ehret will introduce readings by three local poets (Barbara Swift Brauer, Camille Norton, and Sonoma County Poet Laureate Maya Khosla), the movable feast will then move to The Bank, 199 N. Petaluma Blvd. There, at noon, you can hear readings by Terri Glass, Martin Hickel and Erin Rodoni, hosted by Kevin Pryne. At 1 p.m., at the River Front Café (224 B St.), hosted by David Magdalene, there will be readings by Diane Frank, William Greenwood and Jeanne Powell. At 2 p.m., at North Bay Café (25 N. Petaluma Blvd.), host Daniel McKenzie (that's technically still tentative) will introduce attendees to poets Arnoldo Garcia and Nina Serrano. Copperfield's Books is the location of the 3 p.m. session, hosted by Gwenn O'Gara, and featuring poets Maxine Chernoff and Petaluma's own 2019 Pulitzer winner Forrest Gander. Iris Dunkle hosts the 4 p.m. session at The Phoenix Theater (201 Washington St.), where poets Lucille Lang Day, Ruth Nolan, Susan Cohen, Barbara Quick and Jack Foley will read poems from the recent collection "Fire and Rain: Ecopoetry of California." At 5 p.m., the whole shebang moves to the Petaluma Historical Museum and Library (20 Fourth St.), where host John Johnson will introduce Phyllis Meshulam and student poets from Cal Poets and Poetry Out Loud. And it all comes to a close with a two-hour block of poetry at Aqus Café (189 H St.), hosted by David Magdalene and featuring Raphael Block, Albert Flynn DeSIlver, Maureen Hurley, Michael Koch and Gail Mitchell. You can follow along all day, or pick-and-choose, but do enjoy some live poetry in this unique literary celebration. PetalumaPoetryWalk.org.

A day in the life

Knackered—I lost hours promoting the upcoming CPITS/CalPoets Symposium, Poetry Flash Watershed reading, & the Petaluma Poetry Walk. While getting poems for my PPW set, and I fell down a rabbithole. I will emcee with Brennan DeFrisco at Watershed. We still need a poet-teacher list and everybody is beyond late getting back to me. Feeling overwhelmed. While promoting poetry events, I discovered my Brownie Mary photo was stolen, and shared 32,000 times, sans permission on Facebook and Instagram. Oh, and the thief removed my copyright and name. Still don't have my poetry set organized. I need to do it ASAP because I won't have a printer after tomorrow. Then, I need to nail down some airline tickets, and also knock out two pieces of art in the next few days for an upcoming art show. Things are going too fast. Where’s Alice? said the Rabbit. It’s later than you think. Now if only I got paid some actual money for all this work. Or my Brownie Mary photo.

On the ambling gait of horses

About 20 to 30 breeds of modern horses carry what is referred to as a "gatekeeper" gene which produces gaited pacers, or amblers—a trait highly prized during the Middle Ages. The jennet and palfrey were considered prized amblers, noted for their smooth rides. Good for traveling long distances.

 

Medieval ambling palfrey. Folio 8r of an Apocalypse. British Museum—Wiki

If you've ever ridden a horse any distance at spanking diagonal-legged trot, it's a jarring staccato of a ride that's murder on the spine and the innards. The smooth ambling, or pacing gait, where one foot never leaves the ground, overstepping, and/or front and back legs moving, not diagonally, but laterally as one unit on each side, like the four-beat walk, but much faster—softens the blow, so to speak. 

Ambling is like having a horse with good shocks and extra speed gears. Think four on the floor, plus two or three extra overdrive gears in car terms. Most horses have three or four gaits: the four-beat walk, the two-beat jog and the faster trot (some horses are unclear on the idea of jog, other can't grok the idea of canter), the three-beat rocking horse canter, and the faster gallop where all four feet leave the ground. Amblers have one or two more gaits similar to a lateral trot. 

Amblers will rarely canter or gallop. Their gallop gear is wonky. Helgar, the Icelandic pony we rode, would begrudgingly gallop, and he preferred trotting to tölting. It was like riding a jackhammer on a knifeblade. But when he tölted, it was like riding on clouds. 

Not all amblers will naturally amble—some need tune-ups. But you can't train a non-ambling horse to amble. Amblers make up for a lack of a working galloping gear (in Icelandic terms), by tölting, or when they really burn rubber with the faster lugskeið or flying paces which is full blast tölting at 30 mph. That's almost as fast as a thoroughbred racehorse. But Icelandic ponies are not the only gaited horses, there are many old or isolated breeds that retain this archaic gene. Where did it come from?

(See Edward Muybridge's photo animated gif of a flying pacer).

During the Middle Ages, there was no such thing as the idea of a modern “breed” though hominids have been cross-breeding plants and animals for eons; selective inbreeding for specific dominant genetic traits is a modern concept. In the past, body “type” was used as a genetic breeding criteria. The Old English word breed comes from bredan which means to "bring young to birth." Not terribly enlightening or specific. The definition of the word breed has changed considerably since the Middle Ages.

During the agricultural revolution of the 18th c., farmer Robert Bakewell of Leicestershire, England, methodically bred superior sheep (Lincoln Longwool), Dishley Longhorn cattle (double the weight of other cattle), and strong workhorses (the Black Cart horse, ancestor of the Shire), by inbreeding livestock for specific traits via artificial selection vs. letting nature take its course, to strengthen and enhance certain traits. His animal husbandry experiments influenced the thinking of Charles Darwin in Origin of Species.

The Celtic horse/pony, with ancient Celtiberian origins, was a probable ancestral carrier of the ambling gene; still present in the surviving indigenous wild horses of Iberia, the Sorraia (a scrawny Guadalquivir marsh horse dubbed Marismeño by Columbus), and other rare breeds including the Garrano, Gallego, Asturcón, Pottok and Losino. (I use the word Iberia loosely vs. Spain and Portugal as the Iberian horses, whose shared ambling DNA traits predate the foundation of those political entities.)

These Iberian wild horses were also the probable ambling ancestors of all the New World gaited horse breeds including the Florida Cracker, Missouri fox trotter (the ambling gait was called the fox trot), Saddlebred, Standardbred, Tennessee Walking Horse, and the Puerto Rican Paso Fino—and the myriad related Latin American ambling breeds. 

In the British Isles, the ambling gene was carried by the extinct Irish hobby, (foundation bloodline of the Connemara pony and the thoroughbred); the Dartmoor, Exmoor, Fell, Highland, and Shetland (but not the Fjord horse), all carry the ambling gene. 

During the early 19th c. like the beleaguered Kerry Bog pony, the tiny Faroe Island pony, a distinct breed related to the Shetland, and the Icelandic pony, was extensively exported to the UK, used as troglodyte pit ponies to haul coal—never to see the light again. The need for pit ponies was so great that almost none were left in the Faroes. 

The term, Irish hobby/hoby has an interesting linguistic lineage, hobin/obann in early Irish, or hobynis in early Scots (the preferred ride of Robert the Bruce), came from the French haubini and morphed into hobbeye; which is cognate with palfrey (Latin, paraveredus, a courier horse, from the Gaulish vorēdos. The German Zelter, or ambler is cognate with Icelandic, tölt.)

And one amang, an Iyrysch man, (he's referring to a hobelar)

Uppone his hoby swyftly ran... —John Barbour, The Brus, 1375

Sweyn Forkbeard on a dappled palfrey.  Life of King Edward the Confessor, 13th c. Wiki

Oddly, two indigenous horse breeds in Northwest India—those weird-cross-eared horses of Marwari or Malani from the Jodhpur region of Rajasthan, and the Kathiawari, a desert war horse of the Gujarat, both have genetic ties to the Mongolian horse (not a pacer), and they are also gaited. Which considerably widens the origin of the ambling gene pool. Northern India, Iberia, Ireland, Iceland.

The native Northern European horses, including the Dartmoor and Exmoor ponies along with the Kerry Bog pony (all have a genetic link to Mongolian horses) are considered to be among the most ancient of breeds, possibly even Neolithic breeds, dating back to the Pleistocene era, along with the Sorraia and Garrano of Iberia, and all carry that gatekeeper gene. Convergent evolution? I think not.

Sadly most nations nearly slaughtered their ancient horse breeds, considering them superfluous and obsolete—especially after WWI, once the combustion engine was developed. Many countries actively slaughtered those horses carrying this rare ancient gene, for dogfood, or for eating the very grass their valuable blooded livestock needed. Those persecuted feral horses that escaped to the fens and bogs of Europe managed to survive, keeping the rare genetic pool alive, but just barely. Once a population gets too low, a genetic bottleneck occurs—which means lost gene variations.

Now here's the mystery: the recessive gatekeeper ambling gene DMRT3 is NOT present in most modern horse breeds, including the venerable Norwegian Fjord Horse breed (which throws a huge spanner into the notion that Icelandic horses and the nearly extinct Faroe ponies (related to the Icelandic horse) are solely descended from fjord horses. (I cannot fathom a chonky fjord draft horse tölting, let alone, traveling to Iceland on a tiny wooden Viking ship).

Pict on an ambling pony, with his carnyx. Bullien Stone, 9th c. Wiki

And yes, you read that right, the Irish Celts inhabited the Faroe Islands as well as Iceland long before the Vikings—and the only reason why the Icelandic pony is called a horse, is that there's no word for pony in Icelandic. Besides, all those island horses were diminutive. Think of Shetlands.

Nor is the recessive pacing gene present in the ancient Przewalski’s horse species. So where did it come from? Mongol horses? Tarpans? Who's on First? Since the ancestor of horses were once a New World species... nah.

The Mongol horse, an archaic breed and foundation stock for all Asian horses, including the Outer Mongolian Tuvan horse, has the most genetic variability of any horse, vs. the extreme bottlenecked Przewalski's horse, a distinctly separate species with extra chromosomes, saved from extinction because of ten horses found in European zoos. (The Botai horse of Kazakhstan may have been a Przewalski's horse, or a hybrid, but it's the earliest reference we have to domestication of the horse— if you consider eating them a form of domestication.)

It is surmised that some wild Mongol horses still exist alongside their more domesticated kin. They are all considered feral or semi-feral, somewhat like the American mustang. But, not all Mongol horses are one homogenous breed; there is the desert horse with big feet, the agile mountain horse, and the Steppe horse—which is used for racing. Has anyone looked at the other Mongol horses for that primitive ambling gene? 

There is some conjecture that the ambling gene might have been inherited from the Eurasian Tarpan, thought to be the original wild horse, Equus ferus ferus. There were two subspecies of tarpan, the forest, and the steppe horse. The Eurasian forest tarpan was the probable ancestor of the European horse of the Pleistocene era, made famous by the paintings on the cave walls of Las Caux, and Altamira. 

Herodotus described pale (dun?) wild steppe horses in what is now the Ukraine in the 5th c. BC. Sadly, the last tarpan, a diminutive grullo with a full falling mane (not a standing mohawk like the Przewalski's horse), and primitive markings, including a dorsal stripe and shoulder stripes, died in a Russian zoo in 1909. The last wild tarpans had been extirpated between 1875 and 1890. And "the last free-ranging mare was accidentally killed during an attempt at capture." (Wiki)

The name "tarpan" or "tarpani" derives from a Turkic language name meaning "wild horse". The Tatars and the Cossacks distinguished the wild horse from the feral horse; the latter was called Takja or Muzin. ... Most studies have been based on two preserved specimens but research has not positively linked the tarpan to Pleistocene or Holocene-era animals.—Wiki

Primitive wild horses still roamed free in Europe and Russia until the 16th century. There were captive wild horses in Russian and Polish zoos ca. 1750s, that were "small and strong, with robust limbs, a large thick head," small eyes, pinned ears, a shaggy dun, or mouse-colored coats with a light belly (primitive pangaré markings), "short dark manes and tails, and a beard." Their whinny was more like a donkey bray. And "They were also absolutely untameable." (Wiki) And no, they weren't wild asses, the European wild ass went extinct during the Pleistocene. 

It seems that the tarpan and Przewalski's horse shared the untameable gene, along with the equally vicious Syrian onager of the Middle East. (Untameable is the main difference between wild and domestic animals—and why zebras can't be domesticated).

So, it's possible the forest tarpan may have carried that ambling gene, but at this point, it's all pure conjecture.

According to Wiki:

In 2012, a DNAstudy found that horses from several gaited and harness racing breeds carried a mutation on the gene DMRT3, which controls the spinal neurological circuits related to limb movement and motion. In 2014, that mutation was found to originate in a single ancestor to all gaited horses....Ambling was described as early as the Hittite writings of Kikkuli. (Kikkuli was a Hurrian charioteer and "master horse trainer of the land of Mitanni.")

Unfortunately the Wiki article does not expand upon that single ancestor to all gaited horses.* But Kikkuli, that master horse trainer, who recorded the presence of amblers on his training regime treatise inscribed on cuneiform tablets. 

Kunga draft hybrids, 'Standard of Ur' mosaic, 3rd m BC, British Museum

While everyone else in the Middle East were using hybrid kunga asses to pull cumbersome war carts, the Hittite charioteers with their superior (Kabarda or Circassian?) war horses, quickly supplanted the kungas, and forged an empire that included Turkey, Syria, Lebanon and Northern Iraq. 

The ousted kunga asses were a hybrid between the large Syrian onagers (among the fastest of land mammals—at 40mph, they could easily outrun horses) that were bred with more tractable donkeys. (The hybrid kungas predated the horse-donkey hybrid mule by 1500 years. Imagine what could've happened to warfare advantage if horses and onagers had been crossed). 

So the perhaps the ambling gene arose somewhere in the Middle East. Back to the homeland of the Tarpan. The last known Syrian onager was shot in 1927 in Jordan, and the last captive onager died in a Vienna zoo that same year.

And here's an aside: it seems that ambling, a trait duly noted by the Hittites, would go a long way in ameliorating the origin of those odd amblers of northwestern India. From the Middle East to Iberia is an easy enough connection to understand, but to the bogs of Ireland? I guess we will never know the gene's origin, or why certain isolated horse populations retained the gene, despite the meteoric rise of the modern horse. But we're glad they did.

The oldest known horse sculpture found in the Vogelherd cave, Germany, was carved ca. 32,000 years ago. —Wiki