Travel-Blogue (I lost track of what days)

Final Finger of The Bon Ton Roulet, Back to Erie, and a Day

Our penultimate day of the Bon Ton took us through Seneca Falls, birthplace of the Women’s Rights Movement in the U.S.  Rich and I parted there, he took the long route, and I decided to tour the Women’s Rights National Park there and continue to Auburn via the short route, and I am SO glad that I did.  After teaching a semester of Women in Literature, I was perfectly prepared t o take in the rich history and informative exhibits presented there.  I sat in the theatre, watching the video presentation about the early beginnings of the Movement and just cried.  I have so much respect for the courageous women who fought so that I could live the life I do.  I am beyond grateful.  After visiting the park, I deviated from the route to ride past Elizabeth Cady Stanton’s house.  I wanted to bear witness, to pay my respects and say thank you.

It rained the whole riding day.  Rich & I arrived in Auburn completely soaking wet, and a bit chilled.  We set up our tent, dried off, and prepared for the final evening’s entertainment.  While Rich was cleaning the bikes, he was talking with another rider who let him know that I had a bit of a reputation amongst the older, more conservative riders on the tour.  I apparently was known and referred to as “the girl from California on the orange bike with the tattoos.” LOL! I guess I’ll be easy to spot and recognize on future tours.

Our final day was a relatively short ride (37 miles) from Auburn back to Cortland.  As we packed up our gear it was hard to believe that a whole week had gone by, that it was over.  We bid adieu to the many friends we made, exchanged numbers, and Jean & I made tentative plans regarding a ride next year.  We will see how that shapes up.  Ultimately we were VERY impressed with the ride, the organization, and the gorgeous countryside that we rode through.  While I would not dare to compare this to the AIDS Lifecycle ride we did last year, it was nice to be in a smaller group (500 riders as opposed to 2500).  The smaller group made it possible to have a bit more privacy, to not constantly be dodging other riders, and kept the lines for facilities, rest stops, and meals much more manageable.  We give it 4 thumbs up!

We rode back to Erie to find that Nicolette had passed a lovely week with Grandma and the “Aunties.”  They went to baseball games, out to eat, knitted, visited the zoo, talked about old times, and watched CSI.  One of the days, Mike & Mo took her kayaking on Presque Isle.  She stayed entertained and busy, and she and Grandma became very fond of one another.  Rich & I were pleased that a good time was had by all.

The next morning the 3 of us got back into the car and headed to Niagara Falls.  We crossed into Canada since we had heard universally that the view was better from that side than the American side, and we were not disappointed!  The sheer force of the Falls (which is Lake Erie dumping into Lake Ontario due to a change in elevation) is nothing short of breathtaking.  We went down behind the Falls, and up close to one side, and the spray and wind from the millions of gallons of water falling over the side gives one an even better understanding of the force and magnitude of this treasure.  After leaving the Falls, we continued north along the Niagara River to Lake Ontario and the little town of Niagara on the Lake, which is a darling, picturesque community.  Before making the trek back to Erie, we stopped in Buffalo to watch a DCI (Drum Corps International) competition.   One word: THRILLING!  The highlight was seeing The Blue Devils and The Santa Clara Vanguard, but we were impressed by all of the shows.  Pacific Crest, from Diamond Bar, also performed.  Nic has been thinking about trying out for that Corps, and she became all the more motivated after watching the pageantry and precision of all these impressive bands.  I have to say, there is something indescribably moving about seeing/hearing/feeling the full force of sound coming out of a band from the perspective of the audience in the stands.  It was such a great ending to our visit to Niagara—two completely different entities in form but very similar in sheer power and their capacity to move human beings, except Rich.  Drum Corps is not his thing, but he tolerated it reasonably well.

The next two days we rested, spent more time with family in Erie, and prepared to continue on our journey.  Leaving was bittersweet; it was hard to leave Mom, Mike, and Mo, since we have precious few opportunities to see them.  But, we enjoy the time we do have, and that is no small part of what has made this trip so wonderful.  Wednesday morning we left Erie at 6am and pulled into Rock Island, IL to spend the night, and we were on the road again at 5 am headed to Hill City, SD.  We arrived at the campsite just before 8 pm, and got set up before dark—let’s hear it for teamwork! (We’re getting good at this!)

Next report from The Black Hills!

The Bon Ton Saga Continues

Bon Ton Roulet, Days 2-5

What an incredible journey!  After a night of thundershowers and lightning, Day 2 (Monday, Ithaca to Watkins-Glen) proved to be quite a challenging riding day.  I was not expecting to hurt so quickly into the ride.  I figure there were a few contributing factors:

1)      It began with a good climb out of camp.  I need about 10-15 miles just to warm up, so hitting that right out of the gate wore me out!

2)      The rest stop came too quickly—at about mile 10—when I had just gotten warmed up by the climb.

3)      Failure to apply sunscreen

4)      Headwinds

5)      High humidity

6)      Lack of sleep (due to the lightning and thunder which went on until early in the morning, so neither of us got much sleep)

The humidity was probably the worst part of it, since we are accustomed to much drier weather. On top of that there were several long hills that just wore us down.  During the day I decided to do the short ride (50 miles) on the next day.  We spent the night in the school gym, even though the anticipated rain never materialized.  At least we got a better night’s sleep and we didn’t have to hassle with setting up and tearing down the tent.

Day 3, Tuesday (Watkins Glen to Hammondsport), was a much better day.  I finished the ride before noon, got into camp, did a little exploring, helped unload the gear truck, and set up camp before Rich rode in, since he chose to do the longer ride.  The course put us on an idyllic road right on Keuka Lake which was shady, green, and simply lovely.  It was my favorite part of the ride that day.  Rich took the longer ride (70 miles).  For your reading pleasure, here it is in his own words (italicized):

The ride out of Watkins began with approximately 8 miles of steady climbing, with some long stretches that were as steep as climbing Mt Baldy in the San Gabriel Mts at home.  I had the same feeling as Octave Lapiz (the Tour de France winner in 1910) who exclaimed to tour officials as he made it to the top of the Col de Tourmalet (one of the hardest climbs in France) “You’re assassins, all of you!”  Finally we were rewarded with an incredible 2 mile down hill where I reached a speed of 54 mph.  Over the next 40 miles there were a series of hills that continued to wear me down, with the last 20 miles or so being “flat” (ie. rollers with continuous ups and downs).  However, the scenery was spectacular with beautifully manicured farms interspersed with wooded areas.  Something you just can’t see in So Cal. When I got into camp Jenn was sitting at the entrance to the school waiting for me having already gotten our luggage, and set up the tent. What a gal!”  At the camp meeting that night a woman asked if there were going to be any more mountains for us to climb, the tour director said there were no mountains on our route.  The woman then said, “I’m from Florida,” to which he replied, “then yes, there will be more mountains tomorrow.”

Day 4, Wednesday (Hammondsport to Geneva)

We both decided that there was no shame in doing the short ride, so that’s what we did, but it was still 50 miles long.  Even though we chose the short route, it still had three long and steep climbing sections along with the ubiquitous rollers that characterize the glacial topography of this part of New York.  In addition, there was supposed to be a good chance of rain, and neither of us wanted to spend too much time riding in bad weather.  As it was, we were lucky and were only 5 miles from our camp site at Hobart and William Smith Colleges when the rain started to fall.  Fortunately we had signed up for a dorm room in the campus housing, which was quite a welcome relief as it continued raining off and on throughout the night.  We stayed in campus “townhouses”, essentially 4 individual bedrooms with a common kitchen and dining area.  Our roomies were Mary Jane and Amy who are biking buddies from New England (Vermont and New Hampshire) and have known each other for years because their kids played sports together from the time they were in junior high, and Ellen from New York City. What a riot they are!

We had dinner in the campus dining hall with a wonderful couple named Mike & Jean, who are from D.C.  She works for the State Department and he is a carpenter.  We spent hours lingering over dinner talking about politics, her travels overseas, bike tours around the country, and remarriage and raising children under those circumstances.  Meeting people is one of the things we like best about these kinds of trips.

Day 5, Thursday (Geneva to Canandaigua and back to Geneva)

This was an optional riding day, but since we came here to ride, we did the short 40 mile loop.  We slept in, missed breakfast, but then rode to a little coffee house and fueled up on caffeine and bagels with cream cheese—breakfast of champions.  While there, we met another interesting gentleman, Mike, who is a counselor from New Orleans and lost his home during Katrina.  We spent an hour before our ride having another phenomenal conversation.  Today was, I think, my best riding day.  Again, more gorgeous countryside and scenery.  We had dinner at a lovely little restaurant just outside of town with the best seafood.  Upon our return, I graded essays and Rich got us packed up to head out early tomorrow.  The rumor is that we can expect rain tomorrow, we’ll have to see how that turns out, especially since we were supposed to have rain on days 1 and 2, but it never happened.

Two days left, and more to come later.  We are calling it a night!

Travel-Blogue

Days 8 and 9

Erie to Cortland, and Day 1 of The Bon Ton Roulet: Cortland to Ithaca

After a hearty breakfast at The Breakfast Place in Erie with Mom and Nic, we loaded the bikes on the car, blew kisses, and rode off for New York to check in for our ride in Cortland.  The drive from Erie was about 4 ½ hours, and would have been uneventful had the brakes not gone out as we passed through Ithaca.  Fortunately, Rich spotted Ford dealer on the main drag, so we turned around and drove (gingerly) into the service bay which had closed 15 minutes prior to our arrival.  Thankfully, one of the technicians came out, checked the car, filled it with brake fluid (which had apparently been overlooked when Rich had it serviced just before embarking on this trip), and had us back on the road in no time.  We arrived without further incident to Cortland, completed the ride check in, and then checked into a nearby hotel to redistribute our gear and get ready for departure in the morning while catching snippets of the penultimate day on the Tour de France.

The forecast threatened rain, and it did rain overnight, but in the morning it looked ok.  All 500 of us set off at 8 am, and our cycling adventure began!  We rode through several small, quaint towns with a lot of cute homes, many of which were old Victorians with lots of gingerbread-eaves.  The woods came up to the property edges, and there was (is!) so much greenery around.  Cayuga Lake is quite idyllic, with houses around the edges sporting small piers, and local children splashing about in it.  Part of our route took us through the historic Underground Railroad.  I tried to imagine this area without the modern houses, and reflected on the courage of not just the escaped slaves, but of those who harbored them.  Our second rest stop was at Cornell University’s bird sanctuary, which was stunningly lovely.  Rich and I could only think about how much Susan & Bob would have loved it.  When we reached the outskirts of Ithaca, we passed by many of Cornell’s old buildings.  Their architecture reminded me of many of the colleges in Oxford.  We stopped for iced lattes there in the university district and took in the ambiance; many summer students were sitting there with their laptops and textbooks, hard at work.

We pulled in to camp at Robert Treman State Park after 70 miles of riding, pitched our tent, and struck out for the swimming hole which was to die for.  It is a large pond at the base of a waterfall, complete with a diving board.  The water was cold (62 degrees), but as we were both quite hot and sweaty from the ride (the temp today was about 76, but the humidity was quite high), we both jumped in.  I can’t tell you how good that felt!

After that we showered, and enjoyed dinner (I was STARVING!) with several other riders.  One of the things Rich & I like best about these long tour rides, besides the opportunity to spend 7 days on our bikes touring gorgeous countryside, is having the opportunity to relish a hot meal with people we would never otherwise meet and share our stories.  We sat with a pair of history professors from Massachusetts, one of whom teaches at MIT and did a project in the lakebed in Lancaster a few years ago, and discussed California’s budget, teaching in general, and cycling.  We thoroughly enjoyed ourselves.

Tonight should be rain free, but tomorrow threatens thundershowers as we trek to Watkins Glen. We are well prepared for wetness, so whatever Mother Nature throws our way, we plan to have another great ride.

Sapsucker Woods Bird Sanctuary

Travel-Blogue 4

Days 4-7

Salina, KS to Erie, PA (Dreary Erie, the Mistake by the Lake)

Word up: RAIN. Rain, rain, rain.  More rain. Thunder, lightning, rain.

We left KS early on Tuesday morning (5:30 am), and in spite of intermittent showers throughout the day, our drive was uneventful.  Nic mused before falling back to sleep in the backseat that REALLY it was 3:30 am. We passed through Missouri, Illinois, Indiana, Ohio, and finally into Pennsylvania.  At 1:30 in the morning we exited the freeway in Erie.  It was a poignant moment when we pulled into the driveway and Rich said, “Mom, I’m home.”

We slept in late, mercifully, on Wednesday and passed the day unloading the car, bathing (just a few days of camping even with showers makes for really ripe individuals), and catching up with Mom and Rich’s best friends Mike & Maureen (Mo).  Rich took me on a tour of Erie which opened my eyes to why he has no compulsion to ever come back.  It is a very economically depressed area, and even he was stunned by how run down it has become.  However, we passed a bit of time in “the way-back machine” as he took the time to point out areas of interest and show me his old stomping grounds.

Mony update: I called Lima Thursday and Mo told me that he was tired of eating chicken, bored, and that he had been homesick for two days but that his father told him he wasn’t homesick.  I felt badly for him, but can’t do much.  I reminded him that we would all be back together soon, and that I would call him again on Monday.

After saying our goodbyes and “love yous” to Mo, we all helmeted up and rode off (in the threatening rain) toward Presque Isle for a short ride.  It began to pour down sheets of water when we stopped for lunch.  Rich called Mike, who picked up Nic (right at that moment Mike was her hero) to take her back to Mom’s, and Rich and I continued (hard core or stupid is for you all to decide) riding in the rain.  Presque Isle was lovely.  There is a bike path that encircles the peninsula, with lush, reasonably dense, and inviting woods on each side.  While out I saw a cardinal sitting on a branch.  I had never seen one before but it was a stunning red against the verdant green.  Rich turned back to me, flashed a huge grin, and said, “This is so great—I love it!” And it was.

I like riding in the rain even though one must be more cautious when doing so, just as with driving.  There is something refreshing about it, and here the rain is warm so there is no biting cold that often accompanies it.  But I had to laugh out loud when a car passed me on the side, hit a massive puddle, and sent a wall of water right into me. I am convinced that anyone who might have witnessed that moment must have thought me psychotic.

When we got back home, 40 miles later, Rich cleaned the mud covered bikes and I sat on the floor and flipped through all of the old family photo albums.  I had never seen any pictures of Rich as either a baby or a child, but because I knew so many of the stories, I was able to match up images with narrative and add another layer to my understanding of him and his past.  Mom also has done an extraordinary job of labeling and cataloguing all of her photos.  It was thrilling to just take in the images and visually catch up on all the years that I missed, and Rich, too, sat with me for a short while and looked at the old pictures.  His eyes softened with sentimentality which made me love him even more.

Friday morning we got up early, picked up Mike, crashed a dive for breakfast where our server sounded just like Lois from Family Guy (thanks, Nic—I would never have known that were it not for you), and set off for Cleveland and the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame.  What a place!  We spent a long time slowly taking in all of the exhibits and memorabilia.  It was a sobering and healthy reminder of how much opposition rock and rollers have continuously faced throughout the years with respect to their chosen art form.  I stood, awestruck, by the many hand-written lyrics, stage costumes, guitars, and photographs of my icons and idols.  But what I didn’t expect at all was that seeing all of this musical history laid out before me would remind me acutely that I have missed so much of the cultural revolution by being born a decade or so late. I am making it my mission to go back and educate myself about these performers, and while I will still only appreciate them outside of their original context, I feel strongly the need to bear witness in my own way.  I suppose that is one of the most powerful legacies of music—that it breaks down the cultural, social, and generational divides that human beings construct around themselves. I know it’s been a powerful influence in my life, one that I am enormously thankful for.

This is how our last few days have been spent.  Tomorrow Rich & I leave for our bicycle tour of the Finger Lakes beginning in Cortland, NY.  Don’t turn that dial!

Nic and me at the Rock & Roll Hall of Fame

Travel-Blogue 3

The rainbow before the storm

Day Three—Moab, UT to Salina, KS

I thought that today would be an uneventful all day drive to our next stop.  Silly girl.

We all awoke at exactly 4:55 am, when the storm I referred to in yesterday’s missive began to drop water on our heads.  We scrambled up, packed our tent and gear, and were on the road by 5:30.  This was a good thing.  Colorado was gorgeous along I 70, and it was neat driving through 3 totally different climates—the hot desert, high Rocky Mountains, and then down into the plains.  There were really scenic areas along some of the corridors, and the bike geeks in the car quickly spotted the gorgeous bike paths that run parallel to the highway.  Someday.

Enter Kansas.  It started out fine. But about two hours later Rich looked ahead of us to the east and wondered out loud about a line of cumulous clouds extending out along the eastern horizon.  As we got closer, they became massive.  I must admit they were pretty cool looking and seemed to extend clear into space but they were ominous.  They were clearly threatening rain, but they still seemed kinda far away.  Two hours later, as we drove into the front, it began to rain. My heart pounded in my chest as the flat highway suddenly became covered with standing water right before our eyes and we were having trouble staying on the road. At points it rained so hard that it was difficult to see past the front of the car.  Then all the cars with local license plates began to pull over and stop for shelter below the overpasses.  Suddenly, the sky opened up and we started getting pelted (and I am not even hyperbolizing here) by marble sized hunks of hail.  They exploded with loud pops all over the windshield and car.  We tried to duck and cover like the folks around us with sense, but all the cover was taken, so we soldiered on fighting a driving rain and at least a 30 mph headwind.  I flipped the satellite radio to the emergency weather station which reported a massive storm system right over our heads (duh), that central KS is on tornado watch until at least 2am, and that the system is moving east, like us.

We finally arrived in Salina, KS, and pulled into a diner to eat (incidentally, I had called the KOA earlier to request an upgrade to a Kabin since us geezers are having so much trouble sleeping on the ground, and we got the last one.  Boy are we glad to be old now!)  since this Mama wasn’t about to try to fix a camp meal in this storm.

We were more than a bit freaked out about the tornado watch, but the locals just shrugged their shoulders, which really put us at ease.  The diner itself was great.  Now let me confess that I have never been to Kansas, and pretty much everything I know about it is based on The Wizard of Oz.  First, it smells nice.  At the diner we had a good laugh right away when Nic pointed out that Rich lucked out by qualifying for the senior discount by two years and a day.  Then they brought us the water.  It tasted funny. Then Rich got his root beer. It, too, tasted funny.  The food was typical diner food except that they served Nic’s jello with a side of crackers (I told our server that we may be from California, but we weren’t THAT weird). The local charm of the place was contagious and before long even the server started joking with us.  When Rich got up to pay at the front, she whispered to the girl at the register to check his ID even though he refused the senior discount. I don’t think she believed us.

By the time we left the diner the storm had found us again. We pulled into the KOA grateful that we didn’t have to pitch a tent in the rain, in the dark.  What a spectacular lightning show, though!  I don’t think I’ve ever seen a storm like this.  This isn’t like California, where a mere sprinkle puts every newscaster out onto the streets for live “Storm Watch” reports.  No.  This is REAL weather.

It was fun to watch.  But the best part of all was the bathroom.  I am posting pictures because you just wouldn’t believe me otherwise.  Please note—this is the Salina KOA.  Can we just move in?

Tomorrow: change of plans.  We are driving straight to Erie and skipping Mammoth Caves in Kentucky.  Wish us luck.

Monday Meditation: Serendipity and safety.

Travel-Blogue 2

Day 2: July 19, 2009

Arches & Canyonlands National Parks

First order of business: Happy Birthday, Rich! Is it a coincidence that we are spending your second consecutive birthday at a Utah National Park?  You up for Bryce next year? I hear it’s cooler up there.

Next up: A Mo Update.  We spoke with him today and he is having a good time.  He reports that he watched an inappropriate movie on the airplane, is not speaking any Spanish, that it is cold, and that there is no hot water at his Grandmother’s house.  He misses us, but I detected no homesickness in his voice, which was good.  I will call him again on Thursday.

About last night…”There comes a time in everyone’s life/when all of the parties every night/they’re not enough…”  Oh wait. That is somebody else’s life.  There comes a time in everyone’s life (and perhaps a birthday is a good reminder of it?) when you must face the facts: we are becoming the people we have savagely mocked through the years.  Here is the dirt: it is increasingly hard to sleep comfortably in a tent, on the ground, even with a good Thermarest.  Maybe a camper or RV is not such a bad idea after all.  As my own Grandmother used to say, “It’s hell getting old.” Sigh.

At 3:35 am I was awake.  Really.  AWAKE.  I tried to go back to sleep, but it was unbelievably cold (to me) at 72 degrees (Nic accuses me of covertly contributing to global warming because I actually like the increased temperatures).  Rich was sweating, so getting another sleeping bag out of the car was a ridiculous idea.  I tried to go back to sleep, but got up an hour later, looked at the spectacular star-speckled sky, and then read (The Time Traveler’s Wife) until the sun came up.  I took a slow walk at dawn around the campground. Rabbits were hopping around, a few bats continued to forage, and birds were swooping and singing.  The sun in the east cast a radiant light on the red rock face to the west. What wonder and awe.  I was glad to have this quiet, alone time to bear witness to the dawning day, so much so that I didn’t mind that I only got about 2 hours of dozing/sleep. Rich & Nic slept little better. Speaking of the red rocks out here, Nicolette is convinced that this is what Mars would look like if it supported life. I will have to ask my friend Gerry.

We started our journey at Arches National Park.  As Junie B. Jones would say, “Wowie wow wow wow!” Arches N.P. “lies atop an underground salt bed that is basically responsible for the arches, spires, balanced rocks, sandstone fins, and eroded monoliths” in the park (National Park Service Guide).  We hiked in to see as many of the features as we could, but it was 102 degrees with no shade to speak of, and it was just plain too miserable to get around.  We did take a LOT of pictures, though.

After lunch, we hit up Canyonlands N.P.  Although the two parks are in the same general area, the geology could not be more different, and thankfully a storm is coming in (hopefully not until after we leave) so the temperature dropped significantly and mercifully the winds picked up.  While Arches is mostly comprised of rock formations, Canyonlands is Utah’s Grand Canyon.  It was formed in the same way as its Arizona counterpart, by the Green and Colorado Rivers cutting down into the sedimentary rock layers. While there we hiked to an area where geologists are still engaged in a lively debate as to whether this particular uplift of rocks was struck by a meteorite or if it was formed by a rising salt dome and deformation of the overlying rocks.  Both are plausible hypothesis for this particular formation.  The verdict from our resident rock doc: “I don’t know.”  So there you have it folks—from an expert.  Overall, we definitely recommend these places to you all, and we would like to come back and ride through both parks on our bikes (like that is a big surprise).

Next up: dinner, camp tear-down, much needed showers, and bed (well—tent and sleeping bag).  We should be tired enough to sleep tonight.

So for today’s meditation on gratitude, I choose the simple physical principle of momentum. As long as we kept moving, so did our day!

Tomorrow we are up early again and spending the day driving though Colorado and into Kansas.  I’m thinking John Denver’s “Rocky Mountain High” and Elton John’s “Goodbye Yellow Brick Road” will make their way onto the iPod at some point during the day. Cheers!

I Lift Up My Eyes Towards the Mountains (Part 1)

“Knowledge of places is…closely linked to knowledge of the self, to grasping one’s position in the larger scheme of things, including one’s community, and to securing a confident sense of who one is as a person.” (from Wisdom Sits in Places by Keith H. Basso)

My geographical anchor is the San Gabriel Mountain Range. These mountains are a constant presence and guide in my life, and a reminder of the holiness of place.

I lived the first thirty years of my life in the southern cradle of these mountains, the San Gabriel Valley, which encompasses most of north eastern Los Angeles County.  I then spent a few years facing the north side of them, and have since returned to this familiar valley, only a little further to the east.

The San Gabriel Mountains are part of the Los Angeles Ranges, also called the Transverse Ranges.  They are the geologic product of two tectonic plates, the North American Plate and the Pacific Plate, colliding with one other.  This is probably more than what most Angelinos know about the these magnificent mountains, but what they do collectively know is that they are the home of the San Andreas Fault, which runs across the range to the north.  Southern California residents have lived under the shadow of “the big one” longer than I have been alive.

Until recently, I did not know the names of the various peaks of the range.  The highest peak is that of Mt. San Antonio (more commonly known to locals as Mt. Baldy, or Old Baldy) which towers just over 10,000 feet.  Residing alongside it are Dawson Peak (~9500 ft.), Telegraph Peak (~9000 ft.),  Cucamonga Peak (~8800 ft.), Ontario Peak (~8600 ft.), San Gabriel Peak (~6000 ft.), and Mt. Wilson (~5700 ft.), to name a few.  Clearly the range is in good company.

Some 2 million people live under their constant guard.  That’s pretty incredible: for all of these people, including myself, the San Gabriel Mountains navigationally indicate “north.”  They guide  the lost traveler.  They bear witness.  They are and will always be.

Unlike the vast majority, however, I am a third generation Angelino on both sides.  My paternal grandmother was born in Huntington Park, just south of Los Angeles, and my maternal grandfather was born in Pasadena, the largest and oldest city in the San Gabriel Valley.  This land is my ancestral home and the place I now raise my fourth generation children.

I am aware, though, that our home was once inhabited by peoples more indigenous to the area than my family is.  These parts were formerly the land of the Gabrielino Indians, or the Tongva people. The word Tongva means “people of the earth.” I cherish this idea.  If one were to really think about it, aren’t we all?

I, for one, am honored that the circadian rhythm of my life orbits this range like an obsequious satellite. My commute to work is lengthy, 90 miles one way, and to get to the Antelope Valley from the east San Gabriel Valley, I traverse both the north and south sides of the range regularly.  What an incredible daily journey.  I have the distinct pleasure of living under these mountains and watching the seasons change below them, and I must emphatically put any person who claims that Southern California has no seasons in his or her place: we very much do, as the liquid amber, magnolia, and star jasmine will heartily attest.  And, having lived on the other side, I witness and appreciate the change of season at its high desert northscape in the occasional bloom of the Joshua trees, the annual pink peach blossom explosion in the heart of the desert fruitbasket, a dusting of snow and treacherous ice, and the overpowering pungent sage scent in a balmy electric summer thunderstorm as I go to or return from a satisfying day’s work.  It is pure, natural bliss from any direction.

Often however, the infamous L.A. smog renders this range almost invisible.  Ironically, these very mountains, in part, perpetuate the smog that obscures them from view on particularly bad pollution days by preventing the poisoned air from escaping the valley.  The elevation of the mountains themselves trap and condense vehicle exhaust and fog over the San Gabriel Valley, whose lack of adequate public transportation and millions of commuting residents overpower.  But I have  to tell you, from the top of one high ridge or another on some days, when looking down over the valley, the clouds look just like the foamy surf pounding onto our bright Californian golden shores, the peaks as mere beach rocks.  It takes my breath away.  But other days, I literally hold my breath, descending into a pea soup composed of smoke and sulphur dioxide, afraid to let that toxicity into my lungs.  All two million of us create and breathe and live this filth.

Even so, these days compose the seasons of my life from one year to the next.  I anticipate them, I welcome them, I need them.  They ground me and help me navigate through my life.  And when I connect to and revere these ever-present giants, when the busy-ness and pollution of my daily life don’t obscure them from view, oh my, what an amazing view!

A portion of the San Gabriel Mountain Range

Death of a Bicycle

Rich’s beloved bicycle, “Rocky,” met its untimely demise on Monday evening.  It was devastating. To the average reader, this may seem over-dramatic, but we are cyclists.  To a cyclist, losing one’s bike is like losing a limb (especially in tight financial times when the money for a replacement simply doesn’t exist). Let me clarify: nobody was on the bike at the time, and there were no physical injuries to any living beings.  But the incident clarified something for me. Let me explain.

Rich & I were just married on New Year’s Day.  One of our vows to each other was this: “I promise to help you when you need it, and step aside when you don’t.” Silly me.  I didn’t realize I would be living that one out so quickly!

I am unable to find words that adequately express how anguished Rich was.  I know him really well, but we haven’t yet experienced loss and grief as a couple, so I had to draw on everything that I knew about him to try to live up to my still fresh promises and be the partner that he needed. On top of this I must add an essential piece of information: it was Rich who unintentionally destroyed Rocky, so a steep helping of guilt was added to the climate.

I watched him for some time and determined that what he needed more was for me to back off and give him lots of space, so I did.  Now, this is not natural for me.  I am a pleaser by nature, and more than anything else I want to make those around me as happy and content as possible.  Yikes!  How do I not hover, trying to comfort him?  I thought I would burst.  But, as the events unfolded around us, I was granted a precious glimpse of how we love one another.

Rich and I, to date, have never had a fight or even an argument.  After everything each of us has been through, there seems to be no need.  Our existence together is almost completely harmonious.  We have had a couple of what I would call tense moments, but neither time did it escalate.  I bring this up not to boast about our 2 blissful years together; it actually relates to my point.

I have come to believe that a large part of what makes our relationship work that Rich & I “get” and accept one another for the people that we are.   Rich is a complicated human being who came to me with his past experiences and baggage, all of which have shaped him into the man I know and love.    This includes his faults–I am not so starry eyed to believe he has none.  In fact, his faults intrigue me.

When he leaves the light on in the bathroom I turn it off.  When I find his shoes laying in the middle of the closet for me to trip on, I move them. When he leaves something out on the table or the counter that I know he is finished with, I put it away.  He sometimes has a short fuse; I ignore him then.  It’s not even an annoyance.  I just do it.  I mean really–what is the point of grousing at him? I can see none.  To me that is just asking for an argument.  Instead, I prefer to give him the space to be who he is.

This is not to say, however, that I do not encourage him to be his best self; I do.  But there is a difference between picking at things that are inconsequential and suggesting introspection.  For example, the short fuse issue is one that could be improved, but at the same time I understand where it comes from.  When it seems (to me) particularly ridiculous, I touch his hand, arm, or leg gently (whichever is nearest and most discrete, if we are not alone).  He understands two things from this: 1) I am pointing something out to him, and 2) I am doing so in a loving and non-threatening manner.  His internal response? “Duly noted.” And I am pleased to say, and he would be, too, I think, that I have noticed improvement.

And the beauty of all of this?  It works just the same in reverse (although I can’t get him to divulge any of the things I do that annoy him, but he has suggested personal improvements for me to work on). We give each other this space to be who we are, and we cherish the real persons we have found on the other end.  I have never felt so free to be simply me.  Through this experience I have also learned that my love for him is greater than my inclination to “make it better” for him.  He inspires me to be my best, most noble self. How lucky can a girl be?

So in the end, Rocky the Bicycle taught us far more about each other than we could possibly have imagined.  Strange. It happens that way with people, too.

Our Wedding

Jewish Christmas Carols

My faith journey has been an odd one.  My parents were both raised Catholic (my father, in fact, thought of becoming a priest at some point in his life).  My sister, three years younger, and I were both baptized in the traditional fashion, but my parents left the Church when I was about 4 or 5 to join Self Realization Fellowship (SRF), a religious organization that practices the teachings of Parmahansa Yogananda, and is primarily of Hindu origin.  These were formative years in my own faith development, I later found.

When I was in 5th grade, my parents returned to the Catholic Church (it was during the Parish Revival days of the early 1980′s), and we became very active Catholics.  When it was time for my daughter to start school, a Catholic education was the natural choice, and I stayed involved by teaching religious education for our parish.  During this time I was working on my Bachelor’s degree, and I took a comparative world mythology class that ultimately would change my life, although I must admit that I had no idea at the time that it would impact me so.

One topic that we covered in that class (there were many, but I use this as a representative example) was the virgin birth myth, and the myth of the savior.  I learned that these myths were generated by peoples spanning the globe, and that they were all remarkably similar.  How is it, then, that one was selected as the “truth” while all others remain relegated to mere myth?  This question began a long quest that began with fulfilling a graduation requirement and ultimately ended in conversion.

I will avoid long drawn out details, but I have come to believe that the version of the virgin birth and the savior myth held by Christians today came about largely through genius marketing ahead of its time.  Now please understand, it is not my intention to knock down the Christian religion nor its followers.  I believe Jesus was a great man, a radical revolutionary who changed in a very positive way how people relate to one another.  However, I must agree with Ghandi when he said, “I like your Christ. I do not like your Christians. Your Christians are so unlike your Christ.”  Again, this is a generalization, and it does not apply to ALL Christians–the vast majority of my friends and family are Christians–but like Ghandi, I have noticed a serious disconnect between the teachings of Jesus and the practices of his followers.

Beginning with that one question, I felt compelled to dive deep within myself and explore all of my religious and philosophical beliefs.  I realized that I was still moved by Eastern wisdom, reincarnation in particular.  The concept of reincarnation seems to answer a few of my fundamental questions: why do some people die so young, before they ever had a chance to really live?  Well, if we have more than a single chance at life, there could be many reasons why.  Perhaps the lessons (or karma) were learned.  And if not, there will be other opportunities to do so.  How does one explain a soul mate? Many hold that souls travel together as families, and meet here on this plane to work out their collective karma.  What about genius and deja vu? Reincarnation could explain that, too.

But Hinduism was not the right answer for me.  I really struggled for some time to maintain my Catholic identity, but how could I, in good conscience, when I could no longer recognize Jesus as a deity?  That is the very foundation of Christianity.  I attempted to shift my perspective and understand Jesus as a symbol, an archetype, but I found that to be a dishonest approach as well.  I read about Buddhism, and went to  various churches, but nothing felt right.  Then, one day, I was driving on Amargosa Rd. in Victorville, and saw what I have come to believe as “my sign.”  It was, literally, a sign that announced the name of the Reform Jewish Synagogue in the High Desert and the phone number.  It was a Friday, late afternoon, and I knew that Shabbat services would be starting soon, so I pulled over and called.  I was invited right over. I had no idea that what awaited me would forever change my life.  Even though the service was primarily in Hebrew, I knew I was home.  I can explain it no better than that. Not long after that, my daughter and I began our Jewish conversion. It made total sense to return to the roots of Christianity, to my roots.

Interestingly, more Jews are curious about the “whys” of my conversion than are Christians, especially since I did not do so for marital reasons.  The question I get most from Christians is: don’t you miss Christmas?  To which I offer a resounding NO!! That, too, has become a consumer nightmare that I would just as soon avoid. A tree?  Decorations? Nope.  All of that business seems more like an external perversion of the true meaning of Christmas.  In other countries the peoples’ celebration of the holiday is much more reverent and representative of a true Christian holy day.

However, in spite of my ditching Christmas and all of its accoutrement to fully embrace Judaism, there is one thing I still cling to: Christmas Carols.  I love them.  I think it is partially because this is our national music.  It seems our patriotic tunes are more and more a thing of the past, but everyone knows carols–they are the only songs that we all can hum along to, if not sing.  I can consider the lyrics symbolically, and find little, if any, conflict in doing so.  Christmas Carols represent the hope, love, and spirit of giving that are indicative of the season, a hope we as a people are in such desperate need of.  They are ever present, year after year, and don’t need to be dressed up, thrown out, dusted off.  They don’t blink and flash, they don’t create clutter, and they aren’t discarded in a heap of over-indulgent spending.  Simply put, these songs are what I hold dear as the remnants of my Christian heritage, and my connection to the larger community celebration of the birth of the Christ child, the birth of Hope. Of course, I have delighted in the addition of Hannukah songs to my collection.  Taken as a whole, all of these songs are my newly dubbed “Jewish Christmas Carols.”

I wish you and yours peace, joy, and hope this holiday season and throughout the New Year.  May you discover blessings from every direction and experience deep contentedness through the beliefs and tenets you hold dear.  Thank you for reading.

Jennifer

Post Script: I do not mean to imply that I have all the answers or even the correct answer.  Nor do I argue that what is right for me is right for any other person.  If anything, this journey has taught me that we all need to find our own answers, whatever they are.  When sought with an attitude of humility, introspection, respect, and genuine wonder,  I truly believe that what we discover is the truth–a very personal and private truth.

What Are You Thankful For?

One of the Thanksgiving traditions we have in our family is to go around our dinner table and, one by one, express the thing or things we are most grateful for.  I feel so blessed in so many ways that it would be impossible to name them all, but one thing really stood out this year–I am grateful for this profound sense of hope that I feel now.

First, I have much hope in our new president elect.  I remember watching the Democratic National Convention when John Kerry was nominated just over four years ago, and seeing Barack Obama speak.  As I listened him, I knew he would be our president one day. I just wouldn’t have guessed it so soon.  So it is no surprise that I have been supporting his candidacy from the start.  I have never been so excited about a president–or any elected official, for that matter–until now.  The current administration of my country has long (too long) been a shameful embarrassment, to put it kindly.  Today, I feel such tremendous hope that we have a fighting chance to work on regaining some international respect, a chance to rectify some of the many social, environmental, and fiscal disasters this government has incurred. A fresh, new day is upon us.

I also look to my family and feel so much hope right here at home.  My son is growing to be a kind, fair, and gentle-hearted boy.  We watched Raiders of the Lost Ark together last weekend–I thought it would be a fun family movie, but I had forgotten how violent it was.  There just isn’t any built up tolerance for it in our home–we don’t watch much TV, so we aren’t exposed to it.  For this reason, I think, my Simon is not one of those children who glorifies violence, and I’m glad for that.  Instead, he had terrible nightmares later that evening which broke my heart. He knocked at my door, crying, and when I pulled him into my arms and kissed him he said, “There were bad men shooting me, Mama, and it hurt me.”  I wanted to cry right there beside him; I felt so terrible that I had permitted him to see that movie which was now causing him so much anguish.  I have much hope that he will one day be a man of strength, honor, and integrity who still retains an aversion to acts of violence and aggression towards other beings.

My daughter is yet another source of hope.  This year she expressed an interest in helping me prepare our Thanksgiving dinner.  I very much enjoyed sharing my recipes and the kitchen with her, handing down my family traditions, teaching her the hows and whys of preparing the turkey, stuffing, pumpkin pies and cobbler.  One day not too far into the future she will be a woman with her own household to run, and she will be equipped to pass these skills and memories down to her own children.  These are the gifts of real value that we give our children–and they are not things in the tangible sense, but in the sense that we ourselves become part of the tradition that they carry on throughout their own lives.  I believe this is the secret of immortality in its purest form: I will always be somewhere inside of her as she cooks Thanksgiving dinner for her family long after I am no longer around.

And finally, I took the hand of the man sitting next to me, my husband to be, who first announced our engagement last year at the Thanksgiving table.  Our future together holds so much promise–the promise of a lifetime of mutual devotion and respect. Of tenderness and care.  Of love. We are so lucky to have found one another. I feel confident that even in the face of challenges and hard times, which are bound to show up on our doorstep from time to time as we live out our days together, we will only grow closer, as we look to each other for strength, solace, for a compassionate and comforting smile, a gentle touch, a sweet kiss.

Hope–like I’ve never before felt.  What a glorious feeling.  I am thankful indeed.