Sixohdear!

No More Slave To The Root

2010-12-08T09:09:00.000-08:00

My apologies to the gray-haired women who scurried away when they noticed my intense stares. I’m not weird, I was just checking out your hair. Now, that’s some nice gray—I could do that. Or: OMG, she looks older than the pyramids. And: What’s that? Icing on top of her head?

Some of those gray heads wore the ever-popular but fashionably exhausted 1980’s wedge , while others can’t let go of that gray poodle-do. I think it was the cuts that scared me more than the color. They just looked old.

Sure, I’ll be collecting Social Security soon, but when I signed on the bottom line I did not agree to old. Mature, maybe, but definitely not old. And that’s where this hair color business comes into my life.

The top of my head could sing, “I’ve been everywhere man…” It was a lovely chestnut. Silver slipped in, I didn’t lose that 50 pounds for a family reunion, so my hair dresser said, “Let’s color it. How about blonde?” Who knew I could find so many levels of blonde for the next few years? And then when spouse woke up to my red hair one morning, he screamed fearing he did a no-no. (I didn’t warn him on a pending color change.)

When the big six-oh dear! struck, I was done with roots. Blessed with healthy hair that grows quickly, my $150 a month auburn locks grew a silver strip in less than two weeks. So I committed to reality. “Cut it off,” I commandeered my hair dresser. “I’m going to let it grow out.” He shrugged, clipped and cut, knowing full well that I’m hopelessly vain and that I’d back out of this going natural phase.

And I did. The first photo I saw of me with gray roots spreading like quicksilver over my head, I screamed, fearing I did a no-no—looking my age.

This is when the staring at women with gray hair began. I called it “studying natural color,” assuming gray is color.

“Okay, I can do this,” I whispered in total acceptance of my age.

A new hairdresser suggested weaves that blended in the silver with whatever other colors lurk on my skull. Saturday I went in for a “very light touch-up” after letting three-months worth of silver take over.

I’m happy with my mature look—but not so confident.

So, I took advantage of Vibrant Nation’s new beauty guide, “Great Hair After 50.”

I learned a few things, like when I saw that ancient old crone holding her granddaughter, that if I had added “A peachy pink or golden pink blush,” that the makeup would’ve warmed up my face. It explained that my skin “may now be lighter more sallow, pinky in spots, or ashy. You may have brown spots, rosacea, or darker under-eye circles…” Uh. Yeah. All of the above. New peach blush is in my immediate future.

The guide tackles every kind of hair issue for women of a certain age. I’m blessed with healthy hair, but I’ve been a Vitamin B devotee since my twenties. It might have done its job, or I harbor good genes. But with those genes came the eye brow nightmare, I thought.

Since when are dark, thick, curled hairs supposed to show up on my eye brows? I pluck those bad boys immediately, leaving bare spots where white hairs, much like my cat’s whiskers grow. NIGHTMARE!

Apparently, I share this nightmare because the Vibrant Nation guide addresses this! Plus I can click on the recommended product and have it shipped to my door. (Ah, the joy of virtual books!)

What color is my hair? Gray with chestnut, light brown, slightly auburn tints that I’ve let grow long in a slightly layered cut with bangs. Got hot flash? Pull hair up into a scrunchy. Got date? Puff up the bangs and wrap hair into a huge clip. Wear long ear rings. Got exercise? Baseball cap with pony tail. Got roots? Nope! I’m no longer a slave to roots.

Friends: An Unexpected Gift

2010-10-28T16:03:00.000-07:00

Friendship among women of a certain age is silver and gold.

At my age I’ve filtered the pulp from the juice. The friends that bless me now are from the heart of the fruit and do not require any fillers or sweeteners to make them better.

I realized that today after a lengthy telephone conversation with a long time friend. When I mentioned that my baby girl is 34, she screamed, “No way! She can’t be that old. Oh wait a minute, I guess she might be, because if we’ve been friends since our thirties, which would mean…..” We laughed. She didn’t have to finish her thoughts.

Another friend announced two weeks ago, “I just finished my Christmas Tree. And it’s all red!” Meanwhile, I’m thinking pumpkins and black kitties, and I wondered how she’ll keep the dust at bay until Christmas happens nearly 100 days down the road, but I replied, “How cool! Can’t wait to see it.”

Last week while she and I searched for serious fashion markdowns she said incredulously, “Do you know what my neighbor said about my Christmas Tree? She asked me if I was going to leave the lights on!”

Me, concerned that I did not drop down to a lesser sized pant as planned, shouted from the dressing room, “Well are you?”

“Of course I am. It’s a Christmas Tree!”

Yesterday another friend dropped in with two bottles of pure Mexican vanilla—souvenirs from her recent Mexican excursion. Horrified with the local price of pure vanilla, and overjoyed with the real stuff as a gift I squeezed her silly.

“Hey, I saw these and I thought of you!” she said. Now that’s as good as pure vanilla.

I could write a small book about my friends—the writers, the travelers, the caretakers, the business owners, the carpenters, the artists, and the seekers of spirit, but that’s not the point here.

The point came to me while cruising alongside the Colorado River through the Sonoran Desert with my “cuz” friend. I was 17 when we met.

“Bob and I spent a lot of time out here boating with our friends,” she recalled a youthful era with her former husband.

“Are you still in contact with those friends,” I queried. I asked because her boating and water skiing days matched the time frame when I was married to my late husband. And now I desperately tried to remember those “best friends’” names and faces. Seems like we did everything with them, hike, camp, picnic, motorcycle, and party down. But could I remember their names? No.

Cuz answered, “Not really,” to that friend question.

Then I dug deeper into my pulpy memory and recalled a tall and freckled friend from my secretary days. I remembered her and me going out for drinks, going to the movies, and long hours chatting from my desk to hers. What was her name? Then there were other work friends, club friends, and school friends who remained on my Christmas card mailing list for years but have been absent from that list since ????

Each of my core friends also has core friends who share silver and gold threads. My observation is that these are the ones who know us for who we are, for who we’ve been, and for who we shall still become. And that is an unexpected gift of maturity.

Evelyn Dabitz's Remarkable Footprints

2010-08-02T14:45:00.000-07:00

Evelyn Dabritz hasn’t made the cover of People Magazine, nor has TMZ shouted out Dabritz’s latest headlines. Yet her priceless footprints leave a significant trail of adventure and knowledge.

I like writing about people like Evelyn Dabritz as opposed to chasing pop media royalty who offer nothing but noise. Their insignificant steps don’t even leave footprints behind.

The first time I experienced Evelyn’s footprints is when they left me in the dust. I joined a “mature” women’s walking group. I struggled to keep pace. On my left a sun-kissed woman with muscular and shapely calves zoomed past me—uphill. “Can you believe that woman is 79-year-old,” my panting walking partner commented. Evelyn, almost 20 years my senior, was the walker who just dusted me.

When we piled into our carpool ride home, embarrassed at my inability to keep up on the walk, I commented that I’d obviously been at a desk for too many years. Evelyn, who knew from a previous conversation that I was taking anti-cancer medication explained, “It’s the drugs you are taking. They zap it all out of you. Don’t worry, it will come back soon enough.” Wow. I never considered the drug side effects, and how thoughtful of her to say something to soothe my embarrassment. But that’s Mrs. Dabritz, who celebrated her 80th year hiking about Thailand, volunteers as a docent for several nature-based organizations, leads nature hikes along the Pacific coast, and just published a third in a series of children’s nature books.

Officially, Evelyn retired from 24 years as an early education teacher in Whittier, Ca. As a veteran docent ambassador for a new coastal hiking trail, she recently told a local reporter that she’d rather interact with visitors because “It is a nice peaceful way to spend a Sunday afternoon, rather than in your rocking chair.” I'd bet that her rocking chair probably remains in like-new condition.

The coastal hike that I’m sorry I missed was in April when Evelyn and her husband of 60 years, David Dabritz, led a walk near Morro Bay, Ca, for the Nature Conservancy called “Let's See What's Hidden.” After studying her three children’s nature books, "Bonnie Barnacle Finds a Home," "How the Innkeeper Worm Got a Full House,"
and her newest release, the "Kelp Condo Crisis," my curiosity surfaced. The picture books (each illustrated by Isobel Hoffman) explore the tiny and near-hidden elements of marine environments.

Her books are usually found in coastal state park nature stores and natural history museums. Schools use her books, two of which were the result of grants from the Morro Bay National Estuary Program for marine science education, which is timelier than ever before, considering the need for more marine scientists to find ways to help our oceans survive their current ecological assaults.

But Evelyn doesn’t wait around for grants and such. She and illustrator Hoffman, actively promote their books and are part of an August panel featuring children’s authors and illustrators who will discuss how they researched, wrote, developed and refined their children’s books. When she’s concluded that project, one will find her chatting with visiting children in the nearby natural history museum, explaining marine mammals to coastal visitors, or walking along trails fortified with information about the birds, mammals, reptiles, flora and fauna found and eager to share her knowledge.

When chatting with Evelyn I asked, “When you retired from teaching did you just get bored, or have you always felt the urge to learn and share?”

"I was born in California but grew up in a one-room house in Tacoma, Washington--without electricity or water. I loved watching snails, spiders and flying squirrels,” Evelyn explained. She went on to say that because" I was in constant touch with nature,” that it was natural for her to bring nature into her classrooms. “But I had to scrounge for nature books written for young children.”

Upon retirement Evelyn continued teaching as a volunteer docent for the Morro Bay Museum of Natural History. “We needed to get more publicity for the museum…David volunteered me to write stories about the museum…So I wrote "Bonnie Barnacle Finds a Home" for a freebie parents guide…People said I should publish the story but I was too busy heading up school groups and activities for the museum,” Evelyn recalled. Laughing she said, “Finally I joined the Society For Children’s Book Writers and Illustrators, studied the courses offered, then sent out my manuscript—which was rejected every time. I said to myself, ‘I’m too old for this.’ Well, I’ve not done anything really risky all of my life, so I took some money and published the book myself.”

The book was well received and colleagues suggested that she apply for a grant, which she won, then went on to write "How the Innkeeper Worm Got a Full House."

“I’m thinking of writing another children’s nature book about pelicans,” Evelyn added.

Now understanding the unconventional route to getting her books out, my next question was, “You are one fit lady. What’s the secret and what would you advise your “sisters in maturity” about getting or staying fit?”

“Fitness is something you commit yourself for life,” Evelyn answered. “Growing up in the Washington State woods gave me a strong constitution for starters. I had planned to study math in college, but a friend asked me why I didn’t take up physical education instead because I worked at summer camps and was always active. When I looked into what it entailed, I knew that was for me. So my first degree was physical education. Meanwhile, I had four children, and found a part-time job teaching physical conditioning for adult education. I always played tennis too.”

Today she works out at a fitness center four to five times a week, and plays tennis twice a week with a group. “Most of us are 80 or over and it is not pitty-patty tennis!” Evelyn exclaimed.

Popular culture media will likely overlook Evelyn’s imprints, but her marks remain indelible.

Judith Fein Say, "Life is A Trip" and Discovers "The Tranformative Magic of Travel

2010-07-19T09:58:00.000-07:00

Book Review
and

Interview with Judith Fein

Charmaine Coimbra

Life Is A Trip: The Transformative Magic of Travel

By Judith Fein

115 pages, Spirituality & Health Books, 2010

I love travel. And I love Judith Fein’s kind of travel—adventure, learning more about the world, and discovering fascinating people from venues other than posh hotels in popular travel destinations.

Presently, serious budget cuts have amputated far-away travel from my life. And the news hints that I’m not the only one with severed travel funds. This is one of many reasons to pick up Fein’s new book Life Is a Trip: the Transformative Magic of Travel. At Fein’s side is her photojournalist husband, Paul Ross, who illustrates Fein’s adventures. One can hike with Fein down into the depths of an ancient tomb in Israel; climb into Guatemala highlands; and then turn a page and land in Micronesia or even on a small, but well-traveled road in Spain.

As with my last review, I’ve known Judie and Paul for a while, but that doesn’t mean I would automatically like their book. Truthfully, I’m blessed with writer friends who write wonderful books that easily catalogue into my tastes.

When Judie has edited my work, she encouraged me to dig deeper to find my voice. That’s a somewhat illusive challenge, but one essential to every good writer. Judie’s voice is clear, entertains and informs.

Besides her skillful adventure-verbalizing, Fein also scribes how each adventure broadened her spiritual quests. “To be honest, saying that healing interests me is a gross understatement,” Fein writes. “It is a great, driving passion in my life,” she explains in the chapter "The Sorceress’s Apprentice in Mexico," where her Central Mexico journey places her in the “the land of witches.” Magic, sorcery and self discovery keeps the pages turning.

Another chapter," The High Priest and the Camel Eater on the Holy Mountain of Blessings," voyages to the West Bank on Har Gerizim, the holy Mountain of Blessings where Fein visits the home of High Priest, Elazar B.Tsedaka. His lineage traces back to Moses. This privileged audience with the High Priest leaves Fein “a little skittish.” They discuss the Torah, healing, the soul and other matters of the spirit. Then Fein spews a cultural faux pas that could have her escorted from the room. Instead the wise man made humor of her ignorance. When the writer returns home a similar incidence occurs and she brings forth the lesson learned from the Holy Mountain of Blessings.

Forgiveness continues with her journey through modern Vietnam, she finds faith in an ancient tomb in Israel, and compassion in a Mexican prison.

The chapter that most inspired me (with the hacked travel budget) was "Happy Among the Hmong or At Home: Zen Travel." Fein and her husband, Paul Ross, are trapped in a damp, dank rental in what should have been sunny and warm San Diego, Ca. Even veteran travelers get irked—and the Fein-Ross duo was irked and bored. A notice in a local throw-away newspaper for a nearby Hmong New Year party caught their attention. “I didn’t know what to explore first: booths with native food and drink; stands laden with intricate embroidery, accessories, and clothes for sale; a lion dance; or a potluck with huge casseroles of food prepared and offered for free by Hmong women,” Fein writes about the exotic getaway that was twenty minutes away from their San Diego rental.

Sometimes life is a trip just around the corner filled with new Americans celebrating their cultural richness that is foreign to the likes of me.

At 115 pages, Life Is A Trip: The Transformative Magic of Travel is the perfect summer getaway for those who are busy going no place this summer. I’d even recommend Fein’s book to travelers on highways, in motels, on the train or in the air.

The book lands in stores Friday, July 16, 2010. Judie and Paul, however, will be in the air or traipsing across a unique part of the planet. Fortunately, I caught Judie for a few questions before her and Paul’s next most excellent adventure. Judie shared her ideas about full-time travel writing with ideas for others who play with taking this trip.

Charmaine: Was it the call to travel or the call to spiritual search that led you, as an already established Hollywood writer, to leave the stars behind and trek the world?

Judie: The Hollywood stars don't burn; they sear. And, speaking of burning, I was burned out. In Hollywood, I felt as though the soul was being sucked out of me. I had no idea what to do with the rest of my life, so I just sat still and thought about what I loved: travel. I have been traveling all my life. I lived in Europe and North Africa for 9 years. To me, travel is the Zen state. There is so much new stimulation every second that you can't be anchored in the past or the future. You have to be there, right there, in the present. And that is where spiritual connection and healing take place. So I figured out a way to make what I love be what I do for a living. My spirit called out for travel and I listened.

I have learned that if I don't listen to the call, my life is a series of disconnected actions. When I listen to the call, it all flows, like some of the great rivers of the world I have seen. I do not think you have to travel to the ends of the earth. You can cultivate a traveler's soul and mindset even if you never leave your home town.

Charmaine: It would seem that you and your husband, Paul Ross, have found the perfect scenario in that you work together, travel, write, photograph, and teach. Your bio says that your travel writings have appeared in over 90 "prominent magazines, newspapers and Internet sites." As a former freelance writer I know how much work that takes. Would you recommend this lifestyle to up and coming writers, or even to people who think they might have a great story-telling angle on their travel adventures?

Judie: There are two approaches in life: step-by-step or leaping. In this case, I would recommend the former.

First, commit to traveling deeply.

Second, when you travel soul-first, you will stumble into stories. Stories that no one else can write but you.

Third, write one story, and make it 1,000 words or less.

Fourth, try to sell it to a local paper. It can be a freebie paper, a niche paper or a paying newspaper or magazine. It doesn't matter. If that doesn't work, try to place it online. Do not even think about money. You need clips. Proof you have published. Then, when you contact an editor, you will have a published piece to show. It will build from there.

I work l6-hour days. You don't have to do that. Or you can do it. It's your life, your trips, your writing, your experience, your rhythm. If you have a mate, he or she can perhaps share your experiences by learning more about photography and videography. Then you can "work" together, even if it's not what one or both of you do for a living.

Charmaine: Did you ever think that perhaps another career, other than writing, makes more sense?

Judie: The word "career" is almost comical to me, Charmaine. This isn't a career. It's a passion. I write because I HAVE to write. The world doesn't make sense to me until I write. That's how I figure things out. And I HAVE to travel. What I read in magazines, newspapers, on websites does not express or describes the world as I encounter it on the road. So these are necessities and not just career choices. I do not live lavishly; actually, I live modestly. I don't have big desires or needs. So, thankfully, I don't have to worry about a career and a career path. Life is zipping by. I do what seems necessary, what feeds my soul.

______________________

All photos by Paul Ross

2010-07-14T11:53:00.000-07:00

Deep Blue Home: An Intimate Ecology of Our Wild Ocean The following book review by Christine Heinrichs was originally published in the Summer 2010 edition of Earth Island Journal (www.earthislandjournal.org)

Deep Blue Home

By Julia Whitty

246 pages, Houghton Mifflin Harcourt, 2010

Reviewed by

Christine Heinrichs

In her new book, Deep Blue Home: An Intimate Ecology of Our Wild Ocean, veteran journalist Julia Whitty reaches back over a 30-year career devoted to the oceans and synthesizes her experiences into a work that is equal parts personal memoir and environmental history book. Deep Blue Home delves into the influence of oceans in human culture and spirit, while at the same time documenting how human technological ingenuity, fueled by greed and accompanied by a lack of foresight, is devastating the undersea world.

Whitty, an environmental correspondent for Mother Jones, is first a documentary filmmaker, with more than 70 nature documentaries to her credit. Her stories and articles have been recognized with many awards, including the O. Henry Award. In Deep Blue Home she shows off this storytelling prowess. The book begins on Isla Rasa in the Gulf of California in 1980, where Whitty spent a field season, April through June. She was there as an assistant to another graduate student, Monica, studying royal terns, along with researcher Enriqueta Velarde, then a graduate student completing her dissertation on the breeding colony of Heerman’s gulls.

Young, unattached, intellectually voracious, and personally adventurous, Whitty is open to the wealth of biodiversity and human experience the island offers. Originally brought to the island for bird research, she packed her snorkel, too, and so spends time under the sea as well. Her filmmaker’s eye catches everything from the tiniest plankton to fish, sea turtles, and marine mammals.

Whitty chronicles not only the wildlife on and around the island, but also Isla Rasa’s human drama. Among the three women, the irritations of daily island life rub raw, culminating in an explosive argument over whether to confine the breeding colony and band the chicks. Confining them makes them easier to study, but vulnerable to being picked off by predatory gulls, ravens, and falcons.

After introducing her passion for nature and open water, Whitty takes her readers to the far reaches of the ocean, following currents that run across ocean boundaries. Such divisions are convenient for humans, but meaningless to the birds, fish, reptiles, invertebrates, and mammals that migrate across them. “The three-dimensional realm of the ocean is layered with watersheds running over and atop one another in multiple directions,” she writes.

Whitty travels the globe, from the frigid waters of Newfoundland, watching icebergs float south to melt, in 1984, to the Galapagos, where she films whales in 1987, then to the Hydrate Ridge, 50 miles off Oregon’s coast, to look for extremophiles, in 2006. These organisms of the chemical soup known as a “cold seep” are too far from sunlight to rely on photosynthesis; they live instead by chemosynthesis in a frigid environment of methane and hydrogen sulfide.

The depiction of this underwater life is fascinating – inhabited as it is by both mammals with familiar characteristics and otherworldly organisms, such as moon jellies – and Whitty makes it all the more so by explaining the science of this hidden world. As she immerses the reader in this world of water, Whitty details the biological basics, and historical and literary backgrounds of the species she observes.

To help readers understand each species’ risk of extinction, she includes the International Union for the Conservation of Nature and Natural Resources’ listing for each species.

That knowledge is particularly painful when it comes to whales. The destruction and cruelty that have reduced what may have been as many as 10 million whales to the present estimate of 500,000 is difficult to comprehend. Such a loss reverberates through the ecosystem, with far-reaching effects.

Whitty draws freely on historical and mythological sources to portray the power of the oceans in human culture. She finds inspiration in Hindu literature’s Mahabharata, India’s Rig Veda, the Greek pantheon, Norse mythology, and the cave art of Baja California.

“Working the ocean still requires a delicate finesse between audacity and deference,” she writes.

Jackrabbit Highways

2010-07-07T13:06:00.000-07:00

Jackrabbit Highways
A Book Review
by
Charmaine Coimbra

When I’m chasing wild hares across their erratic paths, I’m too tired for reflective and meaningful reading. Recently I corralled the metaphoric hares, and then rode Amtrak’s Pacific Surfliner to Los Angeles for a girlfriends’ day.

The four-hour ride through farms spotted with discarded rusting trucks, and bovines feasting on the rich El Nino-fed grasses just a few feet from the Pacific Ocean, gave me time to read and savor the poetry of Sheila Cowing.

In full disclosure, I’ve known Sheila for 20-something years. She is a writer who I respect and lust for her “play with wording” mastery. Sheila graduated from Barnard College and earned her MFA from Goddard College’s part-time writing program. Framed awards, like the New Jersey Arts Council’s Distinguished Artist Fellowship, a Poet and Writer Reading award and a Recursos Discovery award grace her walls. Her published works include Stronger in the Broken Places, a full-length poetry volume.

Cowing’s 2009 Jackrabbit Highways juts along paths of loss, wonder, anger, self-revelation and discovery.

Like a quick-moving jackrabbit, Cowing’s precise word movement is as pleasant and juicy to read as the first bite into a September-ripened tomato as noted in her poem “Tomato.”

My late sister wrote poetry, but never saw it published, just like most of us who dabble in verse. A good poet can retell a 300 page novel in less than 300 words. That’s the poet’s art.

Sheila took some time from her spring gardening chores to answer three questions about how and what it takes to become a published poet.

Charmaine: Sheila, you have succeeded in the poet’s world. Yes, “it doesn’t pay,” (like you wrote in “Why Poety? It Doesn’t Pay!,” which you note is for your father) but you are a published poet. How many poems did it take to reach this status?

Sheila: What it required was passion and determination. I was well into my forties before I began to realize I could touch my dream. When I began to publish in literary journals thirty years ago, competition was not as great as it is now. I had the encouragement of my new MFA from Goddard’s short intense residency program, the first of its kind. I’d studied the market. And yes, I began to publish fairly easily.

Charmaine: You wrote in “A Blowing Yellow Crocus”, “The words are as tough to loose as the cold is to hide from,” — every writer’s dilemma. Still, you have managed to tackle in slim-language subjects we all recognize. So how do you loosen the words?

Sheila: I no longer wait for the right words the way I used to. I jam any old words onto the page, right or wrong. They can be corrected later. They will be corrected later. Most of them are. I am an inveterate reviser. Some poems have thirty or forty revisions. It doesn’t matter in the least how many revisions they have. The point is get the idea down fast. The first idea may well not be the right idea. In fact I don’t even trust the first versions. The poem you quote came out of my obsession with the contrast between arriving Christmas cards and the tsunami that had just struck Aceh, and yes, the right words were hard to find.

When I’m stuck, I have exercises I use. I have three books I use (when I remember I have them!) that contain these; the first chapter of one is called “Finding the Word Horde.” But of course there’s many the time I find myself simply staring out the window.

Charmaine: Everyday many women sketch words in prose. To have those words recognized (without paying to have them published) is a dream. What would you say to the woman who has written poetry all her life and would love to see it gainfully published?

Sheila: I admire this woman in her solitude. “The act of poetry,” wrote the Italian poet Caesare Pavese, “is an absolute will to see clearly.” I hope she has shared her poetry with others, has perhaps worked with a group talking about poems and literature, so that her words are not merely sentiment, as her chances of being another Emily Dickinson are pretty slim. I hope she has read and will continue to read a great deal of contemporary poetry. I do know that much of what passes as contemporary poetry is obscure. I subscribe to Ploughshares from Emerson College in Boston, and to The Threepenny Review from somewhere in California, and one reason I do is because I can usually understand the poems I read in these magazines at least after a second reading.

Frankly, it isn’t easy to publish a book of poems. You start by trying to publish one poem, studying the market and sending out five or six poems, waiting five or six months until your stamped, self-addressed envelope comes back from that editor, then you ship those poems right out to the next market on your list. Once you’ve published say 10 to 15 poems from your book, you begin to look for a market for the entire book.

But there is another way, self-publishing. There are publishers listed in the books I list below or in the magazinePoets and Writers who specialize in self- publishing. As far as I know, these kinds of presses pay part of the cost and the author pays the rest.

I tried the contest route, and was hopelessly out competed. On occasion I would win an honorable mention, but so what…it was easy to become discouraged. This route took years.

There is a paperback volume called “The Directory of Poetry Publishers,” now in its 25th edition, put out by Dustbooks, P.O. Box 100, Paradise, CA 95967. It costs $25.95. It’s excellent. Another volume comes from Writers’ Digest Books. I have the 2009 version. It’s called “Poet’s Market.” It’s published by F + W Publications, 4700 East Galbraith Rd, Cincinnati, OH 45236. It cost $27.99. These books list information about many of the markets for poetry today and they issue new volumes each year. And there’s the magazine Poets & Writers. I subscribed for years.

I don’t know what to say by way of encouragement. There are women who have written poems all their lives who emerged full-blown. I believe Ruth Stone was one; she’s now in her late 80s, and she’s won all sorts of prizes. Amy Clampbitt was another. I’ve admired some of her work.

_______________________

Jackrabbit Highways is published by Backwaters Press, 3502 N. 52nd Street, Omaha, NE 68104-3506. It is available at amazon.com.

A Shangri-La Moment at Hotel Shangri-La

2010-04-23T11:41:00.000-07:00

A wild spring gale raged off the Pacific Ocean when we celebrated my friend Diana’s 68th birthday. Hotel Shangri-La’s http://www.shangrila-hotel.com/ glass and chrome doors blew open and welcomed our Santa Monica arrival.

The remodeled Art Deco boutique hotel was a matched setting for Diana’s special day because Hollywood glamour and glitz is Diana’s iconic style, and a nice polish for my earthy ways.

I brag about Diana all the time: “She’s the only 60-something I know who can still wear white leather pants and look fabulous.” But it’s not her glamour and style that makes her special. She’s kind, giving and fiercely independent.

Our Hotel Shangri-La arrival was early and gave us time for a quiet lunch (red pepper bisque and seared tuna over pickled shiitake and heirloom tomatoes—yummy, yummy, yummy food). “So how’s the love life?” I asked.

“Well, I’m cancelling my dating-dot-com tomorrow!” she exclaimed with a wink.

Assuming eligible men clamor thru cyberspace for her company; I followed with, “Too many dates?”

“No.”

“No?”

Diana dabbed around her lips and explained, “I’ve had dozens of hits. I went out with one of the men…and…well…let’s just say he was handsome, but he lied about his age too…and he was smothering. I’m not a prude, but I’d like some friendship before sex.”

She filled in the details about her year-long dot-com dating quest. Her dating parameters included men between the ages of 58-70 who are fit and able to travel, at least 5-foot, 10-inches tall and with an income equal to hers. “At this time in my life I don’t need someone showing up with just a suitcase.”

One of her dates met her for lunch on Veteran’s Day. “He bought my lunch,” she laughed, “because he was a vet and his lunch was free. We met for coffee at another time, and he handed me the ticket! Yeah, it was just two cups of coffee and maybe I’m old-fashioned…but really!!”

Then there was the date that she took to a theater production. “First, he showed up inappropriately dressed for a night at the theater. I paid and he still expected romance afterwards! When he asked what was wrong with me, I answered, ‘I don’t know.’”

That was her personal epiphany. “My life is great as it is and I don’t need a man and all the trappings.”

Inching toward her 7th decade, she advised, “When one of my friends is about to get divorced and she is frightened, I tell her to get a dog. A dog loves you unconditionally and demands nothing of you but affection and food. I tell my aging single or soon-to-be single friends, ‘Get over it because the odds are not in your favor.’”

Diana’s one of those popular kids and harbors baskets of friends. But she added, “I worry about not having someone to grow old with. At the same time, I absolutely love my life! I come and go as I please and I do not have to rely upon a man for my happiness. And to tell the truth, the last time I thought I was in love, it was co-dependency. I’m over that! I’m happy and fulfilled.”

Diana doesn’t come from ivory towers. A few nightmare scenarios darkened her life. Those intrusions, however, made her strap on her pretty heels, work harder and walk away from the storm.

Independent women! I remain unsure as to its blessing or its curse. There are down times and there are lonely times--storms that blow out the stale air and open shiny new doors to independence and our personal quest for Shangri-La.

Silver Hair? No! Colored Hair? No! Choose One!

2009-12-10T07:39:00.000-08:00

Silly me. I believed that by letting my hair return to its natural color (silver?) I would naturally progress along the Sage Woman's path. This return-to-natural began a year ago, as I approached the big six-oh-dear! day in December.

Six months later I saw a photo of me and my natural hair color. Shock! Horror! No Way! The seedier side of my personality groused something like, "Blank this s..t! I'm off to the hairdresser now."

And then my sage-ier side leaped forward and argued the enviromental and C02 issues, and a muffled voice whimped "Your silver shows wisdom." Seedier side yelled, "Screw wisdom! I'm not going old!"

Meanwhile my young hairdresser wrapped my shoulders with her plastic cape, ran her hands through my thick hair, commented about what wonderful condition it is in, and asked "What do you have in mind today?"

Seedy Charmaine and Sagey Charmaine met in the middle. "Light weave as close to the brown hair in the back as possible. Leave some silver as highlights."

I left Pacific Hair Design twenty years younger--in my mind.

So I'm living in this 60 is the new 40 mind set. Spouse and I make regular visits to the local tennis courts where I envision myself gracefully leaping through the air while my brown locks glisten in the sun and glorify my fashionable tennis attire.

That's just a dirty mind-trick. My tennis attire is the baggiest shorts and t-shirts I own so as to accomodate the near-mummy wrapping over my wrists, knee and ankle. No hair shows because I wear a full hat to keep evil sunlight from my face and eyes. I'm glad we play during school hours because I would frighten anyone under age 16. "Mommy, Mommy, a big fat mummy is on the tennis courts!"

Yet I remain firm in my youth. Well, until last night--a five-finger count from my six-one-oh-dear-day.

A younger news editor commented on the state of the proposed health care bill and discussed the expansion of Medicare to 55-year-olds. He said, "I don't know if this proposal to serve THE ELDERLY...."

WTF! The ELDERLY! At 55! I don't think so. Doesn't he know that the new 55 is 35--probably his age, and that he's the new 15.

Unless one dies young, aging happens. I remember my 35th birthday, and then that 40th birthday, and then that 50th birthday and then that 60th birthday. The only changes are the numbers (well maybe that along with some extra aspirin and Ben-Gay), some silvery strands on the head and the will to stay relevant.

Hillerman, Swenson and McNamara--Ladies of Talent

2009-08-20T10:26:00.000-07:00

When I recently traversed the carved trails through Bandelier National Monument, I explained to the young person with me, as we stopped to imagine what living inside those ancient cave dwellings must have been like, "If you lived here when these dwellings thrived, your mama would likely be buried by now. Women didn't live very long. And you would probably be on your way to becoming a mother--at least by the time you were 14." In other words, my young friend's mother is 47 today. That would have been gone and buried-time in the Ancestor Pueblo culture.

Ladies of a certain age today laugh in the face of 47, kick the 50Th birthday in the hind end, and maybe a decade or two later, continue demonstrating extraordinary energy and creativity.

, "Tony Hillerman's Landscape, on the Road with Chee and Leaphorn."Anne Hillerman, along with her husband Don Strel, await the fall publication of their new book I spent some time with the pair in Santa Fe, shot a photo of them (which is on the back cover), and walked away amazed at Anne and Don's endless creative founts.
http://www.harpercollins.com/books/9780061374296/Tony_Hillermans_Landscape/index.aspx
I recently discovered a new and favorite blog, One Heart Many Gardens--Psychology and Spirituality in the Garden. http://oneheartmanygardens.blogspot.com/

Through the never ending 40Th year reunion of Alemany High School in Mission Hills, CA, several years back, the author, Sarah Doni Swenson and I reconnected. Her insightful blog touches my love of the garden, the human mind and spiritual quests.

Then there is the artist, Shannon McNamara. http://www.seamcnamara.com/

Her watercolors are my fave. Shannon presently has a show at the Hamlet at Moonstone Gardens in Cambria, CA now through September 3, 2009. A Plein-air artist, Shannon continues running her creative juices at high levels.
Shannon McNamara and friends,from left, Ellen Nishijima, Shannon, Lisa Bertrand, Margaret George, Judy Fitzgerald, Eve Opinion

Dealing With The Worst Kind Of Food Critic

2009-06-29T20:46:00.000-07:00

Distracted by the challenge of becoming the birth coach for my daughter's second child, developing www.CharmainesMusePallet.wordpress.com, and my obsessive reporting about our environment at www.Neptune911.wordpress.com, has led Queen Six-Oh-Dear author astray.

I'm half-way into that Six-Oh-Dear thing, and filled with more creativity and enthusiasm ever. Thank God!

Why thank God? Presently, after a successful night of birth coaching, I'm the chief cook for the daughter's family--which includes the biggest, pickiest, most blunt food critic of all times--Quinlan.

Planet Quinlan, as he is best described, will soon be two. With four planets in Leo, including his Sun, he knows what he wants and doesn't want. Food included.

A BFF recently noted that she doesn't invite me to dinner because I'm too intimidating. I'm a decent cook but unaware that my skills are intimidating. I know if I invite folks for a dinner party, the table is full. No complaints.

An then there is the Planet. Hankering for some enchiladas, I made a chicken enchilada that had no spicy stuff in it...and lots of cheese. The Planet took a bite, pulled the chicken and corn tortilla from his mouth, announced, "Yucky! Trash," as he handed the slightly chewed mess to his father. He makes a high end food critic seem timid.

Finally, after a week of inventing toddler food that we adults could eat with pleasure, I tossed a bowl of yucky veggies into the food processor, mixed it with ground sirloin and a dab of salt and ketchup, baked, prayed and served. Voila! We have a winner. "Yum! More!" announced my worst food critic.

A Green Surfing Movement: Mermaids Cry Tears of Styrofoam

2009-06-29T20:38:00.000-07:00

A Green Surfing Movement: Mermaids Cry Tears of Styrofoam

Breast Cancer’s Five-Year Journey Ended Today

2009-03-30T20:34:00.001-07:00

Five years ago today we (spouse, family and I) waited for my left breast to heal from its lumpectomy before I could begin the next six-weeks of radiation. I did not know what was ahead. Every cancer survivor has felt this drift into cancer-treatment-oblivion. The scalpel had done its job; now my oncology battle blueprints included precise radioactive mechanics along with a five-year chemical assault.

The emotion remains obtuse. And this word, obtuse, I'm not sure if it is the correct one or not because I remain slightly addle-brained from the anti-cancer drug saturation.

Tonight's blog, however, is not about then. It is about TODAY. Yesterday I flew into Santa Fe so that, today, I could take my final 6^th-month mammogram, and meet with both oncologists. Mammogram clean; blood samples clean. Oncologist One, gave me a hug and said, "Take the last of your Arimidex, and get on with your life. If you want, you can see me next year, but your primary physician is really all you need now." Oncologist Two said, "I can't promise that you won't be 'slightly addle-brained,' I mean, I'm your age and I struggle with names—but unless you notice something really odd, I don't need to see you again."

That's it. I'm done. My daughter and son-in-law brought home champagne and flowers. We hugged and hugged. I cried.

How much change has occurred within me since 2004? Enough change to write a book.

Would I do this again? I pray I don't have this decision to make again.

It's estimated that 211,000 women will be diagnosed with breast cancer this year. So, I am not that unique. Sadly, 40,000 will die from the disease. About 1,700 men are diagnosed each year with breast cancer.

The majority of diagnosed women will survive. They will survive, in part, because of the tireless work by the volunteers who walk, run, bicycle, and donate funds to organizations devoted to finding the cure.

Thank you.

It's my turn now. Maybe I'll see you on the next walk to find the cure.

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Meet Mawser--he's the furball that let us know that something was wrong with me long before the humans discovered cancer inside my breast.

Whales, Death & Dragons

2009-03-16T21:51:00.001-07:00

When our cable 'bundle' crashed yesterday (no phone/TV/internet) we took our evening chairs to the Pacific Ocean-facing window. A dozen or more northbound gray whales swam through the sunset-tinged waters. The cows and calves were close enough for us to see their backs and an occasional fluke. The twitch in my get-a-long relaxed with each new sighting of an incoming spout.

I can't explain how these marine mammals affect me, but they do. It's a feeling that is lost on words. My head clears and life's pages clarify.

This brings me to death and the death of a mother.

While engaged with our whale watch, my oldest daughter called in(my cell phone)her Caribbean vacation report. She shared the beach tales and our grandson's adventures. She then mentioned that she just heard that her friend's mother had died. Her friend I know, but her mother I don't. I was, however, aware that her friend's mother had been battling cancer for some time. It was a fierce mêlée that seemed to have made some positive changes until recently.

Specialists told her to go home and find her peace, there was nothing more that they could do. I imagine that she took her last deep breath, departed from her malignant body, and then swam into a sunset-tinged sea.

Leaving her beloved daughter behind could not have been easy, except that her fatal battle wounds forced her to accept, and maybe wish for a quick exodus.

Meanwhile, e-mails arrived from women who have survived cancer, or are still in combat with it, about the purchase of a dragon boat for us to paddle for both personal growth and competition. We intend to take this fight to the level of mastering the dragon while mindful of those who lost this battle because it can be bigger than our medicine.

The migrating mother whales and calves, the woman who died, the women who form an unlikely team of "surviveoars" and knowing that I'm blessed to still be near my daughters in this strange journey through life's seas, brings me to that place I found yesterday: A wordless sensation.

A Soon-To-Be Six-Oh-Dear! Inductee Writes

2009-03-02T14:42:00.001-08:00

A California Girl, and a soon to-be-member of the Six-Oh-Dear Club, sent me the following e-mail. This woman, is an inspiration, and imagining her as one who has left her fifties behind, it unimaginable.

Charmaine.... I have six (count them.........6) more days to be that youthful age of "in my 50s."

I'm not a real birthday party kinda girl but a couple of weeks ago I thought What the Hell!!!????!!! I'm not taking this lying down!!!! No way...I'll show them (Them??Who's that?)

I had just put in a CD that my brother had made for me and as dorky as it seems, the sound track to the movie "Forest Gump" really rocked big time!
All those great sixties, seventies and eighties rock 'n roll tunes inspired me .I made a plan: PAAAAAAAAAARTY!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

I've invited a dozen or so friends and neighbors over on Saturday to back me up on my message ...Hell no, we won't take it!!!! I even told them all that I didn't want to have to cook for anyone and could it please be a pot luck. How's that?

Truth be told, I (like others, I'm sure) am fairly OK with this birthday. I mean, it's just another day. I just don't like the sound of that horrible word,"sixty". So I will either not ever use it out loud or I will totally embrace it (oh yeah). I am just going to go on as usual doing what I do in life. And no youngster better call me their "elder" as has happened in the past.

The good news, if there is any, is that I already had store clerks ask me ages ago if I wanted the senior discount! The first time that happened, my friend Julia Butterfly, "Of course she doesn't!" I've loved her ever since.

Another good bit of advice I've gotten lately was a friend who said, "Just look at it as a success."

How simple, why didn't I think of that ?
I'm hoping that the angst of arriving to this upcoming day is just that---the Arrival! And that once I'm past that day, everything will go back to normal. Please, tell me that it will.
So, my friend......I am ready for your words of wisdom.

So what say the Santa Fe Mother Blogger? Party on, Garth! The good news is that you get to do this just once. We'll be the last generation to collect our Social Security in a few years; and you can cancel a non-refundable, discounted flight on some airlines and not be penalized (which is good for you, oh traveling one). You can climb one of those mountains that require oxygen, and really laugh at the youngsters wheezing and trailing behind you. Now you have bragging rights. If your figure goes a bit south, you can blame it on age, not the extra scoop of ice cream. You don't havta take crapola from any one any more because you ARE the elder. You can reverse-mortgage your house in a few years. And now if you want to take a mid-day nap, you can. Now you can have fun shocking the heck out of folks you can't believe that you are in the Six-Oh-Dear! Club.

My birthday passed like the 59 before it. I felt better the day after realizing that I now have advantages I had not had prior. Party on, girlfriend!

10 Breast Cancer Survival Tips

2009-01-31T12:55:00.001-08:00

Right now I have upper body awareness thanks to a group of breast cancer survivors. (This is my way of saying, "Ouch!") I spent the morning on Estero Bay paddling—aggressively paddling—a canoe.

A sister breast cancer survivor hooked me on this weekly Saturday morning event, with other breast cancer survivors. See www.surviveoars.org

This is the first time since my cancer adventure began in 2004 that I have participated in a collective breast cancer survivor activity. The painful truth is that I could not emotionally deal with it. This summer I will round the corner to my 5^th survival-year. I pray I'll be released from my daily drug dosages and experience how life feels without chemical side-effects.

At night, when sleep escapes me, I recall what I did to make it through the day I found the lump, the day the biopsy was performed and the subsequent call that began, "Charmaine, I'm so sorry, but…," the day I marched into the hospital for surgery, the day I celebrated in the halls of the Santa Fe Cancer Center after completing six weeks of radiation, and finally the night I broke down into inconsolable sobs with pillow bashing and bad words.

But like my survivor sisters in that canoe this morning, I'm okay. Maybe changed, but okay, nonetheless. So here are my Top 10 Breast Cancer Survivor Tips

Faith and hope. Prayer/meditation in any form is good.
Dignity. I dressed up and wore make-up for my daily treatments.
Knowledge. I read and researched.
Trust. I acknowledged that my medical team knew more than I ever could.
Willfulness. No excuses. Just keep moving toward the goal of health.
Acceptance. Any woman of any kind or type can get breast cancer. It wasn't my fault.
Rest. I spent at least six-months sleeping.
Avoidance. Avoiding negative people, places and moods.
Walking. Not power walks, but admiring the countryside, the passing pooches, and the sky.
Humor. So maybe some of the ensuing breast jokes got bad, but it relieved my anxiety when I could laugh, even at myself.

There is one other element that I didn't realize until the night I bashed pillows. The support of family and friends was the secret ingredient to my recovery. Those people in my life remain golden forever.

Presient Obama's Day Empties Tissue Boxes

2009-01-20T13:17:00.000-08:00

Yesterday, Martin Luther King's birthday, I was on elephant seal docent duty. Three pups were born, and I named them, Martin, Luther & King. Previous blogs on amothersperspective.blogspot.com have noted my affection for the late hero of the civil rights movement.

Today, I'm a freaking basket case watching President Barack Obama's inauguration. Well, I'm not out of my mind, but I can't seem to shut off the internal spigots.The new president and his first lady just left their armored vehicle and walked the parade route. That was it. The spigots turned on again.

It's overly emotional and silly on my part. Not really. Several email and phone call exchanges have each noted, "I'm half-way through a box of tissues!"

When now President Obama gave his first fully exposed public speech at the 2004 Democratic convention, I flashed on him being Abraham Lincoln's reincarnation. Well, that's a tad hippy-dippy, and I kept it to myself.

After Obama announced his candidacy, I was at a lunch were many politically thoughtful people stood, and was asked my opinion. After stammering, I said, well, I like Obama, but I can't imagine him actually becoming president. I went on to explain that it wasn't because HE was black, but because I did not have the faith in our current culture that America's voters would hear him beyond his African-American heritage. It was the voter I doubted.

Looking back, the darkness of the time--yes, I mean the days when light was sucked from our souls by the foul presidency of George W. Bush and that nightmare, Dick Cheney, I succumbed to the rhetoric of hate and separation. (See my earlier blogs.)

Now I'm watching a dark skinned man and woman, holding hands, walking among cheering crowds along Pennsyvania Avenue and re-infuse light back to our nation and souls.

Get me some more tissues.

I can only image the late Rev. King doing the happy dance up in heaven.

Travel Writers, Fein and Ross, Show Hope is More than a Campaign Word

2009-01-06T15:09:00.001-08:00

My first thought at year's end is to reflect. But the year ended and other people's reflections came through my email that I could not top. One came from writers Judith Fein and Paul Ross.

Maybe hope is more than a campaign word. Here's some of what Judie and Paul wrote:

The year 2008 is hobbling to the finish line. It's been a tough twelve months for many people--personally, economically, professionally, emotionally. Everywhere, holiday banners and songs proclaim "joy to the world" and a "season of joy." But how can one find joy at this time? As always, we look to our travels for lessons…In Damascus, Syria, a successful and well-known restaurant owner confessed that his satisfaction does not come from renown or money. He derives joy from helping orphans and refugees…In Israel, a rabbi derives joy by combining Kaballah and Chinese medicine to help people heal….In Turkey, the Mevlevi order of Sufi dervishes twirl ecstatically to get closer to the Divine and shed their attachments to the material things of the world. One of them explained to us that everything in nature rotates--from atoms to planets-- and the dervishes turn too…All of these people undoubtedly experienced difficulties in their lives, but they also displayed a deep capacity for happiness. We have no control over what life slings in our direction. But even when our hearts are heavy and we are weighed down with worries; even when we are crying and feel hopeless, we can always find a glimmer of light in the darkness by choosing to do whatever brings us deep joy."

So, that is exactly what I plan to do--bring deep joy daily into my life. The recipe includes savoring my family, blending my time between longtime and new friends, learning more about the world around me and sharing what I learn through words and action.

When I'm not trying the twirling dervish move, I have on the front burner a new blog: Neptune911.wordpress.com. In the oven is a book writing project, there's a stew of paddling a dragon boat with other women cancer survivors, weekly hikes, tennis, and docent work.

Sixohdear remains alive and well. I'm grateful for my readers and wish all a brightly colored year.

The Grey Color of Crossing the Six-Oh-Dear! Day

2008-12-15T14:18:00.001-08:00

It's not so much that I'm touting my birthday—assuming that I don't die tonight—but today is my final day of being in my fifties. I may be sad. No, maudlin. Somewhat reflective. Kind of happy. But not really.

Two months ago I did something I thought that I would never do. I'm letting my natural hair color grow out. Baby, that's a freaking reality check. Thursday I either cut it to the one-inch grey and white natural color (a chic post-cancer treatment look), or I continue this subtle weave thing that blends the red remains with the grey and white business.

Why all this? I'm without a reasonable reply. It is, however, me and how I've approached whatever gifts and un-gifts that I came in with—or sort a of love it or leave thing. I've had to love it because I can't leave it.

I'm not the first of friends and family crossing that six-oh-dear line. I won't be the last. For two years I've written about it, which was okay because…my hair wasn't grey (?) so it didn't seem real? No intelligent answer comes forth.

So what to do? Pay tribute to my hair in all its incarnations from my first birthday on. To be continued.

Photos:
1)Piano birthday-girl--My first birthday.
2)A red cowboy hat third birthday.
3)Eighteen and ready for the world.
4)"Heidi" in a purple haze birthday mood someplace near Wrightwood, CA.
5)A working birthday as a reporter/photographer. Other newspaper gave newsman Jack Overlade the same assignment. This was his birthday photo for me.
6)Bookstore mama with Big Bird wishing me a happy 50-something birthday.

Edward, Evelyn, & Natalia—Creating A New Age

2008-12-04T10:09:00.001-08:00

As a person who writes and one who is no longer of the Paris Hilton-age club, sometimes I feel that the creative dream is over. When I rise above that sulking moment, I then weary of the no-longer 105-pound and limber body. Oh woe is me.

Then I run into folks, like Edward Parone, who's "Octogenarian Blues" graced this Sixohdear blog, who is out there shopping his memoirs. There is also the fit and active lady of 70-something, Evelyn Dabritz, who just published another children's nature book, "How the Innkeeper Worm Got a Full House" for the Museum of Natural History at Morro Bay, Ca (and she also raced by me in a recent uphill hike!), along with a fellow Sixohdear member, Natalia Calderon-McDonald, who just launched her Cambria Sea Otter Collection.

I haven't even mentioned my own aunt, going on 94, who when I last called her was in the middle of assembling craft-paper baskets for her weekly story hour at a Palm Desert, Ca. library.

Good Lord, I hope that when my Sixohdear moment officially arrives that I can keep pace with these folks.

You see, I remember when my late godmother, Marie Heeley, was forced to retire from her government accounting job when they discovered that she was well over age 64, and considered too old to be useful. It devastated her because she hadn't lost her skills, and knew more than half the people under her direction. She was not ready to retire.

Hoorah that now 60 is the new 40--or maybe even the new 30. Does this mean that the size of my britches is now the new size 6?

Elephant Seal Friends

2008-11-17T07:34:00.001-08:00

photos by California Sue

The 30-day countdown begins for this blog's namesake: My big 6-0-dear! And life offers a brilliant array of possibilities, focus, confidence and newness. Aligned in the new column is my recent designation to serve as a volunteer docent for the Friends of the Elephant (FES) Seal on California's Central Coast.

This new life slice began in September when an advertisement caught my eye--an elephant seal sporting a red, white and blue Uncle Sam's chapeau and asking for volunteer guides. I applied on-line, noting my previous volunteer efforts, was asked to have some coffee and conversation at the French Bakery in "downtown" Cambria, which ended with, "You'll receive a letter soon that will outline the training schedule. Welcome aboard."

So, various experts in marine mammals, oceanography, local sea-life, ecology, and birding filled my head with magical visions and priceless information. The best elephant seal docents mentored me, I shared time with other volunteers who started this Friends of the Elephant Seals organization when the seals first hauled out on Piedras Blancas and humans were mindlessly running around these creatures on the beach (endangering themselves and the seals), and I now know fellow freshman docents.

Last week a raucous sea churned tons of kelp. Kelp hills lined the incoming tide line. I led spouse down and groused through the fresh kelp mounds looking at what I once saw as nothing but a pile of fly-attracting goop to discover a plethora of kelp varieties full of color, sizes, habitat and mystery. Saturday, California Sue and Janet were treated to another kelp show and tell. Soon, Janet was collecting pieces to take home. We talked about all the crafty things we could do with these samples of beauty. We headed north for my docent time at the elephant seal viewing point. I donned my blue FES jacket and began asking visitors if they had any questions about these creatures, that like the kelp, at first look like recently washed up do-nothing mounds of sea life, but when further explored harbor only just-begun investigation, all while California Sue lost (gained??) three hours and 129 photos of elephant seals.

Go to my Facebook.com page to view Sue's complete photo collection.

For more information about Friends of the Elephant Seal visit www.elephantseal.org. You can also write Friends of the Elephant Seal, PO Box 490, Cambria, CA 93428.

BTW if you are visiting the Central Coast, let me know and I'll be happy to give you more info about visiting the elephant seals.

Who are those docent mentors? Jim Brownell, Ann Grossman, and Bill and Pat Johnson.

Why Barack Obama is President-Elect

2008-11-04T22:12:00.001-08:00

The Santa Fe Mother Blogger spends too much time on her computer. Email debating is a big portion of my computer time with a group of near and on six-oh-dear! birth dates. It's called The Sandbox. Three sandboxers sent me their thoughts about this year's election. Thanks to Bob Johnson, California Sue and Jay Pelzer, all of today's guest bloggers. Please take a minute to read these diverse and thoughtful pieces.

By Robert Johnson

As I write this short reflection, we are three days removed from selecting the twelfth President to serve in office during my "60 O' Dear" years on this small planet. I thought it best to put down these thoughts without reference to winners and losers.

Political pundits have beaten the drum for almost two years and yet I find little or nothing in the candidates that strikes a strong chord, that truly resonates with me. Although I found myself much more immersed in the day-to-day roller coaster rides of the candidates-in-waiting than in prior quadrennial bouts (one of the joys of semi-retirement) I could find little to recommend the process that I was witnessing. Perhaps it is the dumbing down of our national discourse--a Presidential campaign reduced to meaningless sound bites, repetitive stump speeches, empty promises, sub voce innuendo - politics as usual on both sides of the narrowing aisle.

Before dotting my ballot with a black marker (no hanging chads this go-around) I decided to do a quick historical survey of Presidents who served in office during my lifetime. Since 1948 there have been eleven, six Republicans, five Democrats, comprising 35 and 25 years in office, respectively. I thought it might be illuminating to peg specific moments in my life on the Presidential time-line. Perhaps that sequence of dates would somehow demonstrate a recurring pattern of good times/bad times in correlation to the holder of the Presidency. No luck! I was born with a Democrat in office, married and had our children with a Republican in office, received my Bachelor's degree under a Republican, and my law degree under a Democrat, got divorced under a Democrat and retired from my government years under a Republican.

Quite a mixed bag, but nothing substantial enough to sway me to the left or right for this election.

After taking a short break to refill my empty glass with a mediocre California red (these being hard economic times), it dawned on me that perhaps all of this election brouhaha is nothing more than sound and fury, an empty tempest, signifying nothing. I came to the realization that the occupant of the Oval Office has a net-zero effect on the day to day lives of those around me, whether rich, poor, black, white, green or pink. We live our lives as a "do-it-yourselfers". We don't look to government to solve our problems. No one in government stands in the way of what we choose to do with the remaining years of our lives. So I shall leave it at that.

Personally, I do not find my heroes in the West Wing or in the hallowed halls of Congress, I find them in much simpler places, a family gathering, a church service, a community project, a walk around the block. From this election day forward my mantra shall be: "Let all the scalawags have Washington, D.C., just stay clear of 74th Street and its nearer environs. My neighbors, friends and I will do just fine looking after each other without you. "

From my perspective, we become a nation divided when we are bombarded, each and every day, with those societal issues that separate us from one another. From my small corner of the urban wilderness, the issues that divide us are most loudly trumpeted in four year intervals, coinciding with election cycles. Our more unifying qualities are somehow forgotten, our more divisive qualities brought to the fore. Enough is enough, it is time to ring the bell, bringing an end to Round Twelve of the Ultimate Presidential Fighting Championship. Here comes the referee and it looks like a split decision.

Why is it time for Barack Obama to be President of the United States?

by California Sue

We need to thank one political party for the other's election. Simply put, Conservatives have made it possible for Obama to be elected in the 2008 Presidential election. Why:

1. We are in the middle of the worst economic crisis since the great depression. Corporations and individuals' wealth, retirement funds, and home ownership have plummeted.

2. Since the early 1990s, Conservatives have either held the Presidency or the majority of Congress, or both for all but two years.

3. In the eyes of other nations, the United States foreign affairs approval rating is abysmal.

4. The Grand Old Party, over the years, has metamorphosed into something unrecognizable. It now holds itself in such high esteem as to define which religion is good and which is not, who is a Christian and who is not. To be a Conservative used to mean respect for civil liberties and passed on the message that we should conduct our lives standing up for the basic freedoms we ALL hold so dear.

I have an acquaintance that is conservative- born of many generations before him. I respect and admire his passion for, and belief in the conservative ideology. Politely reminded of the definition of conservative, I was prompted to look up the same for liberal. This is when I knew Obama would win the 2008 Presidential election.

My Webster's New World Dictionary defines conservative as: 1. tending to conserve; 2. tending to preserve established institutions, opposed to change; 3. moderate; cautious.

It also defines liberal as: 1. generous 2. ample; abundant 3. not literal or strict 4. tolerant; broad-minded 5. favoring reform or progress.

Given the four points listed above, it was not hard to figure out that this great country needs more tolerance of the world around us, reform of economic policies, and additional progress to become a better functioning society as a whole.

The conservative party needs to find itself again, and reinstate the original values, before it can elect another Republican to the office of the Presidency.

A Tongue In Cheek Thought About What If McCain Won

by Jay Pelzer

McCain won because Obama knocked on the wrong door in Akron, Ohio. "Joe the Plumber" walked outside to talk to him. And, with all the media watching, Obama said he wants to "spread the wealth." And the whole country heard him

Then, instead of letting the story die, Obama and his liberal media cohorts gave it "super life" by drawing more and more attention to it. To discredit him, they dipped so low as to say that Joe's real name isn't "Joe." It's his middle name. (My mother has always gone by her middle name ... Lina. You can scream "Mary" at her all day long and she won't turn around.) They point out that he isn't a "licensed" plumber. But they fail to point out that he doesn't have to be as long as he works for a licensed company. Obama ridicules Joe for days asking, "Does anyone know a plumber who makes $250,000?" Biden is out asking crowds the same question. But everyone clearly heard Joe say that it is the COMPANY that "makes $250,000, or 270 or 280."

And the best thing they all did was to show the brilliance of the Republican Party. The media were all trying to paint Joe as a "plant" by the Republicans. So, 14 years in advance, the Republicans knew:

• Obama would be the candidate;
• Obama would go door to door in Ohio
• Obama would go to the door of the house in which Joe lives; and
• the taxable income level that would be in question would be at $250,000. The sheer clairvoyance of the Republican Party amazed every one.

Even after having the media score another victory for Obama in the debate, on the "night of Joe," his lead in the polls fell from 7 points in some polls, to 14 points in another, down to 2 to 4 points in all the major polls ... all in less than three days.

At the Inauguration John McCain gave a shoutout to Barack Obama ... who was at home writing his next book, "How America Stole the Election ... The Defeat of a Black Socialist.”

Edward Parone’s Octogenerian Blues

2008-10-28T09:19:00.001-07:00

Edward Parone is today's guest blogger. He celebrated his eight-oh-dear! birthday this century. Edward is an editor, writer, director, actor, retired gentleman, and a soul I deeply admire.

He has much to say from his sage-eyed position.

by Edward Parone

Hi there! I'm Joe, the Octogenarian. You know, one of those geezers from the so-called Greatest Generation? The Great Depression --World War II--and all of that-- who woke up one recent fine September morn to find that, having lived his early life in that Great Depression, he is coming to the end of it in yet another one that may be even worse! It is, in a word, depressing. Especially for those of us lucky enough to have survived this long and still have most of our marbles falling into the right slots. If this is the farce version of the American tragedy, then I can only repeat a catch-line from a popular 30s radio program: "Taint funny, Magee!"

But how, you ask, did it happen?

Well, there's no point in dodging the issue: We did it. Yes, us, the Greatest G. Just as I felt strongly that after 9/11 the president should have done everything to enlist the help of the Moslem world in dealing with Islamic terrorism by pointing out that their children had done this murderous deed --so it is that our children, with our help, have brought us to this sorry state.

We survived our Depression and the lucky came back from that war all fired up with the notion that nothing like either would ever happen to us or our kids again. (We had all seen the scene in Gone With the Wind.) So we showered them with everything we had once been deprived of, and much, much more. From there, it was only a step to the showering of their kids with even more Stuff--until we had spoiled them into the over-parented, over-praised, over-indulged, half-literate, entitlement-soaked generation we see so often depicted today.

Piracy, plagiarism and cheating are nearly universal. Common civility and manners have vanished. Where once the departure of adolescence to take your place in the world of adults was the common, desirable goal, there is now little desire to ever leave adolescence. And living in America is like living in a perpetual high school, its hallways lined with magic ATMs from which you can make endless withdrawals and no deposits. Did we really tell you that you could have Everything You Wanted? Nostra culpa.

America had everything it needed, including more money and guns than anyone else, to enter the 21st Century leading the world in every field of endeavor. And then, flushed with having Everything, and given a choice between the inexperienced C-student and the experienced A-student, we took a fatal turn and chose the former--and marched resolutely backwards into an earlier century. Good enough became in a moment, well, good enough.

And where were the adults, the wise old ones, while this was happening? Right there watching while a cadre of fellow elders, determined to fulfill their frustrated ideologies, settle old scores and establish a single ruling party, misled our arrogant, unqualified C-student into one disastrous decision after another.

The complex mess that we are in is and will be the subject of a large library of books. But right now there are two aspects of it that I find scary and important:

1. How easily we are propagandized. Those of us who remember the rise of the Nazis can't ever forget how cleverly, how relentlessly, how smoothly the fascist agenda was promoted by the evil genius of Joseph Goebbels (find a word adequate enough to describe this Joe). And yet we watched while a propaganda machine of our very own and every bit as clever and insistent led us--voters, Congress, the Press--into an unnecessary and repercussive war. And from there to condoning torture, flouting Constitutional law, loss of moral stature, a depleted treasury, domestic neglect and the loss of thousands of lives--all of which revealed,

2. the disparaging of brains as a way of dealing with life's problems. When did Dumb become the new Smart? And who's been telling kids that using your brains, being intelligent, exalting reason and the intellect are for sissies, nerds, losers, and/or fools? We don't exalt brain power now; we exalt the mediocre things it's capable of: fame without talent or accomplishment, riches without making anything useful or beautiful. We don't even make anything that anyone wants very much anymore. An elite corps spends all its time manipulating money. (And ironically, not all that well.) How many Americans come home happy with their day's work?

This is not good enough for a great country.

We Octos are the last of the grandchildren of the Edwardians. And while we might wish that some of the best of that now-distant age would cling to your future, the last thing we want is a return to that past. Far too much of the world is not using the past to learn but is mired in it, in old superstitions, old beliefs and dogma, stuck in systems that will not allow the expression of real feeling and thought in the present, and that offer no real future. Unless you consider death a desirable future.

Two things made this country possible: energy, and before that: imagination. And without imagination we're lost. Because you have to be able to imagine a possible future in order to have one--but one rooted in reality, not myth, or fairy tales. And for that we need brains, all the brains we can get. We can't keep dealing with our problems by riding down to the OK Corral to solve them.

So what are we leaving you, those we have helped to spoil? The very thing we thought to save you from? Or is the legacy of the Greatest G only the enormous job of saving the country and helping in the survival of the planet itself?

It's enough to give anyone the Octogenarian Blues.

Money Laundering: Lifestyle Recirculation

2008-10-02T09:33:00.001-07:00

Without a weekly income for months now, without buyers for buy my house, and with folks who flock faster to garage sales than Neiman-Marcus sales, I have a new job.

My new employer is my bank book.

Finding the balance between a business owning me and the new proprietorship of myself and my time has some costs—no fluid income.

I panicked at first. But panic resolves nothing except the realization that my choice was made, the national economy is not working with me, I'm not exactly employable (no one is hiring anyway), and that I better reactivate my inner chain saw. That's right, cut down the overgrown expenses of a former lifestyle.

We'll see how well this works. I'm still going to have to invent some kind of real income. Spouse and I are working on it right now. See www.riptidealchemy.com. But we don't plan to bleed as brutally as we bled owning our former business in Santa Fe for 20 years.

Meanwhile, it's a perfect day on the California coast—so a good walk is in my immediate future. When I get back I'll tend to my itsy-bitsy fall garden. It's a part of my savings/good health program. I'm relearning some old talents that I closeted. Check out what's sprouting on the sidebar. And send me your great cost ideas from food, drink, wear and pleasure. I'll share those ideas here.

Photo: My fall garden planted 2 1/2 weeks ago!

Economic Crisis Boils My Blood At Independence Hall

2008-09-26T11:30:00.001-07:00

When I recently held my grandson, Quinlan, for a photo in front of Independence Hall in Philadelphia, tears happened. It was one of those times when I felt the Revolutionary War and Patriot bloodline that runs thru me pulse over to Quinlan—even though he's a toddler.

My blood began that slow boil. Let me explain.

The glorious daughters and son-in-laws that spouse and I are blessed with, celebrated our SIX-OH DEAR! time with a whirlwind tour of Philly, NYC, and a mini-urban respite on Long Beach Island, NJ.

Our NYC visit included the Lion King on Broadway (Note to EP: It was a cartoon but a pleasant lift from the news.) and, of course , the tourists' tour of Manhattan: Times Square, Statue of Liberty, Central Park, and Wall Street. And that's where it all began for me.

Wall Street was electric and almost overwhelming. Media was everywhere waiting. Pensive people were everywhere waiting.The old journalist in me started clicking photos, while a French television team cornered daughter Ocean for a person-on-the street interview.

"Wow," I thought, "this is the real deal." Several well-dressed young professionals passed by with boxes and luggage in tow. Their jobs dissolved that day. Everything I've ever read about the fall of capitalism was coming true. We were witness to the ugly arm of today's disaster capitalism.

Fall's colors were only a hint, but the weather was perfect in Philadelphia. There was no way I could not be there and not visit Independence Hall and the Liberty Bell. Understand that my ancestors marched with George Washington against wrong-doing and tyranny. So as my grandson and the rest of us sat on the cool lawns around the sanctum of our Constitution's beginnings, my blood boiled (No! It wasn't a hot flash.) For eight years, tic by tic, our country's most precious document has been ravaged. Our leaders instilled fear instead of courage. I feel like our new language should be baa-baa.

And to defend this abomination on our American foundation is wrong. Wrong. Wrong. It's time to strap the huevos back on and bring America back to its bravery, honesty, and forthrightness. Get out of the closet, turn on the lights and get a grip on what is going on around us. We didn't fight the Revolutionary War because we're a docile people. It's time to collectively get our minds, bodies and souls back in shape and just say no to this dark-rooted diatribe.

Our terrorist enemies are laughing their beards off. They don't need to attack us here anymore. We're doing a fine job of it ourselves.

Photos: Quinlan and his Moire at Independence Hall
Santa Fe Mother Blogger and Spouse at Lion King on Broadway
Daughter Ocean on Wall Street Interviewed by French Television

Stuck In Needles, CA As The World Ends

2008-09-03T13:39:00.001-07:00

When the temp hit 110 degrees Fahrenheit and the power went out, it looked like the end of the world and I was stuck in Needles, CA.

Spouse and I were on the road for ten hours, heading west for some QT with the beach. The ride brought torrential rains in Flagstaff, lightning strikes to the pavement on Interstate 40, and more blinding rain. Needles—the questionable desert oasis--wasn't far, and Motel 6 always has its light on for a quick night's sleep alongside our traveling cat, Mouser.

We made ourselves and the cat at home at the M6, schlepped through the stifling 110-degree air over to Denny's for an icy chicken salad and iced tea. The sky blackened, spiraled wind-gusts roared pass our view window, and a few showy lightning strikes crossed the wicked sky. Waitresses chatted and yucked around with the three other customers, and really bad music slipped through the really badder speakers.

"Crack!" "Pop!" Silence. Darkness.

I asked our waitress to fill my cup with more tea and a side cup of ice—just in case. The storm continued, but the electrical power ceased, desisted and died. The restaurant's shift manager decided to shut 'er down. We shoveled our warming chicken salads down, counted out exact change for our bill and headed back to M6. Mouser was fine. He loves heat AND he wasn't in the car. He took to the window sill and smirked at the arriving guests and their pets.

"Hey, we have some wine in the ice chest," I recalled to spouse. Like superman to a crime scene, he was on it. Wine opened and plastic cups filled, we pulled our motel chairs outside thinking that at the very least the storm's winds would cool us down until power was back up and those noisy air conditioners would rattle us to sleep.

Single lightning bolts turned to web-like fireworks against the coal skies. The air seemed to turn red and I started thinking about Revelations. We looked out over the Colorado River where it took its Spanish name seriously. The temps didn't really lower by much, there was no a/c and we were witnessing the world's end and stuck in Needles.

I recanted my bad ways: No more swearing at stupid drivers and nincompoops; no more driving over the posted speed limit; no more lusting after chocolate when others must go without; no more gossip; no more calling annoying sales people Ferengi ; no more not flossing my teeth when I'm too tired; and no more wishing I had more when I have enough.

Meanwhile, the grumpy guy next to our room told all of us to "take our party someplace else." "All of us" were our new best friends—the other guests at the M6 who couldn't take the heat of the sealed tight and severely hot rooms. We shared our stories and photos of grand kids.

My cup of ice waned as did my energy. I had to lie down. So into the cold shower I went before stretching out against the warm sheets. It took three more hours of four cold showers, and several wet wash rags across my forehead until I knew that the world wasn't really ending after all.

Guest Blogger Ready to Debate Al Gore

2008-08-18T14:22:00.000-07:00

By
Jay Pelzer
Guest Blogger

The "writer" (me) had done a "rational gathering of facts." The most recent (updated since my blog) numbers I could find are at: Global Temperature Report: June 2008 As you can plainly see, all the temperatures are either at, or below the 20 year average. If you wish to go check the NOAA, NASA and UAH numbers, you will find that the temperatures are now below the 2,000 year average. Since Al Gore's Jan 2006 prediction that we have "Only 10 years left.....," the global temperature has dropped 0.6 degrees C. (During which period we have had record usage of fossil fuels ... and record sized forest fires in America and Australia.)

The globe is cooler than it was at anytime between 550 and 1200 AD. In June of 2008 it was cooler than it had been since Jan 2000. But, you can bet it is going to go up again sometime. And then it is going to go back down again ... just as it has for 2,000 years.

If Al Gore is so sure of his facts, why won't he debate representatives from the other side of the argument? John Coleman, founder of the Weather Channel, has a couple of thousand PhD's behind his side. Lord Moncton, with the support of the American Physical Society (APS .... possibly the world's most renown group of physicists), has challenged Gore to an international debate on the issue. Why isn't Gore taking any of the challenges so convert the "nonbelievers?" Instead, he leaves his "20 times the national average carbon footprint" house in his SUV. Goes to the airport to get into his private jet to fly to his destination airport where he is picked up by a limousine. Then he drives off to preach to his choir.

If Gore truly believes what he says, why doesn't he have like just a 9 or 10,000 square foot house? Drive a Prius or other hybrid? Fly commercial. And try to convert the disbelievers? Why was his Nobel Prize for peace, and NOT for science? (Oh, there's no "peer review" for a peace prize!)

Thankfully, "S ... With Ardent Veracity," you did come up with the honest answer to the question about what SUV's and air conditioners did the cave men use to end the ice age?" : NONE! But the globe got warmer and the Ice Age ended. Go figure.

So far, Al Gore's 2006 prediction is doing about as well as Ted Dansen's 1987 prediction that the oceans would be "dead" within 10 years.

Note from the Santa Fe Mother Blogger: Do you agree? Let me hear from you.

Rush Limbaugh Okays Edward’s Cheatin’ Heart

2008-08-14T10:11:00.001-07:00

Trusting and loving your partner in marriage is one of those things that can rip apart a heart when the trust is broken.

Marriage is an institution that can bring so much joy, comfort and misery than any other institution I've experienced. I'm comfortable discussing matrimony's state since I'm on my third set of vows.

We can't help but notice that the far right is pro-marriage as long as it's man and woman. But that's not what this blog is about. Yesterday the far right water carrier, Rush Limbaugh, slipped up and told the truth about himself and maybe his ditto heads when he said,

"We've been told that Elizabeth Edwards is smarter than John Edwards. That's part of the puff pieces on them that we've seen. Ergo, if Elizabeth Edwards is smarter than John Edwards, is it likely that she thinks she knows better than he does what his speeches ought to contain? And what kind of things he ought to be doing strategy wise in a campaign? If she is smarter than he is, could it have been her decision to keep going with the campaign?

In other words, could it be that she doesn't shut up? Now, that's as far as I'm going to go…It just seems to me that Edwards might be attracted to a woman—whose mouth did something other than talk."

Are you disgusted or do you think it's funny?

I wasn't in cancer treatment or just out of treatment like Elizabeth Edwards was while her meandering ass of a spouse was doing his thing with whomever. (Quick note, spouse #3, was my strength and blessed one while I was in cancer treatment.) However, once upon a time when I was not in good circumstances, an earlier spouse wandered from our bed into another's. I cannot express the lasting anguish that followed me for decades. At a time when I needed my husband more than ever (and Elizabeth Edwards needed hers more than ever), he was busying himself with another woman-women. Why? Because he could, and as other's have stated, like Limbaugh, maybe I should have taken "better care" of my husband.

My friends (sorry about that McCainism), this is bull crap.

May I recommend to those considering joining Club Wed, think seriously about that "in sickness and in health" business. If that doesn't really work for you, stay single.

Stop the Name Calling Now

2008-07-28T12:13:00.001-07:00

Police Say Church Gunman Hated Liberals

By DUNCAN MANSFIELD

KNOXVILLE, Tenn. (July 28) -- An unemployed man accused of opening fire with a shotgun and killing two people at a Unitarian church apparently targeted the congregation out of hatred for its liberal social policies, police said Monday...It appears that what brought him to this horrible event was his lack of being able to obtain a job, his frustration over that and his stated hatred of the liberal movement," Knoxville Police Chief Sterling Owen IV said at a news conference.

"Aw you liberals just hate America"

"We liberals love America. We just hate goosestepping fascists bastards like you pretending to be Americans."

"Feminism was established to allow unattractive women easier access to the mainstream."

Name calling; hateful assumptions: Probably part of the toxicity that so poisoned yesterday's liberal hating, unemployed Knoxville man into his killing rage.

When we hear a pastor call another religion "The Great Whore," when liberal pundits refer to our current leaders as "liars and murderers," or even Nazis, or when the other side slashes opponents of their thought with words like "faggot," "dunderhead alarmists," this smarmy talk is just the nasty little ticket to trigger violent reactions by the less stable among us.

It's time to be civil in church, on the road, and in the grocery store, America. We've fallen from grace into a tarred pit of insults and entitlements.

Cell Phone Challenged or Communication Overloaded?

2008-05-15T13:21:00.000-07:00

When I'm out of town daughters call me with explicit instructions:

1) Turn your cell phone on.
2) At end of day, charge your cell phone.
3) Next day, turn your cell phone on.
4) At end of day, charge your cell phone.
5) Repeat #1 and #2 until you have a land line.

They are not being smart asses. It's known that I am cell-phone challenged. It may have something to do with the looming 6-0. It may have more to do with the fact that I've answered so many useless and annoying phone calls throughout my telephone-life, that I just don't give one happy crap about having one more bell demanding response.

I don't 'hate' cell phones. They are remarkable pieces of technology, but insidious beasts at the same time. You won't catch me without my cell--mostly. However, it may not have any juice left in it, or it's likely turned off because I thought I had it turned on. Whatever!

Santa Fe satirist, Jim Terr just posted LAY YOUR CELL PHONE DOWN on YouTube.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=jRuVgfYcHRM

I think more of us than not will go, right on, bro!

Honestly, when I was the youthful one, I could not wait to get a phone call from a BFF, or a guy! There was nothing like that crackled-testosteronish voice asking, "Is this Charmaine?" Back then I had my own pink princess phone in my bedroom--but it was the family phone line. Nature controlled my volume of calls. Today, I have at least five different telephone numbers,and five email addresses. It's communication overload. Yeah, that's the ticket.

A Not-So Nice World—But Maybe That’s Okay

2008-05-09T15:00:00.001-07:00

Another SIXOHDEAR candidate and guest blogger, Ken Meddock of Irvine, CA, took some serious thought about the state of our planet and us as humans. It's a different point of view, and your Santa Fe Mother Blogger encourages you to read and respond.

Ken Meddock

I suppose an argument can be made that 5000 years ago the earth was a nicer place to live in. You could drink the water in most streams that you ran across, the air was nice and clean (maybe a little smoky if you sat too close to the fire), there were no landfills to speak of, and we didn't use any of the natural resources that surrounded us that were not self replicating, I suppose because we didn't know how to. Every person, all around the world, used only his or her proportionate share of the resources that we did know how to use. Not like those nasty Americans today that use up 25% of the world's resources while only making up 5% of the world's population.

Now we live in a world not so nice. The average lifespan has more than tripled. We spend about a quarter of our time working, a third of our time resting, and the rest of our time playing. Plus, most of the time we are warm when it's cold outside. Cool when it's hot outside. Whereas we can't drink out of streams anymore, the water we do drink is delivered to our feet and won't make us sick. Nor will the food.

Those other parts of the world that make up 5% of the world's population, and use only 5% or less of the world's natural resources are called Somalia, Bangladesh, Afghanistan, Bolivia, Solomon Islands, Congo, Sudan, Angola, Guatemala, and 50 others I could name. And you know what? They all want to use up more of their resources. After all, it's not like America is the only place on earth that has natural resources. Every place has resources.

But we have something they don't have--a democracy and a free market system. Certainly corrupt in many instances (but at least we can weed them out when we find them) but still free enough to allow hard workers to succeed and non workers to fail. (The right to fail is a cornerstone in a free market system.)

But if you live in one of the countries above, you're screwed. You can't weed out the criminals when they're the leaders of the Country. (And if any of you dare say or think that Bush is a criminal, shame on you.)

Now having said all this, could we be nicer, of course we could. But we have demonstrated that we are the most generous nation to have ever taken up space on the planet. And it is only through our continued use of our resources, natural and otherwise, that will allow that prosperity to continue and to be shared around the world, at least by those that want it.

Parental Care-Giving: A Common Challenge Today

2008-05-07T10:13:00.001-07:00

Cathy Rudy of Santa Fe is today's SIXOHDEAR guest blogger. Cathy is a local businesswoman. We used to lunch regularly, but her life has changed over the years as her mother requires more care than before.

This issue of parental care-giving is one that I will not have to face, however, so many of us must.

By Cathy Rudy

I still have several years to go before I reach SIXOHDEAR, but the stress of being a caregiver makes me feel like I am already one hundred and SIXOHDEAR.

A few months ago I went to Kohl's and bought a new throw rug to put at our front door. It was on sale, but rang up even less than I was expecting. I looked at the register screen and saw they had given me the senior discount, since it was Tuesday or something. I asked how old you had to be for the senior discount and the young girl would not give me a specific age. She just said she noticed my gray hair and thought she should give it to me. I would have said I didn't deserve it, but since she was not giving me a specific age, I could not prove it.

A few weeks ago I stopped at McDonald's and ordered some chicken nuggets and a drink (I need comfort food in all shapes and forms!) The young girl rang it up, then glanced at me, and said "oh," hit a bunch more keys and the total went down. Later I looked at my receipt and saw she had charged me for a "senior drink."

The best though was when I went to Albertson's and happened to be there on the day they give senior discounts. This saved me almost $10. Again I asked how old you had to be to get the discount, and the answer was nonspecific. The youngin threw out a couple numbers, all of which were higher than my current physical age. Again, I would have said I was younger than that, but it was already a done deal, and I figured for all the times Albertson's has overcharged me for *sale* items, maybe this was a way to make us even.

I did not ask for any of these discounts, but apparently I look like I deserve them. Maybe I do, maybe there is some benefit from growing older, but they do not outweigh the parts that are not fun. At least not as far as I can see in my 89-year-old mother, or in myself since taking on the responsibility of caring for her. Tomorrow I have an appointment to get her hair cut and colored, and while I am there, I will be making an appointment for myself. Maybe we will both feel younger.

A Rebuttal to “Cause & Effect” Blog by Guest Blogger

2008-04-24T07:03:00.001-07:00

I am shocked that someone with such high education equates "SUV's and air conditioners the cavemen were using to end the Ice Age". I would have trusted that a higher education and a greater trail of experience than the average Joe would dictate rational gathering of facts, ability to digest those facts, and the lost art of stating a factual summarization.

Maybe I should not take the writer's question literally. If so, maybe I should not take this particular blog seriously. Was the writer trying to make a point? In making a point, did the writer selectively use a statistical oxymoron with a purpose? Maybe ALL the statistics should have been introduced to us readers so we could have realistically evaluated this blog. Maybe the writer is a person who just wants to get people thinking about a real problem. Maybe he is an environmentalist in disguise. Maybe the writer is a person who really does not want to make a decision on what facts are real and what facts are not. Maybe part of the problem is that he chooses to believe in selected facts. Maybe by using name calling, the writer hopes he will snag someone who will argue with him. If so, I wish him luck.

I will step up and answer his question as to "what SUV's and air conditioners the cavemen were using to end the Ice Age." The answer is none.

Having said this, no one is really disputing that there is global warming going on. Global warming is a problem. There is a fundamental approach to problem solving. All problems have a solution. Sometimes the solution is to, for the moment; lessen the load of the problem until a solution can be found. Sometimes this in itself will eventually solve the problem. I want to put forth an effort. I DON'T want to look back and say I should have seen this coming but "there was NO logical reason" why the Exxon Valdez should NOT have traveled into pristine waters.

The Writer's article has not disappointed me. Thank you Writer. Your article has "caused" me to try to have an "effect" on global warming, no matter how small a percentage my individual effort will contribute.

I want to be part of the solution, not part of the problem. So, I will put my energies into an effort not an argument.

With Ardent Veracity….S

Complaining While Another Freezes To Death

2008-04-17T10:06:00.001-07:00

Santa Fe New Mexican 04/15/2008, Page C03

In brief
Body found in La Tierra identified

A woman found dead in the front yard of a La Tierra home was identified Monday as a 42year-old homeless city resident, said Santa Fe County Sheriff Greg Solano.
Patricia Leyba's decomposing body was found Thursday in the yard of a home on Paseo de Pajaro with no identification. Detectives searched the surrounding area and found a backpack at a construction site a quarter of a mile away that contained a document from the Santa Fe County jail with Leyba's name on it, he said.
Detectives then matched fingerprints and identified the body, Solano said. Leyba had been taken to the jail several times for her own protection, and had been in and out of the county sobering center, where people can be taken to sober up and obtain rehabilitation services, six times in the year the center has been open, he said.
While investigators believe the woman likely died of exposure, an autopsy didn't determine the cause of death, Solano said. The woman had some evidence of injuries to the side of her head, though they didn't look like they contributed to her death, he said. Investigators don't believe Leyba died as the result of homicide, Solano said.
Tim Stepetic, a spokesman for the Office of the Medical Investigator, said the cause of death is still under investigation.

Meanwhile, your Santa Fe Mother Blogger was in California painting, purchasing lights, tile, etc for the coastal home remodel. Whales swam by and I hoped that my San Ignacio friend (Skippy—See March 15, 2008 blog) was the one that came the closest to my vision on the northward trek.

I spent days complaining about my housing conditions: Plaster and sawdust everywhere, no heat, one electrical outlet per floor, a failing air mattress, and so on. Spouse tried to break my complaining-cycle by challenging me to several tennis matches on the great public courts in Cambria, Ca. The French pastries he picked up in the mornings were pretty good too. "But I've never liked camping," I whined.

Back in Santa Fe, a spring storm dropped the nighttime temps back into the teens and twenties, and many of Santa Fe's homeless bore more for complaint than my leaky air mattress. Apparently Patricia Leyba did not survive the freezing nighttime temperatures. Unceremoniously, her body was dumped right in the middle of my tony Santa Fe neighborhood.

This is one of the dirty little secrets you won't read in the tourist flyers. We are a city of haves, have more, and have nothing. The late Ms. Leyba fell into the have nothing title. I don't know why. I don't know her circumstances. But I do have strong suspicions as to how this 42-year-old woman became a lost soul in the city of St. Francis of Assisi.

The irony of a dead homeless person on "this" side of town is classic. I'm glad it wasn't me on my morning walk who found her. I'm humbled by the blessings that I've received. I pray for Ms. Leyba's next venture one of peace, warmth and joy.

“Cause Effect: Guest Blogger Questions The Premise

2008-03-22T08:09:00.001-07:00

6-0 (dear!)approaches. It's a good thing because I've learned there are many other points of view. While I may not embrace all ideas, I'll quote Joni Mitchell from my fave song of all times, Blue, "Everyone is saying that hell's the hippest way to go. Well I don't think so, but I'll take a look around it though."

My American bloodlines run deep and I pray that we continue to respect freedom of speech and honor our Constitution. (Yes, I even qualify to be a Daughter of The American Revolution.) So give let's give a welcome to Jay Pelzer(another 6-0 person) as he has allowed me to enter his thoughts into the blogosphere.

Let me hear your battle cries or applause.
Charmaine, Your Santa Fe Mother Blogger.
PS: If you can't get your comments up on my blog, email me at santafemotherblogger@live.com and I'll put them up for you.
*****_________________________________________________*****

After a painful, "disappoint me with the lack of common sense" review of Cause Effect, it scares me to think that these people actually get to vote.

I admire the actions being taken by the people involved with children, AIDs, MS, etc. But the whackos like the guy in Episode 1, Part 1 thinking that he is "protecting the planet." He and the guy in Episode 4, Part 2 are on some kind of an ego trip. They actually think that mankind has more effect on the planet than does God's plan ... whatever it is. I still want someone to tell me what SUV's and air conditioners the cavemen were using to end the Ice Age.

Scientists have taken ice core samples from both polar ice caps that go back over 200,000 years. From the densities of the ice they can tell what the earth's temperatures were. The atmospheric gases were trapped at the time of freezing the ice. And what did they discover? Well, there have been times that CO2 and temperatures rose. There were times that CO2 rose and temperatures fell. There were times that CO2 fell and temperatures rose. There were times that CO2 fell and temperatures fell.

If all the cars and trucks in the USA were taken off the road tomorrow, CO2 emissions (worldwide) would drop by less than 1%. Based on the fact that only 0.0392 % of the atmosphere is made up of CO2, climate-wise ain't nothing going to happen. But just think of the economic disaster that would happen if we were to force only 10% of vehicle traffic off the road. (Which would be a 0.0000392% change in CO2.) This is ridiculous! And just where is Al Whore now that scientists are predicting a major drop in the earth's temperatures due to solar activity changes? Heck, he's out counting the money he made off of idiots with his "Inconvenient Truth" crap.

While I am on my rant, let me touch on one more issue—petroleum--that's oil. (Mind you, these are thoughts from a guy with a 158 IQ, an Air Force Academy education, A Master's Degree from the Air Force Institute of Technology and who does a lot of research on issues of the day items.) Right now we have Hillary Clinton bombasting about "record profits" for oil companies. Let's put a little perspective on that idea. The oil companies are paying record prices for oil which is being sold at record levels of demand. So, their "record profits" amount to a meager 9.2% return on investment. If that drops by about 0.4%, people are going to pull their money out of this average return investment. Won't bother people like you and me who can afford $7 to $8 a gallon gas when the companies disappear. But there are a lot of people who MUST buy gas to get to work. And I am not going to take the time to look up his name again, but there was one of the Clinton advisors today who was cited as saying that 44% of all retirement account holders (401K's etc.) have an investment in oil.

Estimates reach to over 100 BILLION barrels of oil in the ANWAR. Can you imagine what simply pumping out 2 million barrels a day would do to lower gas prices? What about 4 million barrels? How much would that reduce the price that Iran and Hugo Chavez get for oil? How much would it reduce their sales of oil? And, as for the "pristine" conditions of the ANWAR that would be hampered, the area is water most of the year. There is NO logical reason to not drill there. You have the nuts who think that producing more oil will stall efforts to come up with alternative fuels. That's ignorant thinking. Everyone knows we have to change eventually. It's like people who want the government to mandate fuel mileage standards. What idiot doesn't understand that the car companies are already trying to produce the most efficient vehicles they can so they can beat their competitors? Heck, if government mandates work, why not have Congress mandate that all cars get 100 miles per gallon?

OK. Wrote too much. Aren't you glad I couldn't fit this onto your blog? LOL

Jay

Where Once Gray Whales Were Slaughtered--Peace Reigns In San Ignacio Lagoon

2008-03-15T16:06:00.000-07:00

Our four-vehicle caravan bounced along the 2-hour Baja dirt road to San Ignacio Lagoon where Captain Melville Scammon first led six whaling vessels in 1860. Scammon and other whaling captains risked the narrow and shallow water passage into the lagoon, where for centuries, gray whales safely bore their young. The ensuing whale slaughter initiated the near extinction of the Pacific Gray Whale.

Today, the lagoon is a World Heritage site, and gray whales have reclaimed their sanctuary. Now with limited permits, one can visit the lagoon and experience—up close and personal—the majesty of these creatures.

Your vessel is an 18-foot wooden fishing boat, a panga. It’s similar to a dory. It was in one of these pangas where in 1972, Pachico Mayoral, a local fisherman, was approached by a gray whale. Surprised by the whale’s lack of aggression and its insistence, Pachico reached his hand out to the whale. The whale moved in closer and allowed the fisherman to touch it. Of course this was a heck of a whale story back at the lagoon’s village. However, word made its way out of the secluded village and curious visitors began arriving to experience this new relationship between human and whales.

Pachico’s Eco Tours led our adventure. Eight of us filled one panga and six filled the other. Our respective captains opened their outboards. We navigated the salty swells to the whale nursery. Dolphins skipped along the nursery’s perimeter. Our captain whistled and they came closer. He spoke fluent dolphin.

The far away expelled water plumes that I fervently watch for from our coastal home will NEVER match the first expelled air and water by a 30-foot cow less than 10-feet from our panga. A full show of fluke signaled her deep dive. “Okay, I’m good,” announced Clif who was oddly silent the entire panga ride. “If I see nothing else,” he added, “I’m happy.”

Hands splashed the nursery water. “Here baby, here baby,” beckoned the seasoned lagoon visitors. My camera clicked and clicked. (In the mid-1980’s I wrote and photographed a whale watch report for the LA Times, the Sacramento Bee and the Fresno Bee. Unfortunately, I photographed more water than whale.) My 2008 digital camera has a half-second delay—a lifetime when shooting nature in action. {Check out the amazing video at the end of this blog}

The San Ignacio Lagoon whales were all around us. We watched them breech, spyhop, and swim close by, but none chose a visit to our panga. When lunchtime arrived, our captain made waves thru the placid and clear lagoon to a sandy shoreline. Here Jesus Mayoral, Pachico’s son, answered the billion questions we asked while munching on homemade burritos and cold soda.

“Let’s see what we can find out there now,” Jesus said, as he and the other panga captains took us back to the nursery. Our captain took a different route. Now the water was choppy and windblown. Dolphins signaled our closeness to the whales. The captain silenced his outboard and began scooping and tossing water into the distance. A 40-foot cow surfaced. She was so close that when she spouted, her wet exhale showered my face and shoulders. She eyed the panga, grunted, and her 15-foot, 1.5-ton calf followed suit. Here baby, here, baby beseeched like a prayer. My tears at the nearness of these two made photographing their closeness impossible.

The pair circled our boat, swam under the boat and touched the bottom of our boat. Finally, curiosity brought the calf alongside. Hands reached out to let him know that mutual inquisitiveness was aboard along with our desire to connect. I gave up my photo quest. No longer did I know if I was star board or port side. To touch that one-ton creature erased my boat safety knowledge. But, alas, he came to where my hand reached for him. He raised his steel grey back and my right hand was able to run the course of his spine.

What did it feel like? Rubbery. Soft. Cool. Magnificent. Like the evening prior when I uncontrollably shook and was unable to identify the spot that was touched, so it happened again with this dream-like whale encounter.

My writer friend, David Wagstaff, has told me time after time, “Char, you are such the earth mother.” I guess I am. Whether my hands are in the dirt, or skimming the salty seas, I’m in a peaceful place that not even a church can match. Touching and sensing the little guy I called “Skippy” (little being relative to his multi-ton mother) will be a challenging emotion to match and jumped far ahead of anything I experienced before.

Amazingly Friendly Whale, San Ignacio Lagoon, Baja, Mexico - AOL Video

More Information About Whales and The Tour
http://www.pachicosecotours.com
http://montereybayaquarium.org

Photo credits: Pachico Mayoral, Pachico's Eco Tours; Panga Load, Charmaine Coimbra; Spouting Whale, Fred Heinecke; Spyhop, Charmaine Coimbra; Splashing for Whales, Charmaine Coimbra; Skippy 1, Charmaine Coimbra; Skippy 2, Fred Heinecke.

In Search of San Ignacio’s Friendly Grey Whales

2008-03-15T11:05:00.001-07:00

Ride ‘em Cowboy: A Wild Cabo San Lucas to Loreto Flight

When the other nine passengers made the Sign of the Cross as we boarded the single-prop Aero Calafia, Loreto-bound flight, I recited my own silent prayer.

Refreshments (bottled water in a plastic ice chest) were noted in Spanglish by our captain, who became our caballero riding a wild bull over the windy currents of lower Baja California. After a few sideways air slides and a dozen dips and resumptions of altitude, our cowboy/captain looked back at us and I gave him the thumbs up, claiming, "El toro, el toro!" The other passengers exhaled. El Capitan flew his bird onto the Loreto landing strip as easily as an osprey landing in its nest.

"The problem is, we have no cars to rent," explained the agent who was leaving in a brand new 4 x 4 Chevy truck as we pulled into the Budget Car Rental site in Loreto. My platinum credit card was in hand and the glint caught his eye. "Well," he reassessed, "it is possible that I can rent you this truck." Knowing that we had 4-hours on a Mexican highway followed by 2-hours on an ill-spoken dirt road ahead, the bargaining for the truck began.

The agent said it was new, I said it has Budget Rents Trucks all over it, he said but it has only a 100 miles, and I countered with I'll be advertising your business all over this state. We met in the middle, and Clif and I headed across the Baja peninsula in search of friendly grey whales.

Alemany Class of ’66 Returns

Former high school classmate, Ken Meddock www.tng-2.com/bio-meddock-a-07.html
and his wife, Sandy, initiated this entire Baja adventure when he sent out an email titled "Whale Trip" sometime last spring. It was an open invitation a year in advance. I didn't know Ken in high school, but I did know about the whales of San Ignacio. "Keep me on the list," I immediately emailed back.

He did. In September he followed up with more details. On Sept. 20, 2007, I reserved our time for a February 2008 San Ignacio escapade.

Meanwhile back in Santa Fe, the business, the holidays, the family, etc., consumed time faster than playing solitaire on the computer. February was here, and like I did back in 1966, I hurried through my homework at the last possible minute, booked a flight-miles trip to Cabo San Lucas through US Airways and figured I'd punt the rest of the details when I got there. I had a zero idea of how we would get to San Ignacio, or even how far away it is from Cabo. Besides, I reasoned, I spent years making my way in, out and between mainland Mexico as a single mom with two little girls. Baja for just myself and spouse at the wise age of 59 should be a piece of cake. God bless my spouse for his patience and trust. He says I freewheel.

The village of San Ignagio is lovely and more to our taste than the grand hotels along the CSL beaches (where people who should NEVER, EVER, wear bathing suits in public—like myself—do and even worse, flauntingly). The whales we wanted to see are beautiful, unlike my corn-fed fellow citizens wandering thru the warm resort swimming pools drinking cerveza y cerveza and NEVER leaving the water.

The quaint Desert Inn Hotel in San Ignacio seemed to attract a different crowd: journalists on an assignment for the Smithsonian; a gaggle of chain-smoking Germans; bikers, and some Alemany High School (AHS) graduates and their family and friends.

Now, Ken recently jumped into an email sandbox of opinionated and fun AHSers who have inspired or fueled some of my blogs. Another AHS '66 sandboxer, Frank Bonacorsso, http://biology.usgs.gov/pierc/Staffwebpages/Staff_Frank.html AKA Lamont Cranston of the Shadow Knows blog at www.Alemany66.blogspot.com left his Hawaiian haven to also seek these legendary whales.

I never knew Frank in high school either. But when we all met face to face in the hotel cantina, we chatted like old time friends. So many emotions rose to the surface within my psyche, that when the night ended, I returned to our double-bed room and shook as if I were freezing. “Clif, move over. We’re snuggling all night.” As always, he held me until I fell sound asleep.

Dear readers, the next edition will land you right in the middle of a whale nursery. This remains one of the most incredible experiences of my life. Pictured with me, from left, Ken Meddock and Frank Bonacorsso.

I Wished That The Local Vultures Were As Charming As The Nearby Pelicans.

2008-03-04T11:22:00.001-08:00

"Want a breakfast margarita?" Clif teased.

"No, but I do want to find the farmacia," I replied

Warm sun blessed, we reintroduced our bodies to summer clothes and sandals, and then wandered the San Jose Del Cabo streets. We found the Mega Store which included a full pharmacy. Twenty steps inside we heard "May I help you find something?" in rehearsed broken-English.

"Farmacia?"

"Si, follow me," answered the Mega Store employee.

We chatted in Spanglish—where are you from? You have a childrens?—blah, blah, blah. Approaching the pharmacy, he asked, "Well, amigos, how would you like 100 American dollars—free? I can also get you a free dinner, cruise…"

"Gracias, senor," I interrupted. "I just want my prescription.

"Then I get you 150 American dollars…"

"No, gracias, senor…"

"But you get free money, and a dinner cruise worth another 200 American dollars, and…"

"No! Gracias, senor. We are tired and want nothing but the view from our hotel and…"

"You don't want free money?" he insisted.

"There's no such thing as free money."

"But senorita," he continued his bottomless pitch.

"No! We are not interested."

He continued and then God intervened with a radio call. "Excuso. I'll meet you when you are finish," he noted as he headed to a cashier in need.

And I'll lose 20-pounds tomorrow at the all you can eat buffet at our all inclusive hotel, I self muttered.

It was Valentine's Day and we spent what was left as long-time lovers should: bask in the sun, walk the beach, watch the people, have wine with lunch, and spend the evening watching a cabaret of dancers as dinner was served. "Would you like more red wine?" asked our waiter as the dancers changed costumes. Of course. And where's the chocolate?

We slept like babies unaware that a vultures' roost, so removed from their natural state of retreat, that they were ready to pick still living flesh from us.

Royal Solaris Hotel--AKA Vulture Headquarters

At exactly 8 a.m., our telephone rang. "Buenas dias, Senora Coimbra. I call to remind you of our 9 a.m. appointment today. Please meet us in the lobby."

Clif grumbled. "Think freebies," I recollected for him.

A Spanish princess greeted our lobby arrival. "Buena dias, senor y senorita.
Follow me, please.

When I saw one meeting room crowded with folks like us a bad feeling crept through my bones. Uniformed men stood in front of our only way out.

Have you ever watched a vintage black and white film: Hypnotic jungle drums rumble in the distance; an unsuspecting—yet intrigued—American wanders dangerously close. Hungry eyes hidden inside dark and dense foliage, lustfully watch. Suddenly, the blonde American in her white safari pants and shirt is trapped, and then yanked into a nest of starving cannibals while vultures soar overhead and the drums maniacally beat.

Enter handsome young Aldo with his 20 very personal questions. How much do you make? How many children? What are their names? Do you travel often?

Not fond of such questions, I made up answers: Millions of dollars, twelve children, Matthew, Luke, John, etc. This is our first trip away from the multitudes.

What really gave us the willies was the placement of us pigeons to Aldo, who directly faced an aging brood of vultures perched along a wall. Really—it was that obvious.

"Aldo, let's cut to the chase," I interrupted his prodding, "How much for the
time share?"

"Oh, no, no senora, this is not a time share? It is a partial full ownership…."

"Aldo, I'd say that a 'partial full ownership' is an oxymoron if ever there was an oxymoron."

His face contorted. I think what he heard was "you are a moron." Then from rear perch, one of the senior vultures sniffed for dead meat and soared to our table. "Aldo, take them to breakfast," he hissed. Now it was my turn to ask Aldo 20 personal questions. He got the picture and suggested, "Just go back and act like you are listening. You're done in 30 minutes, and then enjoy your gifts."

Back to the dumping ground, Aldo went through the numbers. Within 10 minutes another vulture left his perch hungry for fresh carrion. He reviewed Aldo's paperwork and grunted out an even better number to become a partial full owner of nothing. "Sorry, we are not interested," Clif insisted. Not good enough. A more aggressive vulture rocketed off his perch to swoop in and kill the meat himself. That was #6 vulture, named Ignacio.

The veins in Clif's neck showed his quickening pulse and his blue eyes searched for soft flesh to pierce. A wise vulture would leave. Ignacio was not wise. After some hostile exchanges, the Coimbras were escorted from the poisoned nest, handed our freebies, and then escorted to the elevator. Ignacio went in for easier kill

We tangoed the night away on our Cabo sunset dinner cruise, watched whales swim by and marveled at the geological beauty of San Andreas faulting that separates the Pacific Ocean from the Sea of Cortez.

This is the second installment of our Baja adventures. Inside a Mexican single engine Cessna, we began our trek toward reuniting with Alemany 66ers and a glorious encounter with grey whales.

Los Zopilotes of Cabo San Lucas

2008-02-23T14:07:00.000-08:00

Aeropuerto San Jose Cabo San Lucas

As heat seeking, middle aged, well-fed Americans, Clif and I recently flew US Airways to Cabo San Lucas. Mentally dull from the recent sale of our business (www.GenesisSpasAndPoolSupply.com) our radar ran at low ebb upon landing in San Jose Los Cabos, Baja California, Mexico.

Just outside Mexican Customs we walked into a vultures’ nest. We arranged airport pickup service, so when a well-spoken Mexican man asked us where we were going, we were clueless that he eyed us as road kill with luggage. (Figuratively, we were.)

He whistled for his boy and rattled out in Spanish what I think was probably, “Dude, I got me some fat American pigeons. Stall while I set them up.”

“Where are you from?” he asked. “While we wait for your transportation, come over here and let me give you a bienvenidos package with free cruises, massages, and tequila if you like.”

Two-word interpretation: Time share, amigo.

His half-hour pitch ended when I lost my patience, grabbed my luggage and found my way outside to the glorious 80-degree temps. A whole other kettle of vultures waited outside. “Gracias, no,” became my mantra until a taxi carried us away.

Royal Solaris Hotel

Celebrating 20 years of marriage, I reserved an ocean view room at the all-inclusive Royal Solaris Los Cabo in San Jose del Cabos. http://royalsolarishotel.com

Endless food, margaritas, sun. Oh yeah, baby.

“Bienvenidos,” greeted a young man with earthen brown eyes, a black guayabera over khaki Dockers. His name tag read Christian. He called for the bell boy, then asked us, “Where are you from?” New Mexico, blah, blah, blah. “Wonderful! Follow me for your bienvenidos package.”

Inside the gala lobby, Christian sat us at one of the many welcome desks and asked, “Would you like a margarita, cerveza, or maybe a mimosa?” Not yet. A young woman brought us chilled bottled water.

As in the airport, Christian asked if we’d like a Cabo San Lucas bay tour? ATV rides? A massage? All free, of course. He was also enthused about the possibility of us being invited to an exclusive cocktail party and even a free breakfast (but isn’t this an all-inclusive hotel I wondered) if we would just give the hotel 90 minutes of our time that will show us how to save big money on travel. What the heck, we said.

Well into our 6th floor room, directly facing the white sandy beaches of the Sea of Cortez where whales floated by, mantra rays splashed in the surf, and white clothed mercados offered touristas hats, jewelry, scarves, wind chimes and tattoos, our feeding frenzy began accompanied with the promised endless supply of margaritas.

Amigos, this is the first part of a multi-part blog. Ahead: A warning note to the unsuspecting traveler, meeting up with Alemany High School grads of ’66, and moments of unexplained emotions from a close and personal encounter with grey whales.

Immigration, Homelessness: Some American Woes

2008-01-21T16:47:00.001-08:00

A recent email discussion of illegal immigration issues tweaked my thinking bone. So did a woman in mismatched second or third-hand-me-downs, ending in a pair of oversized men's shoes on her feet.

This discussion group is educated and multi-faceted with as many opinions and thoughts on the issue as there are probably illegal immigrants. The shabbily clothed woman was trying to open the massive glass and steel doors of a county office, but she struggled because one arm held what may have been her possessions and the other arm looked too thin to manage the door's weight. I assume that the word download in her world is putting down her oversized plastic bag either in a shelter or, God forbid, a person-sized box, abandoned car or underneath a bridge also known as her bedroom.

So what do I think about illegal immigration? I think it is inevitable and unstoppable. In spite of the United States' economic woes, this country is the greener side of the fence. With classism and racism strong elements of the countries south of our border, poverty remains incurable. Yes, there is a middle class, but by my observations the haves and have-nots are clearly defined and unchangeable.
The have-nots will not get education, will not get advantage, will not rise above impoverishment, and will not stay in their country to watch their children wake up hungry. The haves will gladly accept the $23 BILLION in revenue sent to Mexico by illegal and legal immigrants in 2006 (Dallas Morning News, Jan. 31, 2007), while their neighbor, El Salvador welcomes the $2.5 BILLION in revenue by Salvadorians working in the United States, according to Rene Leon, Ambassador of El Salvador.

In 2005, the US immigrant money sent to Mexico exceeded foreign direct investment in Mexico. And in El Salvador, the $2.5 billion was 13% of the Gross Domestic Product of El Salvador.

Meanwhile back to this obviously Caucasian woman with white hair and funky clothes. What does she have in common with illegal immigrants? She was probably born here. She's probably half-way educated. Somehow her life unwound (Abuse? Mental disorder? Addictions?), and she has sunk lower on the social-economic totem pole than the illegal immigrant picking the strawberries I'll consume next week. She's just of one of an estimated 3.5 million people (1.35 million of which are children) that will experience homelessness in a given year.

Some more sad statistics from Los Angeles Homeless Services Coalition www.lahsc.org:

Children under the age of 18 account for 39% of the homeless population. 42% of these are under the age of 5.

43% of the homeless population are women; 40% of these women are unaccompanied. 22% of homeless women claim domestic abuse as reason for homelessness. 25% of these claim to have been abused within the past year.

Families with children comprise 33% of the homeless population.

Vets constitute 40% of the homeless population.

1 in every 5 homeless persons has a severe or persistent mental illness.

25% of the homeless nationwide are employed.

Clearly, it is time to take care of America and those who choose to become Americans. The circumstances are complex and almost inconceivable in scope. Earned pride and well-being come from within.

Yes there is a war against America. I'm not Pollyanna. Our military and police are irreplaceable. When America is good, it is very, very good. Balance, humility, insight and compassion must return to our daily consumption.

Pigeonholing Liberals and Conservatives. Wrong!

2008-01-06T12:15:00.001-08:00

Yesterday I saw two bumper stickers on a pickup truck: "Rush is Right" and "Piss off a Liberal: Work Hard and Be Successful."

From my point of view that is dumbness personified. I'll tell you why: Rush has a shtick and makes up facts--we all know that. He is profoundly wealthy as a hate monger. That's funky karma in my world. And this business about liberals not working--wrong. Spouse and I work hard and are successful business people. I won't quote dollars, but we're in the tax bracket that pays big taxes. We anonymously donate to the underprivileged. We choose not to have our name on brass plaques.

This is not meant as a statement of sainthood, but as a statement of pigeonholing folks. Didn't we cease pigeonholing after leaving high school?

I don't mind being spurred about my liberal thoughts because I can answer with conviction, facts, and knowledge of the subject. I was raised in an active political family of both Democrats and Republicans. From the time I was 3, I worked on campaigns with my godfather, who raised me. I knew big time state Democratic leaders, and I socialized and worked with Republicans. Heck, my great grandfather, was a Republican candidate for mayor of Los Angeles--but he died of TB before the election.

Once upon a time, when I was 28-years-old, the father of my two baby girls and my husband, was accidentally killed. I had stayed home with the babies, worked part time developing my own business, and tried to finish my education. Boom. Suddenly, my income was gone. I qualified for county aide and state aide. But this good old-fashioned liberal said, screw your aide, I'll do it myself, thank you very much. And I did. I learned about investment. I took a minuscule life insurance policy and invested that into second mortgages which earned me a tidy income along with my reporter's job that I did during the day while taking night classes at UCLA. Does this fit the shape of a liberal?

Yet, I'm still without a candidate for 2008!

The 5.9 Commandments

2007-12-19T08:36:00.000-08:00

When I celebrated my 49th birthday ten years ago, I was anxious to join the 50-something crowd. The already-50-something girlfriends said, “Here's what is great about turning 50, suddenly you won’t take any more crap from anyone.” I wrote in The Gathering Basket, “I’m free of youth,” and celebrated that freedom. I like being in my fifties. I like it so much that next year I think I’ll celebrate my first of many 59-and-holding birthdays.

But should I not be excited about the upcoming golden years? Frankly, I’ve heard one too many goldens say it ain’t so golden. Last night while soaking in the hot tub under the Santa Fe stars an epiphany struck. “And thou shalt live under the 5.9 commandments that I have thus sent to you,” roared a voice in my head.

1. Thou shall not equate 6-0 with old.
2. Thou shall not wear shorts or mini-skirts without lipo.
3. Remember that only your hairdresser knows your real hair color and that all those grey-haired folks among you are older people. Bless them for their bravery.
4. Honor thy goals and forward movements and provide service for those who can’t.
5. You shall find youth’s glory within your soul and grandchildren

And the final commandment was the .9 one, which means it wasn’t complete, but it went something like, “And thou shall seek enrichment from words that you shall…” And the voice faded off into the sparkling bubbles turning to ice when they hit the 20-degree temperature outside of the hot tub.

The Bitch

2007-11-24T12:58:00.000-08:00

I’ve been thinking about this Hillary Clinton thing. You know, how she is in a horse race with other Democratic candidates, and how “she’s polarizing,” and how freely men and women call her a bitch.

For clarification, Mrs. Clinton is not my candidate of choice. Not because she’s polarizing or because I don’t believe she’s qualified. She hasn’t sold me on her platform. But I’m proud of her because she has tossed herself into the lion’s den of presidential politics. You go, girl.

But back to this bitch business. I wonder how many times I’ve been called a bitch? Was I a bitch because I have strapped “them” on and wrestled the proverbial bulls? Did I wear the title because I stood for my beliefs? Is it bitchy because I’m the boss and confident with decision making? I don’t know. However, I suspect that because I have refused (or been unable) to act subservient or lesser-than, that the bitch word has likely been attached to certain conversations about me.

Have I ever called another woman a bitch? Guilty as charged. I’ve regretted it every time. What makes me think I have the right to assume that another woman’s crankiness isn’t completely justified? And, yes, there are women who I’ve seen misconstrue power and behave badly—just like our buddies of the opposite sex. But only one in these circumstances is nailed with bitch.

Recently, a wealthy man said that what makes a person whole and successful is compassion. I guess he was simply saying that compassion towards others is good karma. I haven’t the foggiest as to whether it was his compassion that made him wealthy, but at least he brought the single most repetitive precept of Jesus Christ to the forefront, compassion.

I don’t know why these simple rules go unnoticed except that a sage woman once told me, “Charmaine, when you look at others you see them through your own soul first. So if there is darkness in your soul, your vision is unclear.” Don’t believe for a moment that I’ve mastered the art of a clear soul. I’ve an Irish temper that is wise to avoid fueling, and barely an ounce of patience flows through my veins. However, when I hear random shouts of “Bitch!” it makes me mindful of how I can better myself and the world in which I dwell.

Butt Crack Fashion

2007-11-06T14:14:00.000-08:00

Yes, sometime back in the late 1960s, I wore khaki-green jeans--poncho topped--with a tambourine tied to a leather string slung over my shoulder. My pierced ears held long dangling rings and beads that often tangled with my waist-length hair. The fellows around were jean and Mexican shirt attired. Colorful, defiant and full of ourselves, we looked good--in our eyes.

Would I dress the same today? Sometimes I do, except for the green jeans.

Recently, vehicle registration forced me inside a local DMV. Lots of sitting and observing time there. First, a heavier guy, say around 30-ish, heard his number--927--called. The minute "Number 927, to window 3, please," echoed through the state chamber, every face turned and watched that lucky duck make his way to the counter. However, I wished this lucky duck had feathers on his butt end instead of 4" inches of serious crack mooning the crowd.

Okay, he was a little sloppy. Forgiven. Sort of.

Number 1012 out did 927. Britches below his ass, I hoped that his tucked-in shirt stayed that way. "Please, don't stretch or bend," I prayed. His fashion was purposeful. I get it. It's fashion. Sort of. Butt crack fashion.

The best part was watching him try to walk. That's when I began to doubt the wisdom of this look.

Probably everyone has experienced a time when your drawers were dropped, and for unexpected reasons you had to get up and move. Did you ever play the mountaineer game with a bowl-legged character that must find the right maze to reach the top? That's what it's like walking with pants below the butt. Miserable. (This brings to mind a Big Sur camp out. Nature made her call. Half a mile inside the tree lined canyon I found a sheltered place for the moment. Making my self as comfortable as one can get at this time, I exhaled, looked up at the parting fog when suddenly, a huge snake slithered its way across my bare feet. I became the bowl-legged, pants dropped, person running back to camp.)

I know this brands my up and coming 60th year: I don't want to see any one's butt crack, even Brad Pitt's. (Don't misinterpret this as me being prudish. The entirety of Mr. Pitt's bareness is just fine.) However, as the butt crack makes itself present, then the thought of britches dropping to the knees gives me the heeby-jeebies. Why? I will watch, then feel like a pervy old lady.

"There Is Only One Anne Hillerman"

2007-10-23T14:58:00.001-07:00

When I moved to Santa Fe to take charge of the bookstore that spouse and I had recently purchased, my first job was to bring consumers back to the business. A childrens book festival seem right since many of the books I sold were written by local authors.

A talented group participated, including one who became a friend, and today, honored by The New Mexico Committee of the National Museum of Women in the Arts, Anne Hillerman. So prolific that when author Judith R. Hendricks ("Bread Alone")
www.amazon.com/Bread-Alone-Judith-R-Hendricks/dp/0060084405 said that when she googled Anne, she thought there were many other Anne Hillermans out there, but, she said, "There is only one Anne Hillerman."

Anne is a journalist, author, editor and business woman. (Visit: www.wordharvest.com) When her next three projects publish ("Restaurant Guide to Santa Fe," "Santa Fe Gardens," and a photo essay written by Anne and with photos of noted landmarks in the Tony Hillerman novels by her husband, Don Strel, "The Hillerman Landscapes") I'll keep you posted.

In a world were charm and graciousness are a challenge to find, it is good when we take time out to recognize talent that is wrapped in these good labels.

Those darn irons that keep landing in the fire!

2007-09-26T08:52:00.000-07:00

Emails wondering where the Santa Fe Mother Blogger blogs have gone fill my mailbox. "Did you quit?" "Writer's block?" "Are you okay?"

All is well in the SFe Mo Blogger camp. However, after my home computer, my ever-faithful laptop that every computer wizard said I should put to sleep--but I gave it new innards instead--died of a coffee overdose, I was left with the office computer. Not good, because one cannot think at my office.

With one too many irons in the proverbial fire, I rushed one early morning to scan and send out some art for a project. Usually I avoid anything that requires thought or coordination until I consume my first cup of coffee. The only difference in my morning energy levels from that of my second decade of life is engagement speed. One might say, the rpm level has dropped a tad.

Secondly, the biggest rule in my life is KEEP ALL LIQUIDS AWAY FROM OFFICE MACHINERY.

With an extra large cup filled to the top with fresh brewed java, I scooted to the home office, set the coffee down by the laptop and reached for the just scanned piece of art. Life went into slow motion. My hand grazed the top of the coffee cup which toppled right into my laptop. The hot brown liquid completely emptied into the aged computer.

My neighbors surely heard my 6:30 a.m. scream followed by a string of unknown language that defined every single body part, body function, curse, and all things gross and nasty. In the course of cursing, I pulled the computer power source and flipped it upside down. The dog charged down to my office barking notice and concern. Clif tossed his razor into the sink and screamed "Are you okay?" and followed the dog. The cat slunk under the bed. As if taking its last gasp of air, a puff of smoke escaped the computer.

Need I say more?

The fire continues to burn and the irons require my attention. Soon, however, the snows will fall and perhaps the fire will slow down to the size of a lit candle.

Accounting For A Year

2007-08-25T13:38:00.000-07:00

When your CPA drawls, “If you don’t get me those numbers soon, you’ll be getting’ your knickers in a knot,” the interpretation: Get off your lazy butt and close out your 2006 books.

So I’ve been buried inside a mind bending accounting software program, and polishing my blue language for over a week now. I’d rather pull thorny weeds from the hot and hard panned soil. But that’s not today’s tale.

My latent accounting slam disallowed the pooch’s (Hank) and my morning walks. Today we walked. This walk compared to our last Saturday morning walk was different. I could not hear birds whistling, no cottontails jumped out of our path (and making Hank nearly insane), and no steady hum of vehicles in the distance. A telltale roar ripped the late August air, shocking me back to the real world. At 7300 feet, summer can end quickly. So as I approached my neighbor--attired in a t-shirt, shorts and boots, sweat leaving trails along his face--I waved. He slowed the telltale-roar’s culprit. I shouted, “This can’t be! We can’t be that close to summer’s end, can we?”

Not wanting to loose time with his project, he answered, “I can’t wait. I love it when it’s cold.” He put his noisy chainsaw back to work dismantling one of a thousand dead pinon trees that lie in fields near our homes.

That’s it! It’s late August 2007 and I can’t account for more than five days of this year.

Stunned, I called Hank back from his short foray into the woods and we moseyed back home. I poured iced water for both of us. (Apparently, nothing gets as hot as a Golden Retriever in the summer.)

Now that my 2006 books are nearly complete, I should make some nasturtium vinegar for the winter, begin my holiday to do list, and put off posting 2007 numbers until sometime next year.

Photo: Hank playing pirate.

Stella, the gorgeous poodle pictured across from Hank, was just sent in by her human, one of the best realtors in Santa Fe, Joan Grossman. When Hank saw Stella dance at a Hanukkah celebration, that was it. Love. Total love.

6-0 Looms, Lurks, And Lures

2007-08-14T11:31:00.000-07:00

Wrinkles! Grey Hair! Flab! Oh! My! Welcome to Sixohdear!

Yes, that big 6-0 birthday looms. Former classmates have a way of reminding me. “Hey, since most of us will turn 60 in 2008, let’s take a birthday cruise,” the emails suggest.

I’m cool with that.

It took my new membership to Club Grandparent to make this 6-0 business catch my attention. Never mind my blogs about comedy clubs and the center-seated golden girls. Ignore the fact that I prefer and will buy only comfortable vehicles. Gray hair? Right! I went from a natural brunette to hints of salt and pepper, directly to blond, then back to assorted shades of red hair.

Some of the best people I know have already passed that 6-0 thing.

So as I progress through Sixohdear! I’ll introduce you to those who laugh in the face of aging; discuss issues of these times; chronicle how those of us who survived the 60’s and once warned, “don’t trust anyone over 30,” remain destined to create even more change; and I’ll seek your opinions and wisdom.

Note: The three bears photo, a fine shoot by retired cuzin Sue, who recently visited Alaska