Ashland is a tourist destination for rich old white people, especially for women. Do you have a problem with that? Should we all be home boasting about grandkids and complaining about ailments? What happens to Humanities Majors when they get old? If they’re fortunate enough to have the physical and financial resources to travel, they’d go to Ashland.

You will not be surprised to learn that I am frequently asked for directions here. Lost older women: Where is the theater? Where are the restrooms? Where can I pay for my parking? Where is the Dairy Queen? Where can I hike around here? I answered them all. So I look like someone who enjoys plays, has a pea-sized bladder (also pee- sized), pays at the kiosk for parking, eats ice cream, and hikes. No one asked me: who did your amazing hair? Or, where did you get those fabulous kicks?

We are staying again at Lithia Springs Resort north of Ashland. I like the four acres of organic flower gardens and the pool. In Ashland serviceable 1970’s architecture is christened with whimsical Shakespearean or English names. The self storage lot is called “As U Store It.” a low-slung mid-century modern is ahistorically called “Windsor Arms.”

But we are bathed in country luxury. The garden designer, Jan, is still here after twenty years. I enjoy her artistic work designing floral arrangements all over the hotel. She grows for the shape, texture, color of plants. We talked horticulture and outdoor education. She is almost, almost retired:

We’ve seen one good play, “Revenge Song” by Qi Nguyen, and found one good restaurant, Arbor House in Talent, owned by chef Leah, and one very good public library.

But it’s moments like these that amuse my readers:

Oh I come from California in a Tesla named Joulie,
Not here to acquire, not a real estate buyer,
So please don’t stink eye me.
Without the dog to look after, I end up babying Joulie, our white Model 3. We don’t have range anxiety but we probably should. Lulled into complacency auto-driving north on 5, we skipped a Supercharger in Corning and found ourselves in Redding with 19%, not enough battery charge to get to Mount Shasta’s Supercharger, an hour and 3000 feet elevation gain away. So JG spent an evening Joulie-sitting in Redding, charging at 6 KWH, in the Red Lion Hotel parking lot.
Redding has empty storefronts, votes conservative, and looks very white compared to the Bay Area. We are tourists in flag-decorated pickup country, so it already felt different from Santa Cruz. We stayed at the Hampton Inn, where white, non-Hispanic women cleaned the rooms.
The following morning we joined the dog walkers on the trails in the Sacramento River’s flood plain for a stroll. The valley oaks offer wildlife food and shelter and withstand the river’s flooding thanks to their deep roots. Under the overpass and at the end of spur trails folks had built camps for sleeping in. That part is like Santa Cruz.

Let us now praise famous oaks. Devoted readers will remember my general tree reverence from 2018. The second stop on our road trip north was a visit to the Arboretum at UC Davis.  This arboretum, sandwiched between the teaching vineyard of the viticulture department and the paddocks of large animal patients for the veterinary school, features dozens of varieties of oaks and hosts fascinating ceramic art. This photo shows the wall of the most beautiful public restroom I have ever seen. The ceramic mural celebrates the forest ecosystem around the oak.  Yes indeed, I am among my tribe here. Plus, I was among my family. The little ones poked around, climbing on low-slung branches and investigating burrows. “A hole!…Another hole!” cried the littlest one rapturously. “Watch me twirl!” announced the child dancing up the path.

“You… are…much…too…tame!” declared the daughter as she knighted Sir Squirrel, tapping him lightly on each shoulder with a stick. “Time for a diaper change!” said her spouse, corralling the littlest explorer. Freshly upholstered, the little one followed a quacking duck who waddled just fast enough to stay out of reach. He also enjoyed the horses in the paddock next door from the safety of Dad’s arms.  

Do visit this Arboretum for the accessibility, the ceramic art, and the informative displays. 

June 2022 finds our heroes road-tripping through the Pacific Northwest again. No RV. No senior dog. Marco crossed the rainbow bridge in November, 2021 after almost 14 years in our care and an illness of about ten days. He was the doggiest of the doggy-doggies but he is not the subject of this blog.

Instead, I am moved, O Muse, to write about live audience behavior. Has the internet also spoilt live performances because those ticket-holders used to individuating their entertainment cannot restrain their unseemly behavior? I listened to the Soquel High School graduation: after each name was read, loud, frenzied cheering resulted. Does any graduating Senior truly base his/her/their self-worth on how much ballpark-style cheering comes during the graduation ceremony? Is graduation really the time, parents and family members, to uncork the rebel yells? Wahoo! Or the air horns? So the reading of names which could have taken twenty minutes takes two hours? Time you will never have again, dear ones, to laugh and play together.

JG and I have been back to the California Theater to see Opera San José. We watched the Irene Dalis opera singing contest. A lady of a certain age sat by herself behind us and put on a show of her own. During the arias, she moaned with theatrical pleasure, ”Ooh! Ah! Oh!” and screamed ”Bravo!” at every Caesura. Yes, a live audience that interacts emotionally with the performers makes the theater magic, but her outbursts of untrammeled passion upstaged the singers. Her stagey moans called attention to herself: nobody feels this more deeply than she. I was distracted and annoyed. Then I thought, she’s reaching out, looking for connection through the arts. But an opera contest by yourself is not a good way to meet people. She must have forgotten her manners during the pandemic years.

Warning: The following may be upsetting to those fans of Eric Carle’s Very Hungry Caterpillar. Parental discretion advised.

During Shelter in Place, some folks are practicing music, cultivating sourdough starters, drawing rainbows, zooming social gatherings. I am taking on the caterpillars in the backyard. If left unmolested, they eat the trees and shrubs and pupate into moths. Last summer we had spindly chewed up trees and great clouds of moths in our backyard. This summer we hope to enjoy shade and unobstructed garden views because here on McDuck Space Station I am killing furry slugs.

I experimented with Integrated Pest Management. The Western Tussock caterpillar is preyed on by wasps. More wasps? Not a benefit. I introduced a caterpillar to the blue-bellied lizard that lives under the house. The caterpillar crawled over the lizard’s back and down its tail. Birds won’t eat the Western Tussock caterpillar; its bristles are irritating to avian gullets. I put a caterpillar in front of a black beetle. The caterpillar crawled over the beetle. I read that wildlife managers in WA state introduced a virus to destroy their caterpillar population. Sadly I don’t have those resources. So it comes down to me and my broom.

First, I brushed them down. I was improving my hand-eye coordination and building upper body strength. I swept six, seven in one blow. I went out sweeping every hour. But the caterpillars had numbers up on me. I suspected I was giving them a broomy thrill ride down into the ornamental shrubs in the shade garden. I increased the force applied to each critter. “More hammer: less finesse,” as one daughter has famously told the other. Now greenish caterpillar guts speckled the fence. And my fierce determination to take back my garden lent me power.

My spouse noticed my preoccupation. After some initial heckling, in which he called the Caterbattle “Sisyphean,” JG got with the program in his own engineer way. He brought tools. First, we pruned back the cherry plum tree that had been giving aid and comfort to the enemy. Less food and shelter should mean fewer caterpillars. The caterpillars got stickier and trickier, hiding more adeptly. So JG duct-taped a plastic putty scraper to an extension rod. With this jerry-rigged pupae scraper, he poked at the cocoons stuck in the eaves. The furry slugs were going down, thanks to our combined efforts.

Although we are still showered by greenish pellets of moth poop in the backyard, I have hope that we are reducing the population of these little shitters. (“Mom! Everyone poops! It’s not an insult!”) That will be part of my Coronavirus story when I remember these times.

We are near the end of our first month of sheltering in place. Much has happened in the world. Very little has happened at our house. The huge gaping chasm between official federal government news and what was happening in my own microcosm of Santa Cruz County has narrowed. For example, Mike Pence tells broadcast news reporters that “anyone who wants to can get tested” [for Covid19]. But the email from SC County Kaiser, my medical provider, says anyone showing symptoms should stay home and telephone his/her doctor.  To qualify for a very scarce Covid19 test, a patient must show severe, not just moderate, symptoms, be over 60 or in a high risk group,  and be able to trace known exposure to another Covid19 case.  There is general recognition in California that Trump’s administration was working for his re-election and not for public health.  CA Governor Newsom had to give the Orange One a positive soundbite before Pence would send a USN hospital ship to Los Angeles. Where I live, surrounded by science-deniers, free-will-worshipers, and nose-pickers, the situation has looked dire for weeks.  I tightened up our disinfection protocols in the garage and started wearing a non-medical mask, a Buff balaclava-style, a hat, glasses, immediately washable shoes and outerwear, and nitrile gloves when I had to go to the pharmacy or store.  I may look like the Invisible Man, but I won’t let anyone shame me about my wearing of PPE. Is it wrong to want to save my own neck when I’m not tromping on anyone else’s? Nay! And I hope y’all do the same and glove up your bodies. Don’t wait for the gasbags in DC to tell you to. 

What are we doing in confinement? JG continues to enjoy ham radio but misses seeing his friends in person while they talk radio. I continue to enjoy a home yoga practice. But after the gardening and the housecleaning and the dog-walking and the soup-making and the scone-baking, I’m looking for something to do besides channel my Inner Aunt Shirley.  (“Home is wonderful!”) Our half year of RV living strengthened my resolve to enhance my relationship with the natural world. In practice, that means I did not trap and kill the backyard pocket gopher this year, as in years past.  I set out a putrid rotten egg product, “Repels-All,” and invited the interloper to leave.  It worked, for now.  All sorts of smaller wild birds: sparrows, finches, swallows, wrens, robins, chickadees, juncos, nuthatches frequent our bird bath. We allow a pair of phoebes to nest in the eaves six feet from our front porch even though they defecate all over the front steps. We call them the Good Neighbors, as opposed to the humans next door. So I spread cut-apart grocery bags along the front steps, like lining the bird cage.  Imagine my delight the next day to see the phoebes had indeed let loose on the paper: Bird Shit Bingo!  It made my day. And I can relish the antics of tree squirrels bouncing and skittering now because Marco, age at least 12 in human years, has cataracts and limited vision. It was unsettling at first to see lizards nutmeg him, but all of us grow and change.

July 2019

Whistler is strikingly well-planned for a community that has experienced exponential growth.  There are high-rise developments surrounding picturesque wooded lakes. Foot and bike paths radiate outward from the village center into the river valleys, connecting lakes, parks, ski areas, and subdivisions.  I noted the underground utilities and underground parking with approval.  What thoughtful urban planning in spite of or because of massive real estate development!

John and I stayed in a condo in the Village with our adult daughters and son-in-law and World’s Best 3 Year Old Asher.  A quick review reminded me of the joys of being a grandparent: a cliché but true: have lots of fun with the kids and hand them back when they crank out.  Since we are natural early birds, we loved having oatmeal and banana, playing games and reading with Asher in the morning while the next generation went for a trail run finishing with coffee and pastries.  Other Asher highlights include playing on the playground and digging in the park sand.
Asher and I were making a construction zone out of the clean sand at the park while  chatting amicably with the Aussie mum and the Canadian mum nearby.  I praised the remarkable cleanliness of BC Provincial Parks, Parks Canada, and regional parks, noting the absence of litter. Canadian mum took this as a given: “we are all taught to clean up after ourselves.”  I followed up with observing that the tidy recycling bins had properly sorted contents, showing general buy-in by the park users.  I said that in California, we have the same rules about picking up litter but parks are much messier.  The Aussie mum sighed in agreement, saying, “some people don’t follow the rules.” Later that day, while vigorously disputing nap time because it was the parental rule, Asher told his folks, “some people don’t follow the rules!”  I’ve also heard him say, “people are different!” I used to say that to our girls.
But enough Genius Grandchild anecdotes.  The extended Newman family landed in Whistler due to instant run-off voting.  For those unfamiliar with this term, it means first each family member may nominate a destination.  Then each family member who plans to come submits a ranked list of place nominations.  At a specific cut-off time, all the votes are instantly tallied on a spreadsheet.  Last place drops out each time until a winner, usually most people’s first or second choice, is declared.  In Whistler we were 29 relatives.  In 2020 we will be 31 when we vacation in Poipu, Kauai, HI. The three generations used to be the grandparents who were our father and mother, the siblings and their spouses, and the grandkids.  Now the generations comprise the siblings and their spouses, the cousins and their spouses, and the little ones.  It is pretty fun all around.
I organized a canoe or kayak trip along the “River of Golden Dreams” between Alta Lake and Green Lake.  19 of us participated, with two guides, on a cold wet Wednesday.  I shared a double canoe with John navigating behind me.  Some took immediately to paddling deftly. Others used athleticism to overcome a skill deficit.  Once we’d left the flat, warmer water of the lake, the creek trail through willows, snags, and sandbars was interesting and challenging.  Shortly after the excitement of sighting a beaver, we had the excitement of capsizing our canoe.  On a short, steep downhill section, John forgot to duck below an extended branch. As he was clotheslined, I went ass over teakettle upside down into the glacial meltwater.  He landed in hip-high water and struggled to the bank. When I emerged, the first thing I heard was, “Sorry, Sweetie.” By then I was floating downstream, clutching my paddle, looking for purchase and a bank to climb out of the water.  Nothing appeared. I got worried and yelled for help.  Then a guide heard me and turned her kayak around to come back to help me.  Hurray for choosing to be guided!  With her professional assistance, she corralled the swamped canoe and shoved it onto a bank to park it.  She directed me to swim another few minutes downstream where there would be a place for me to climb out.  She brought me a dry-bag with sweatpants and a fleece.  There on the riverbank, with bluish hands and feet,  I stripped to my birthday suit and put on the dry clothes.  Every adventure has its pluses and minuses.  I was frozen but exultant that I had worn an eyewear retainer to protect my prescription glasses.  Sadly, my cell phone perished in the drink.  I had wanted to take a few photos and not leave it in the car.  Happily for John, my brother-in-law and sister had been dumped in the same spot. That made him feel ever so much better.  And her phone came through unscathed.

 

Metolius River by Lower Canyon Creek Campground, OR

To sum up, I’ve been on the road almost six months and seen much of California and the Pacific Northwest. I didn’t mind sharing a small space with Marco and JG (“Whaddaya mean, small space? This rig is 28 feet!”). I befriended the classical music DJ Preston Trombly on Sirius Symphony Hall. (Because of his Connecticut Brahmin accent, he endearingly pronounces it “Twombly.”) I’ve practiced plenty of tolerance, so I’ll be ready for some grudges once I get home.

I can’t write that thanks to this trip I’ve embraced the universality of the human experience. Nor can I affirm that people are basically virtuous.

But I have benefited from glimpses of raw beauty in the natural world that remind me to fight to preserve the environment. I found them not so much in the bald eagles, the orcas, or the big-horn sheep. Instead, it was the incredibly clear water in lakes and streams that I won’t soon forget. Long ago, my father used to fish for steelhead in the San Lorenzo River. I saw folks fishing for steelhead in their local rivers. Would their rivers end up filled with polluted silt like the once-mighty San Lorenzo? Some biologists think steelhead salmon have adapted to an increasingly risky trip to the sea and back by becoming steelhead trout, that is, rainbow trout. The steelhead will no longer be anadromous, they’ll just hang out at home. The growth in population did in the San Lorenzo. Main Beach in Santa Cruz has been posted with a warning to avoid body contact with the water because the water exceeds County standards for safe bacteria counts. And now Oregon and Washington are rapidly expanding their populations. Will their pristine waterways choke up and die off?

Springs feeding the Metolius River.

This trip had me re-examine my relationship with all creatures great and especially small. Could I handle yellow-jackets circling me? Actually, I tolerated them better than some of our camp neighbors.

One unexpected rig pleasure was electrocuting mosquitoes and flies with the tennis-racket-shaped bug zapper. Unfortunately, the implement terrifies Marco, so one of us must take him outside while the other wails away at flying insects. Conversely, I have lost my customary joy in feeling the wind on my face. Gusty winds have become sinister and threatening, as we’ve lived in the shadow of wildfire for months.

Kah Nee Ta has permanently closed on September 5, 2018. The tribes of Warm Springs voted to shutter the resort, which had been steadily losing money since 2012, when the casino moved 11 miles away to Highway 26. Family friendly low-key entertainment is a tough market in the age of Wii and X-Box. At least they tried their collective hand at the hospitality industry. I read that other tribes, after receiving a stipend or settlement from the US government, divided up the money. A generation later, the Native Americans were poorer than ever. It reminded me of the studies done on lottery winners. They frequently ended up broke and sad once the lump sum winnings were spent.

We are home now and planning the next trip even as we unpack from this one. Thanks for all the support to go adventuring. This blog has been a way to keep in touch with all of you. I’m looking forward to talking to you in person soon. Love, Janet