The Royal Wedding

I slept through The Royal Wedding, and will continue to sleep through the media coverage of anything the Royal Couple does from now on. 

When I first married, I wore a $97, off-the-rack, cream-colored dress from the now defunct Weinstock’s in Sacramento.  I bought matching pumps to go with the outfit, and tossed them after the ceremony.  They were cruel shoes with high heels, and I can remember how they pinched and tore at my feet.

I was married in 1987, and divorced three days before 9/11.  To this day, I can’t (and won’t) have a good time in Reno.  I remember getting married at a worn, tired, wedding chapel across from the casinos with piles of dirty snow in the street.  The chapel’s interior was dark and designed to look more like a funeral home.   The maroon carpets and heavy drapes smelled like cigarettes, and a lighted, revolving display had wilting orchid corsages for sale. 

The reverend was plastered and could barely stand.  And at the end of my first marriage, I regret not having the drama of tossing my wedding band into the icy water of the Truckee River, like so many of disappointed and disgruntled divorced people before and after me.

It took me seven years before I decided to get married for the second time.

“You know what you’re getting into this time, don’t you?” asked my attorney when he found out about my upcoming second marriage.  He carefully studied my face.  “You do, don’t you?  You can’t fail with the second one when you already made all the mistakes with the first one.” 

Everything is cut and dried when you think like an attorney.

I’m on my second and final marriage.  “Three strikes, you’re out,” can refer to baseball players or revolving-door California inmates, but not to me.  A third marriage for me would mean I didn’t learn from my mistakes.

Shortly after my second wedding, my husband and I were in Hawaii with married couples from all over the United States who had been married for 50 years or longer.  It was clear to me these couples truly loved each other.  First impressions mean everything to me, and when I observed them as a group, I could see it, and I could feel it.  It was in the way they looked at each other.  It was the way they smiled, laughed and lightly touched each other as they spoke or picked at the lint (real or imaginary) in each other’s clothing. 

“What are your secrets to being married so long?” I asked the woman sitting next to me.

She looked at me and smiled serenely.

I didn’t hear what she had to tell me.  Right at that time, the train taking the tourists around the plantation was tooting its horn, and by the time it was done, she had pushed the tiny dish of poi aside and was attacking the rubbery chicken breast creation made for us Mainlanders.  She was enjoying her luau meal, and I didn’t have the heart to ask her to repeat what she had tried to tell me.

I have found that marriage reflects life itself.  It has its ups and downs.  But you have to allow for change.  In our mates and in ourselves, we either can go with it, cut ties or stay co-dependent and miserable.  Even if we did nothing about our marriages, that would be a choice, too. 

During the coverage of the Royal Wedding and anything else added to this so-called modern fairy tale, I entertained myself with the idea of being married to His Royal Highness and making him do things around the house like scrubbing the toilet or smiling as he walked the backyard for poop patrol.  I could show Her Royal Highness something about making a fried chicken dinner with all the fixings or gutting trout and catfish after baiting the line and catching them.  I could take her to the local auto junkyard and show her how to search for a grill to an ancient Ford 150. 

Oh, don’t get me wrong.  I wish The Royal Couple well.  And, when it comes to elaborate weddings, I know better.  Even the most memorable, well-choreographed wedding day doesn’t guarantee a meaningful and lasting marriage.

So whenever I hear a bride-to-be talking about her wedding plans with the eight bridesmaids and the honeymoon in Hawaii or the mother of the bride complaining about competing for that exclusive, but very expensive Victorian wedding location in the foothills, I have to smile.  Experience has taught me to be grateful that the young, naïve girl who got married in the Reno wedding chapel during the 1980s is gone forever.

 

 

     

   

Creating the Perfect Greeting Card

No more cookie cutter greeting cards for me.

There was a time in my life when I enjoyed spending hours looking for the perfect greeting card for that special someone.  When the economy dumped in 2008, I dumped the high-end greeting cards for the 99-cent Hallmark bargains or found generic cards at the dollar store. 

I used to be picky about greeting cards.  I’d read them and study their designs, then agonize over the selection.

These days, it’s easy for me to bypass mass-produced greeting cards.  It’s not that I don’t care to send the very best.  Sending a simple greeting will cost you, and that doesn’t include postage.  Most of the time, a lot of these cards are poorly designed.  If a card plays recorded music or pops up into some kind of art, expect to hand over more cash.

I thought musical cards were fun, but as a novelty, it quickly wore off.  As a child, I yanked the cord on my Chatty Cathy doll until she quit talking to me, so you can understand where I’m coming from.

Last month, I wandered into The Paper Garden by Stephanie Nishikawa (papergardenboutique.com), hoping to find some colorful stationery.  In the store, I found a friendly group of women making cards with an Asian theme.  After talking with these women and admiring their card creations, I found myself signing up for a class by the time I walked out of the store.  I took a class, then spent a day taking three classes from visiting Seattle designer Jean Okimoto of Memory Box and Tsukineko inks (www.davebrethauer.typepad.com/inkollage)  Imagine spending the whole day creating greeting cards with a huge selection of inks, paper and stamps.

I enjoy the learning environment, but you have to keep up with the instructor.  Except for tape and scissors, all materials needed are provided for the students.   A lot of the attendees have taken classes for years, and bring supplies like paper cutters and cutting boards.  They are very confident with their skills, so if you ask, or they see you struggling, they will help you.  After a day of making my own cards, I went home with a dozen cards and a lot of ideas for future projects. 

I like the idea of being able to choose my own material, and while the skills of creating these cards is still on the mind, the Paper Garden is a wonderful place to shop after class.  I’ve learned that if you concentrate on the technique and not on making the perfect card each time, you can spend more time improving your craft outside of the class. 

The classes are an inspiration if you want to create something personal instead of picking out a store bought card and mailing it.  I’ve met women who make cards on a regular basis.  Some women have enough skills to design and produce their own engagement, wedding or birth announcements.   The hardest thing I had to do was a little origami, and since I am worthless in arithmetic, I eyeball measurements instead of depending on a ruler.  When you design your own cards, consider yourself the artist, designer and publisher, so anything goes.  You are merely following a guide, and not forced to stick with a pattern. 

I also had to remove glue, glitter, colored dots, and bits of missing designs in my hair at the end of the day, but that was part of the fun.

              

Black Chasm Cavern

“Okay, where’s the bats?”

The little girl and I were holding up the tour group at the Black Chasm Cavern in Volcano, staring at the ceiling of the cavern and waiting for bats to appear.  As a gardener, I was imagining myself scraping bat guano from the stalagmites to fertilize my garden.  Forget the chicken and rabbit manure.  Bat guano is the Cadillac of fertilizers, and I wanted some.

The tour guide, a young woman in her 20s, looked at me and smirked.  “I was only kidding.  Bats don’t live here.  This is a hole in the ground, and bats would have a hard time maneuvering in and out of here.”

The entrance to the Black Chasm probably looks like the same hole in the ground when it was first discovered by the Miwoks and used as a place for ceremonies, burials and punishment.  At the time of the California Gold Rush, miners sought the cavern for gold, but found nothing.  Although the Gold Rush took place over a century ago, remnants of their cavern abuse remain.  When they couldn’t make money on tours, they were tempted to blow it up.  In the first of three rooms, visitors can see where the miners snapped off several stalactites.

To keep the delicate calcite formations intact, visitors are told to look, but don’t touch.  Below the stairs and ramps, the cavern is also the semi-permanent resting place for cameras, sunglasses, and cell phones.  They are retrieved only when the manager decides to rappel down 100 feet for the odd collection.

In a state prone to earthquakes, the guide said the cavern would be a safe haven during an earthquake. 

For a few seconds, the artificial lighting was shut off, and we were told to put our hands in front of our faces.  I’ve never been in this type of darkness, and it was a creepy feeling.  There is life in the cavern, but the lack of sunshine makes living things blind.  Rare shrimp and pseudo scorpions live in the cave.  The environment doesn’t allow them to have color.

I haven’t toured a cave or cavern in years, but I do remember the beauty of formations like angel wings.  The last cavern I toured was in the middle of the Arizona desert with a tacky concrete dinosaur to greet tourists.  At that time, I felt like I had stepped into the 1950s.  The elevator was that old, and once I got in, I began to pray.

This tour of Black Chasm was a treat and a great escape from suburbia.  With three rooms on display for the public and thirteen rooms open only to staff, there were plenty of formations to see.  Photography is allowed in the cavern, but cameras with flash units are prohibited.  There were so many things to photograph, but with artificial lighting, it’s hit and miss with a basic point and shoot camera like mine.

The most interesting room of the three is the last room, known as The Dragon Room.  Here, you will find Moo Shu, the cavern mascot shaped like a dragon.  This particular California cavern also has formations only found in caves and caverns in Arizona and Montana.

A dirt trail leads to the visitors’ center and gift shop.  There’s a gold panning set-up outside the center for those who want to try panning for “gold”.  The Black Chasm Cavern became a National Natural Landmark by the National Park Service in 1976 and is open all year.

  

The Secret Life of Sheep

Saturday afternoon, I watched sheep and lambs as they grazed in a Rio Linda pasture.  A llama badly in need of a shearing watched over the flock and patiently dealt with the lambs.   It was a peaceful setting that I knew so well.   

“They’ll be lamb next week or so.  Gonna retire some ewes, too,” said the resident lamb expert standing next to me.  She put her camera to her face and started shooting.

Visions of lamb chops, lamb kabobs, and rack of lamb on stark white restaurant platters came to mind and temporarily took me from this scene of rural paradise.

Ewe.

Raising sheep for fiber is based on the same farming concept  used when raising crops.  But with sheep particularly raised for its fiber, you weed out the ones who won’t produce top fiber and don’t go into trauma and drama about the ones who are going to (forgive me) get the axe.  In the business of raising animals, you can’t keep all of them around as pets.  Common sense will tell you that it’s not cost effective.

When it comes to not having any common sense and being a sucker for animals, count me in.  I get attached to anything I feed.

Don’t get me wrong.  These people love their animals.  Each one has a name, and people in the business can tell you everything about each animal, its history and its registry.  Sheep have bloodlines, and like any farm animal, they need to be looked after and cared for. 

If you raise sheep or deal with fiber as an artist, you’ll know all about sheep.  To the point you can rattle off the names of breeds like Merino, Cotswold, Corridale, Charollaise, Cormo, etc.  Sheep come in all shapes and sizes and are raised for fiber, meat or both.  And I've been around spinners and weavers who will only use a certain wool for their creations.    

These days, I don’t even think about what it would be like to live on two acres or more.  I tend to my ¼-acre of suburban delight and plant vegetables and yank weeds out of the soil in the spring, deadhead roses in the summer, rake a ridiculous amount of leaves in the fall, and read gardening books and articles in the winter.   

In my neighborhood, we’re allowed to have chickens, but if I raised chickens, I know I would sneak in a goat or two as pets.  I wouldn’t mind having a miniature horse.  But now that I’m good with retirement, what I have now in terms of activities keeps me busy, and sometimes, in a good way, I feel overwhelmed.

From my experience, living on a farm and dealing with plants or animals means having to deal with loss.  At an early age, I already knew how much damage a knife or a gun could bring to an animal or a human being.  I learned that life is nothing but a series of seasons or cycles.  No matter what, we keep going.

So with what I’ve learned about sheep, I can only be grateful for those who raise them.  I don’t have it in me to raise animals.  When it comes to anything related to farming, I’ll stick to flowers, plants, shrubs, and trees.

Pass the roving, please.       

   

Remembering Dorothea Puente

Craig was smart, friendly, attractive, and had a bright future ahead of him.

We attended a film class at Sac State and were going to graduate in June 1981.  Before class on the Friday before Halloween, we talked about film and little things going on in our lives.  By the time I attended class the following Monday, the instructor began the class with a moment of silence to honor Craig.  Over the weekend, he was murdered by serial killers Gerald and Charlene Gallegos.

A few years later, I was working in an office overlooking the Sacramento Community Center.  I hated the job, but like many people who find themselves with mortgages and bills lined up like toy soldiers, I showed up and went through the motions.  While using light rail to commute into the downtown area, my truck was vandalized in a light rail parking lot.  A few months later, it was stolen from another light rail parking lot.  This time, it was recovered in front of a busy suburban supermarket.  It had been towed, and I had to claim it at the junkyard.

I could no longer drive my truck because each time I got behind the wheel, I felt violated.  The starter was so mangled that I was using a standard screwdriver to start the vehicle.  Finally, I traded in the truck for a car, then started driving to work. 

Even in the late 1980s, it was hard finding parking in Downtown Sacramento.  I parked on the street, fed the meter or moved my car every two hours.  There was also a coin lot and a covered parking lot nearby, but those were for people who had money to throw around.

After getting a couple of parking tickets for not moving my car every two hours, I decided to find free parking in a neighborhood and walk a few blocks to the office.  After finding a neighborhood that looked safe to me, I made it a habit to park my car in front of a certain Victorian on F Street.

Several months later, my free parking came to an end when I tuned in to watch the 11 o'clock news.  Police had arrested Dorothea Puente, who later became known as Sacramento's most notorious serial killer. 

One of my neighbors, who is obsessed with reading crime novels and watching all the law enforcement reality shows on television said, "Didn't you know Dorothea placed small pumpkins on the top rail of her backyard fence to represent each of her victims?."


She called her Dorothea.  As if we were talking about a friend of ours.  The woman housed in the Chowchilla women's prison who at first glance, looked like someone's grandma.  And, by the looks of her, couldn't have possibly murdered her elderly boarding house tenants.

"No, I didn't see any pumpkins,"  I replied.  "Big or little."  Who would equate squash with a human being?  Is that you, Dorothea? 

All I saw was this Victorian house, and it looked like any Victorian house in Downtown Sacramento.  The house was neat and well-maintained on the outside.  I didn't see anyone in the yard, and no one stood on the porch or in front of the windows to watch the street activity.

Last month, Dorothea Puente died in prison of natural causes.  Like most criminals in the limelight and sentenced to life in prison without the chance of parole, she denied murdering her tenants.  Over the years, the newspapers, magazines and film covering Dorothea Puente kept coming.  In less than a 10-year period, Sacramento was home to three convicted serial killers, and that's not counting the ones who could be possibly out there.

It's been 26 years since I parked my car in front of Dorothea's Victorian on F Street.  Through the extensive media coverage, I know all about Dorothea Puente, and it's more than I care to know.  For me, the mention of her name is simply a reminder of Craig being murdered and the loss of a man who could have made a difference.  It also take me back in time, when I struggled to pay off the loan on my vehicle, and when it was paid off, it became a target for thieves long before I could enjoy the benefits of it being mine.

Since then, I've learned to accept that crime and criminals come and go.  Some days, it seems that they just keep coming.  Just when you get rid of one, you've got a replacement that's worse.       

See ya, Dorothea.  You certainly were no friend of mine.






 

  

Daffodil Hill

I hate crowds.

But the best time to visit Daffodil Hill (Volcano, Amador County) is in the spring, when over 300,000 bulbs and 300 varieties of daffodils are in bloom.  Since 1887, the historic, 36-acre ranch has been owned by the McLaughlin family.  After the blooms disappear, Daffodil Hill returns to being a working ranch.  Admission is free, but donations are accepted. 

Daffodil Hill is a family friendly place, with open spaces for picnics.  Dogs are not allowed here.  Visitors are asked to stay on the dirt paths while viewing the daffodil displays.  Across the street, volunteers guide visitors to an area where parking is free.  Souvenirs and snacks are available.

Volcano and Sutter Creek are the nearest towns to explore or get something to eat or drink.  We took a wrong turn somewhere and ended up in Lake Tahoe for dinner.  Since we had time to watch the sunset, we agreed it was the end to a perfect day.

  

Sacramento Historic Rose Garden

Meet Ramona.

She suffers from urban sprawl, but from her bed overlooking the hustle and bustle of Broadway, she certainly is a looker.

Out of all the historic places in Sacramento, the Sacramento Historic Rose Garden (part of the Sacramento Historic Cemetery, www.oldcitycemetery.com) is numero uno with me.  I am a volunteer, and I don't know squat about these roses.  I consider myself a garden grunt, and if you want scientific names, I'll disappoint you.

Whenever I announce, "I'm going to the cemetery to deadhead," I mean business.

We are gearing up for our annual Open Garden on April 16.  Admission is free, and we'll have roses for sale, a silent auction and tours.  So bring your camera and Claritin, then support one of Sacramento's finest historic destinations.  The Sacramento Historic Cemetery and the Historic Rose Garden is rich with the history of the California Gold Rush, and it's important to keep Sacramento's history and heritage alive .

C'mon, Man.  Anyone can built an arena, but once these historic sites are gone, they are gone forever.

Taming a Wild Rose

Some of my friends raise sheep for their wool.  Last year, when I attended a sheep shearing event in El Dorado County, they teased me about not having an emotional attachment to anything because I was raised on a pear orchard.  They assumed I was good at pulling up plants, then putting them aside to die without feeling anything.  In their eyes, I saw everything as expendable.


You know what they say when you assume things about people.

Sacramento has been getting some gorgeous, sunny days, lately.  It is the kind of weather which makes people active and want to stay outdoors.  I finally had the chance to pick up my loppers and use them when I discovered my wild rose (rugosa robusta) leaning into our pomegranate bush and growing into it.

All this happened over the winter.  When it comes down to it, I would rather be harvesting pomegranates in the fall than watching the bush being taken over by a wild rose gone wild.  I started that rose from a 2-inch slip, and it grew 6 feet in 3 years.  The storms had pushed it away from the fence, and it was now flopping over the pomegranate bush and surrounding area.  If given the chance, it would take over our backyard.

I instantly made an executive decision to prune it, and I didn't back down.  In less than 5 minutes, I hacked that wild rose like a hybrid tea, and it now measures about a foot from the ground.  From my kitchen window, I can see barely see what's left of it.

Ouch!

After I threw out the rose clippings, I tossed the Valentine's Day roses from my husband.

When you think about it, today is April 4, and Valentine's Day was February 14.  My friends were wrong about me.  I do have an emotional attachment to plants and animals.

Cosmos and Sculpture Park

I didn't know what it was called or who created it, but the red thing overlooking I-80 in Roseville always got my attention because it's blood red in color.  Red is my favorite color, and I am a true red personality, so all these years, my head would automatically jerk around to look at this sculpture.

This year, while writing a few pieces about Roseville, I did a little research.  Cosmos dates back to 1990 and is the towering red centerpiece of Sculpture Park.

I don't like to admit it, but I get lost, trying to find this park. 

Well, no wonder I couldn't find it.  Sculpture Park is sandwiched between I-80 and a parking lot next to Home Depot.  You wouldn't expect to find a park behind a shopping center, but if you take the time to look, you'll see Cosmos from a different view.  Visitors can park at the edge of the lot and walk the asphalt trail.  Sculpture Park is also the beginning of the Miners Ravine Bike Trail, so if you're walking, be prepared to share the trail with bicyclists.

The park is small, but still gives a feeling of space.  The landscaping is a natural mix of oaks and grass.  You can hear the sound of cars whizzing along the freeway.  A drainage ditch runs parallel to the freeway, and this time of year, you can hear water running.

The asphalt trail winds around Cosmo, but what you don't expect are the concrete structures specially built to display sculptures by school children.  There is a large sign explaining the history of Sculpture Park and a list of the children whose award-winning art was chosen to be permanently displayed here.  The beauty of animals and nature are reflected in their work.

If you look around the park, there are no benches or picnic tables inviting visitors to linger.  Being in the park reminded me of being in an outdoor art gallery or museum.  The idea here was for visitors to focus on the sculptures.

There are supposed to be 90 bronze squares in Sculpture Park, but most of them are missing because someone decided to pry the sculptures from the concrete.  What could have been a gem of a park has become a permanent reminder of vandalism.

So now that I know what's missing from Sculpture Park, I'll continue to do what I've been doing for 10 years. 
      
I'll keep driving.