Every week I go to Mendez High School in Boyle Hts., CA. Between meetings with my students, I take a walk in one of my favorite neighborhoods. Frequently when a person mentions low income housing, a negative image comes to their minds. Wrong. The neighborhood where I walk is beautiful, lovely places full of flowers. In one area the buildings are painted in joyous colors that make me smile every time I walk there. Here are photos for you to see for yourself.
Downtown LA in the background.
bountiful autumn
pomegranates
scarlet lusciousness
Barbie Doll
Barbara Lewis Duke, pretty, petite, blue eyed and blond, my
mother, one fearless, controlling woman. Long after Mom’s
death, Dad said, “Barbara was afraid of absolutely no one
and nothing.” They married late, 34 and 38. He adored her
unconditionally. She filled my life with horses, music, love,
cornfields, hay rides, books, ambition. Whatever she felt she
had missed, my sister and I were going to possess: books,
piano lessons, a college education. Her father, who died long
before I was born, loved fancy, fast horses. So did she. During
my preschool, croupy years, she quieted my hysterical night
coughing with stories of run away horses pulling her in a wagon.
With less than one hundred pounds and lots of determination,
she stopped them, a tiny Barbie Doll flying across the Missouri
River Bottom, strong, willful, free.
Note: This poem about my mother has been published in at least one anthology and my book of poetry. My mother loved roses, had a rose garden. I now grow roses too.
Several months after Maclear’s father (who was a famous journalist) dies, she decides to take a DNA test to find out more about her family health and personality history, mainly because of the stories about a particular grandmother. She wonders if certain traits she and her sons have might possibly be inherited. The results of the test are a shock. Her father, the father she adored, who raised her and adored her, is not her biological father. At first, she thinks perhaps it was a sperm donor, but then she discovers this is not the case. Through the DNA test and her detective work, she finds two biological half-brothers (she was an only child before this discovery) who are willing to communicate with her, send her photos, etc. She tries relentlessly to acquire more information from her mother, who is often unforthcoming or tells her contradictory information. Then her mother gets dementia.
This is also a story of plants, of gardening. Both she and her mother are amateur botanists and expert gardeners. When nothing else works in their mother-daughter relationship, their love of plants and gardening holds them together. Even with dementia, her mother knows plants. Their other joint endeavor is ink drawings and love of art.
Additionally, this is the story of family, family secrets, inter-racial marriage, and challenging relationships. Kyo’s mother is Japanese living originally in England and later in Canada who often struggled with her status as a Japanese immigrant. Her “real” father, the one who raised her, was of British and Irish descent; her biological father was a Jewish formula one race car driver.
roses
rainbow colors
joy
Rainy Day
sheets of rain against the kitchen window
heavy fog hides mountain peaks
scarlet hibiscus and bougainvillea brighten
a gloomy day
Dusk
The wind died; stillness pervades.
A distant train whistle interrupts.
Tiny brown bird chirps its chitty song.
Mountains display navy blue and purple.
The western sky becomes cantaloupe color.
Fearless little bird with chocolate brown head runs beside me
on the road. At the intersection I circle to the left, following
a familiar route. The heavy tree canopy here always astonishes.
It’s almost like walking in a forest.
The architectural variety amazes: mid-century modern, Spanish,
colonial, ranch, the smallest I am guessing contains 3500 sq. ft. One
house encompasses an entire city block, fronted with heavy, high
fences and metal gates. Privacy obsessed.
I’m watching my time. I don’t want to be late for singing
practice. I take a new route, perhaps a shortcut. It’s
120 degrees of a circle. Not quite a regular street,
not quite an alley, a combination–fronts of a few houses
and the backside of others. At one place it angles more;
I come to a three story stone fortress with intricate
geometrical designs vertically running up and down
the walls. No windows. A sign says, “No trespassing.”
Realization hits me. This is the other side of a house
I saw last year through a gap in a wall on another street.
Three ladies, strangers, asked me about it, told me they’d
heard it was the creation of a famous architect. I researched,
asked others, no one knew. Back then, I tried to find the front,
failed. Now I’m looking at it, wonderstruck. It appears abandoned,
an architectural wonder belonging to another time and place.
Time to rush, a bit lost, I look at my phone map, finish the loop,
find a familiar street, walk faster. Then I see a large, white, colonial house,
weeds knee high, black shutters hanging askew. Here it is abandoned
in the midst of multi-million dollar houses. I wonder what the neighbors
think. Walking on I hear water rushing, peer through the hedges–a stream
runs downhill from the side of this huge brown house at least 100 feet
and gurgles in a pool behind the bushes. Hurrying, I stop in front of one
of my favorite houses, a one-story, tan, Spanish style, small compared
to the others nearby. I take a photo of the tree in front by the sidewalk,
its impressive girth impossible to ignore.
Finally, I’m near my destination, walking in front of The Gamble House,
a tourist destination made famous by the movie, “Back to the Future”,
a structure I see at least twice a week.
I started out thinking I would write a poem per day for National Poetry Month. Well, I’m a bit behind on that, but here are two of several I have written so far.
Spring
The mockingbird awakens me with his song.
A hummingbird, dressed in green with an iridescent
orange collar, flits by my head then sips nectar
from a scarlet bougainvillea blossom.
The neighborhood barn owl hoots at dawn and dusk.
A black and red/orange bird I’ve never seen before
lights on a palo verde limb.
A Western Bluebird dips its beak repeatedly in
the talavera birdbath.
Remember
In this world steeped in senseless violence remember
each day to find a piece of beauty:
-rosebuds opening
-the scent of jasmine
-a friend’s smile
-a bit of birdsong
In this world ravaged by wars remember
each day to find the jewels of joy:
-listen to a child’s laughter
-dance to a favorite song
-walk in the morning sunshine
-tell someone you love them
They tell writers, “Never ever use cliches.”
Sometimes I question that. When you
word a cliche, nearly everyone knows
exactly what you mean. For example:
This is a perfect spring day:
-birdsong wafting here and there,
mostly mockingbirds except for those
irredescent, orange-throated
hummingbirds at their feeder
-wind singing through the pines
-open windows for a change; it’s
75 degrees and sunny
-magenta and scarlet bougainvillea
climbing the garden wall
-white and lavender lantana
outdoing themselves with
spread and bloom
-geraniums in full flower
-mint growing so fast and tall
I already need to trim it.
I lounge on the patio reading
another novel, drinking rosewater
lassi, munching mixed nuts.
I feel gratitude for this
perfect spring day.
This past weekend I headed to Mexicali in Northern Baja to visit the town of San Felipe and see a new development about an hour south of there. San Felipe is a small fishing town of approximately 20,000 people where there are no fast food restaurants and no Starbucks. Excellent restaurants and good coffee can be found but not at the places mentioned above. They do not exist there. The town of San Felipe has a long boardwalk right along the Sea of Cortez with restaurants across the street. This past weekend they were holding a ceviche contest and fiesta on a cross street. This is shrimp season and the city is known for its shrimp. Unlike the Pacific side of Baja, there is no large commercial fishing allowed in this part of the Sea of Cortez because it contains many endangered fish and the place where whales come to mate. Locals can fish and you see smaller fishing and shrimp boats in the sea. Not only is the Sea of Cortez protected but so are the plants and animals in the desert. Certain plants, like ironwood trees, are ancient and rare. If you want to build a road, it has to be around them. Many other species are also protected.
Unlike the Pacific side of Baja, the water in San Felipe is safe to drink from the tap. It comes from an aquifer up in the mountains to the west.
We spent most of Sunday at the new green development (it is totally off grid) called Rancho Costa Verde. Solar is used for power and each house has a large underground water tank where water comes from an aquifer up in the mountains. This is a newer development so although many of the lots are already sold, except for beachfront, many houses are just now under construction.
This is a very modern beachfront property with marble floors and a glass wall facing the Sea of Cortez.
This photo is of the clubhouse and looking the opposite direction toward the mountains. Here I am standing on the roof of the house in the previous photo.
Here I am in front of the pool in front of the clubhouse facing the Sea of Cortez. The house in the first picture is on the left in the distance.
This is desert land where even though it can get hot in summer, the sea breeze keeps it relatively cool.
The plant on the right is ocotillo which is protected. If you are building a house and it is in the way, you have to move it elsewhere. You cannot just get rid of it.
Monday was a big adventure trying to cross the border. We arrived in Mexicali only to discover no busses could cross the border there so we had to take the highway to Tijuana and cross there. To do this you must cross a mountain pass. What a feat of engineering building this road must have been. It is quite incredible and as you climb higher and higher the views go on forever into the far distance. The following are photos I took from the bus window as we drove higher and higher.
These mountains are made of rocks of all sizes that are just stacked on top of each other. Here only these small blue-green plants seem to thrive.
In this photo you can see the highway where we had just traversed.
Here you can see how at this height the mountains are nothing but stacked rocks of all sizes.
After the summit as we went down toward the town of Tecate, it started to rain and it rained most of the way to Tijuana. The Pacific side of this part of Baja gets rain and it was lush green this time of year while the Sea of Cortex side is desert.
I do not recommend crossing at Tijuana in a large bus. Even though we had sent all our passport information in advance, they made the bus sit there for nearly an hour and wait. Meanwhile those on foot and in cars were just zooming along at a rather rapid pace. Then we had to get out of the bus with all our luggage and everything and wait more. I crossed the border (not in a bus) last April and it did not take long at all. I have heard that Tijuana is the busiest port of entry from one country to another in the world but have not verified that. It certainly was busy yesterday.
Travel the World 4 Less
A Glimpse into My Life & Passions
Ceto-Magoism, the Whale-guided Way of WE in S/HE
Exploring the F-word in religion at the intersection of scholarship, activism, and community.
ANCESTRAL FOOD. HERBAL WISDOM. MAGICAL COOKERY. SEASONAL CELEBRATION.
inesemjphotography
politics, engineering, parenting, relevant things over coffee.
Food is the best expression of every emotion. Explore through my reviews, recipes, events and more.
Smile! A Site for Friends Wherever You Are!
inspiring personal growth through poetry and writing
Combining atheism with whimsy. This is a Fair and Balanced blog based on opinion unencumbered by fact.
Odds and ends ~ My Life
Original poetry, commentary, and fiction. All copyrights reserved.
bripike@gmail.com
A wildlife filmmaker in Africa
A Geeky Feminist's Musings On Pop Culture
"5 minute walks"
writingontherim 