Lots of People

It was a day with Lots of People

There were lots of people in the room where we slept – 14 others, to be exact. People of various ages and nationalities, snored and snoozed in white metal bunk beds that lined an old church basement room of the Monterey Youth Hostel. In the morning, our 14 bunk mates joined more people from the men's dorm, and women's dorm and the family rooms in the large, bright kitchen for breakfast. Myself and a woman from Sweden, gave Thomas, a tall blond young man from Germany a tutorial on how to make American-Style pancakes with Krusteze and an electric griddle. Two young Italians sat at a table nearby spreading nutella on their dollar-size hotcakes. I followed Thomas's lead and sprinkled my pancakes lightly with sugar, followed by a gentle dollap of carefully spread strawberry jam.

There were Lots More people on the bus going to the Laguna Seca racetrack. We passed white-washed clay brick buildings, lined with ornate painted green railing. Monterey has stayed rich in its Spanish history - those fevrent, abusive, conquistadors. 

 There were EVEN MORE people – Roy says about 45 thousand, at the race track. We threaded our way through a barely organized human mass to watch agile, superhuman conquistadors of the motorcycle world zoom by at 200 miles an hour. 

We sat on metal bleachers, our necks cooled by the breeze blowing off fog on the bay and ate hotdogs in baguettes. Thank goodness Americans have started to catch on to this wonderful treat. We sipped outrageously priced mediocre beer, and cheered with the crowd as Marquez slipped passed Rossi. We cheered more when Rossi maintained a solid third. Bright yellow flags emblazoned with the number 46 from the crowd as he crossed the finish.

Finally, after we stepped off the bus that was the wrong bus, and were walking the final one and a half miles to the youth hostel, past old Monterey, past the sailboat filled harbor, it was just Roy and I, two harbor seals, and cold, clear water splashing on caramel colored rocks. And the fog and the quiet. 

This Is Not a Wordy Blog Post

This is not a long wordy blog post

This is just settling the cushy rubber of the headset over my ears, and adjusting my ball cap.

It is sunscreen on my nose, and sun reflecting off the silvery wing of the plane.

It is the humming rhythm of the engine pulling us off the runway, up to the cloudless blue sky.

It could be lots of words about how we took out the trash and put away dishes and wrote a list for my daughter of all the things to take care of around the house while we are on our airplane vacation.

Instead it is a wide green, yellow winding blue river valley opening in front of the plane, as it climbs to 11,500 feet.

It is dark green hills, rolling up to mountains so jagged they look like hands, fingers, reaching out of the earth.

It is a three quarter moon rising above three white peaks, nestled together.

It could be a telling of going to California to visit friends and see places, and about hotel and restaurants, and it might be that later, but not now.

Instead it is mountain peaks falling away in to a winding lake, that was once a river, and now is clay-red streaking away in the wakes of ski boats.

It is an airport on a plateau, and a friend waving from a taxi way.

It is a blood red sunset over the mountains we just flew over.

It could be a long, wordy blog post.

Instead it is sipping cappuccino, next to the swimming pool.

It is men's voices talking about airplanes, and a yellow biplane, streaking across and endless, open blue sky.

Lake California Sunset

You Have A Wondeful Life

You have a wonderful life, you know that, right

     - Ward Stroud

My hairdresser and I do not have light conversations The first time I went to Ward's salon my hair was the longest it had been since I had breast cancer ten years ago. Now it was the requisite 10 inches to become a wig for someone else undergoing chemotherapy. I sat in front of the mirror, plastic drape across my shoulders, and Ward gathered my hair, entwined his fingers in it, and let it fall this way and that through his hands, and across his wrists, combing it with his fingers. Then he gathered it all in a thick pony tail, and cut it off with one clip of the scissors. For a flash, the head that looked back at me from the salon mirror was bald from chemo. Ward placed his hands on either side of my head, little thatches of hair sticking out between his fingers. He leaned his cheek next to my ear, and whispered, You are very beautiful. And we both cried a little.

During a recent visit, he stopped in the middle of trimming my bangs, and whipped his phone out of his pocket. Want to see something really cool? He danced from foot to foot. He played a video of a bright yellow Frisbee soaring through the air, then gliding down into a chain basket as if placed there by hand. Ward's voice was in the background of the video, whooping and yelling with pure joy. I got a hole-in-one, he beamed. I think that's the coolest thing I've ever done. He pocketed his phone and turned his attention back to my hair. What's the coolest thing you've every done? He asked. I shut my eyes as little flecks of straw-dry hair fell into my eyelashes. I had to think; there have been some pretty cool things. I blew bits of hair out of my mouth. Pufts of air. Of course!

Well, I began, My boyfriend and I were flying to dinner recently...

Ward held up his hand. Wait – did you say you were flying to dinner? How do you fly to dinner?

In our little plane, I replied, fumbling in my purse for my phone. I showed him a picture of our shiny, silver RV-7A, with its large, black tail numbers, N174RT.

Ward studied the picture. Wow, that is so cool!

Yes, it is. Roy built it, I said proudly. As I was saying, we were flying to dinner, but it was early and the sky was so clear and beautiful....

So, where do you fly to, he interrupted again, and how do you get to a restaurant once you get to wherever you are going?

Most of the time we go places where there is a restaurant at the airport or close by. Sometimes airports have courtesy cars we borrow, but most of the time we walk. That evening, we were going to Albany for dinner. There is a great chinese restaurant there.

Ward shook his head. Wow, you just fly to dinner. That is very cool. He turned the chair so I faced the mirror started snipping away at the back of my head, shaking his head in amazement. Yep, that is pretty awesome..

But that’s not the best part, I continued. One evening last week we took off from Hillboro. There was Mount St. Helens was right in front of us, like huge, upside down vanilla ice cream cone. We had some extra time, so we decided to fly around the mountain.

All hair cutting activity stopped. Warded turned the chair so I was facing him, and sat down on a black rolling stool in front of me. He rested his forearms on his knees. You flew around the mountain, he repeated, making sure he'd heard correctly.

Yep, I nodded, we flew around the mountain. It is so pale and peaceful on the south side, especially when its covered with snow, but when you peek around the north side, there is sheer devastation. The crater drops away, and it looks like a dragon chewed the top of the mountain off, then clawed out the sides. A trail of rubble spills out of its side, and tumbles down in to the valley.

I paused for a moment, remembering shards of sunset reflecting off the wing of the plane, as we rounded the remnants of the peak. There was no background sound to capture the joy of seeing the sunset light up the rim of the crater and the peaks beyond. Even in the plane that evening, Roy and I shared it with the reflection of light in our eyes,and the warmth of his hand in mine. 

That really is amazing, Ward said, bringing me back to the salon.

The best part of it is the inside of the crater, I continued. The mountain is still active. You'd think with all the devastation it would be quiet...defeated. But its not. I counted at least five steam vents, and there is a huge bump in the middle of the crater that is growing. The mountain is rebuilding itself.

Ward reached out and fluffed my hair with his fingers.. He turned the chair and held up a mirror so I could see the back of my head. That happens to people, too, he said softly. In the aftermath of devastation, we can rebuild ourselves. He smiled down at me. Look at your hair. Do you like it? I ruffled my fingers in it and smiled. Yes, I said. It's amazing.

Ward looked down at me. You have a wonderful life, you know that, right? I nodded, and we both smiled and cried just a little.