Remember the road you take to get there is often as important as the destination itself.
Trenz Pruca
Yesterday evening, our weekly Zoom conference was scheduled to discuss the proposed development in Campus Commons, (renamed by me as The Enchanted Forest). The plan involved removing a historically significant structure, a Mid-century California commercial building, and replacing it with a high-density residential development. Unfortunately, I had missed the last four calls and failed to keep up with recent events. Consequently, I hadn’t contributed anything significant to the group, which left me feeling embarrassed. I even contemplated dropping out. However, Naida encouraged me not to quit and instead join the upcoming phone call. Taking her advice, I participated and realized that I had underestimated myself. I did have something, limited as it may have been, to contribute.
Later, before going to sleep, Naida and I engaged in a lengthy conversation about the captivating allure of Gregorian Chant. We even sang a few sections of the Mass together. Additionally, we explored the artistry of modern song lyrics, particularly in the realm of Rap. The following day, I felt exhausted, and apart from driving Naida on an errand, I spent most of the day sleeping. Nevertheless, I managed to stay awake until about 2AM to finish my latest Swords and Sorcery novel. You see, for individuals like me, immersing oneself in an enthralling novel that transports you to unattainable places is akin to embarking on a mosquito-free boat journey down the Amazon River.
By Friday, the temperature had soared into the low 100s in our beloved Enchanted Forest. Naida expressed concern about the heat’s impact on the two little hummingbird hatchlings nesting near the studio window. We checked on them, and they appeared to be doing well.
That evening after dinner Naida came up to me in high dudgeon and said “I have just been reading your last This and That. You wrote that I said that tree was a California Coffee tree. It was not. It was a California Pepper tree. Coffee beans grow on bushes.” I was embarrassed, humiliated, chastened, and abashed. I begged her forgiveness and promised I would correct the error in this post. So here it is:
Later, when the sun began its descent behind the southwestern horizon, we decided it was probably cool enough to walk the dog. The temperature had dropped from 105 degrees earlier in the afternoon to 96 degrees when we set out. Although it was nearly 10 degrees cooler than earlier, the air still felt stifling making it difficult to breathe. It was unusually quiet as we walked – no bird songs, and even more strangely, no sounds of automobile traffic. We didn’t see anyone else until we were almost back at our door. At one point during the walk, we became so exhausted from the heat that we rested on a bench longer than usual.
After returning home, we watched the movie “The Pale Blue Eye,” starring Christian Bale, one of my favorite actors. It is a mystery story set at West Point in the early 18th century. Bale plays the detective, and another actor who previously appeared in the Harry Potter movies portrays Edgar Allan Poe. Poe had actually attended West Point in real life. Although the movie didn’t receive much praise from the critics, partly due to its slow pacing and convoluted plot, watching it in a darkened room on a small screen while Naida recited excerpts from Poe’s “The Raven” at appropriate moments made the experience wonderful and mesmerizing.
On Saturday, the temperature in the enchanted forest reached nearly 110 degrees. We drove to the Nepenthe Clubhouse for the Saturday Morning Coffee because it was too hot for us, the decrepit ones, to walk. The attendance at the Coffee gathering was good, and as usual, I couldn’t hear the punchlines of the jokes. Most of the discussion revolved around preparations for the Fourth of July festivities and parade at the Campus Commons greenbelt. The temperature is expected to exceed 105 degrees on Tuesday. I gave a brief presentation on the status of the proposed development at 707 Commons Drive and provided a summary of the most recent Zoom meeting on the project. Then, we drove back home. Naida spent some time puttering in the garden while I sat in the coolness of the studio. It was one of those days that occur frequently for me now, where I feel closer to death than an active life.
That evening, I was feeling better, so we went out to dinner at Lemon Grass, a Vietnamese restaurant we enjoy. Even though the sun had already set, it was still around 100 degrees outside.
By mid-morning the next day, the temperature had already risen above 100 degrees and was set to reach a level comparable to yesterday’s scorching heat by mid-afternoon. So, we (Naida, I, and even the dog) decided to remain indoors until the evening, hoping that the weather would be slightly cooler.
I attempted to post things on Facebook. For the second time in the span of four days, I have been banned from posting anything for 24 hours due to sending restricted material. The first ban occurred when I posted a 1910 newspaper photograph depicting a women’s protest in Thailand, in which one of the women protesters in traditional Thai costumes had an exposed bare breast. There seemed to be no way to appeal the ban except by clicking on an option that said “appeal.” I did so, but almost immediately received a response stating “appeal denied.” This most recent ban doesn’t even explain which rule I may have broken or offer me a means to appeal. What can I do now?
Days passed, fading from memory and slipping away from my life. However, during this time, I found myself plagued by recurring dreams. While most of these dreams disappeared from memory upon waking, there was one that lingered. It visited me for several consecutive nights. Naida, noticed the restlessness and turmoil that accompanied these dreams. According to her, I thrashed about and exhibited signs of deep distress. Despite her concern, she hesitated to wake me, choosing instead to retreat to a safer distance until my turmoil subsided.
The dream concerned a house, but not my own. I was a young lawyer. My office was situated within a vast warehouse, and I was fixated on a peculiar case involving the son of the house’s owner. For a couple of nights, this dream became a realm of horrors, as evidenced by my whimpering and frenzied motions during my sleep. Naida told me later that she contemplated intervening but ultimately decided against it, opting to maintain a safe distance.
In the dream, the son’s demise was gruesome. Consequently, the grieving parents made the difficult decision to vacate the house, leaving it abandoned and steeped in sorrow. As the dream unfolded, a peculiar idea took hold in my mind—I would acquire this house for myself. With three tenants already residing within its walls, and the parents being amenable to a low-cost sale, I envisioned the potential to transform it into four separate apartments through remodeling. Encouraged by this vision, I made the decision to purchase the house.
Initially, my relationship with the tenants seemed amicable. However, my illusions of harmony were shattered when the woman residing in the top unit filed a lawsuit against me, citing various reasons. As tensions mounted, her extended family joined her in negotiating with me, their presence in my office brimming with animosity. Yet, as fate would have it, a surprising twist softened the contentious atmosphere. We discovered that our respective families hailed from the same region in Italy. Just as this newfound commonality began to dissolve the hostility, I abruptly awoke, leaving the resolution of our differences suspended in the realm of dreams.
The dream left me contemplating its significance. Was it merely a product of my subconscious, an amalgamation of anxieties and desires? Or did it hold a deeper meaning, one that eluded my understanding? I couldn’t help but mull over the connections between the different elements of the dream.
Days passed, merging into the flow of my life. The dream lingered, teasing me about its meaning if any. Now the house, the people and the story are part of my life. The days that I do not remember are no more than dreams.
On Tuesday morning, July 4th, 2023, we walked to the Campus Commons greenbelt for the annual Fourth of July community picnic and children’s parade. We brought a blanket with us to spread out on the grass and sit on, which I did as soon as we arrived. While the attendance was pretty good, especially considering the number of dogs, the parade itself was less grand compared to the last time the event was held.
After the parade, a few women who often attend the Saturday Morning Coffee joined us on the blanket to talk with Naida. At some point, I felt the need to get up and walk around. As I tried to rise, supported by my walking stick, my legs gave out and I toppled over. I attempted to get up again, but my legs couldn’t support me, and I had to rely on the women to help me up. This worried me since it was the first time my legs proved too weak to raise me from a sitting position. After walking around for a while, I gathered Naida and the blanket and walked home.
Speaking of walking sticks or canes, I could never understand why we stopped using them regularly. I began using them 20 years ago for safety reasons, such as support in case of stumbling (I also thought they looked cool). They have saved me from serious injuries multiple times. Now, it seems like I’m starting to need one to stay on my feet.
That evening, we attended a Fourth of July barbecue at Sarah Naida’s daughter’s house. Sarah’s husband, Marc, was in charge of the grill. There were approximately thirty people in attendance. Along with food and drinks, there were various games such as ping-pong, croquet, and beanbag toss. Of course, there was also plenty of talking and laughter. Naida and I, being the older ones present, left early to avoid driving in the dark
The rest of the night was filled with the sound of fireworks. It seemed that some were even set off in the alley behind our house.
The following day, I drove to the Golden Hills to have lunch with Hayden. He had recently returned from a vacation in Thailand and Japan, lasting about a month. As a gift, he gave me two colorful Hawaiian-style shirts that he had purchased in Japan, which I really liked. I’m currently wearing one as I write this.
We decided to go to a local pizza place that we both enjoy. We ordered Stromboli and sat outdoors at a table under an awning, overlooking the lake. While we ate, Hayden shared some stories from his trip. He was accompanied by his friends, Big Jake and Little Jake. Big Jake had traveled with Hayden to Thailand a year ago, but it was Little Jake’s first time leaving California. They had all graduated from high school together, and this trip served as their graduation celebration.
Hayden had never been to Japan before, except for layovers during flights to and from Thailand. He found it incredibly exciting and enjoyable. They slept in a capsule hotel where one sleeps in a small capsule rather then a room.
Although he had already shown me some photographs and shared a few more during our conversation, he mentioned that he had many more taken with a special camera. He promised to send them to me in the upcoming weeks. They had a fantastic time exploring parts of Bangkok that they hadn’t been able to visit when they were younger. Additionally, they spent a week at the house I had built in a small town in Southern Thailand and made a side trip to Krabi, including a day of snorkeling at Phi-Phi Island.
Upon returning from my visit with Hayden, while riffing through Facebook, I came across a post from my sister Maryann Petrillo, She lives in Mendocino and is the president of the West Company, a business development entity in the county. She received and then posted the following communication:
Hi Mary Anne,
Let me know if you get this message.
I’ve attached a long-ago interview with your brother, Joe, that the President of the board of directors of Jug Handle Nature Center just sent me. The article brought up very old memories as I knew John Olmsted, the founder of Jug Handle Nature Center (1968) and one of Joe’s inspirations for creating the Coastal Conservancy, quite well. I became one of the first naturalists at Jug Handle in the early 70s, and John O. was my mentor, too.
After reading about your brother’s excellent work in developing land conservation models and his connection to Jug Handle in the early days, I can see why I was so blessed to have him as an advocate for my work. As I told him at our brief meeting in line at the Film Festival, his decision to engage me in creating interpretive panels for CA wetlands in 1983 began my lifelong career as an interpretive display designer. I’m sure the Mendocino Land Trust, for which I’ve done several panels, uses versions of Joe’s negotiating techniques for their land access and acquisitions. And there are many more examples of interpretive sites. I feel as if I’ve been sailing a little ship on a vast sea of his legacy for a long time without knowing what lay beneath the waters. This article was profoundly moving and enlightening.
Big Hugs to you,
Eric
A version of the interview can be found at:
During the 1970s, when I first became involved with California’s coastal protection initiatives, I often complained about the dull and uninteresting informational displays found in the state’s public nature preserves, historic memorials, and parks. Despite facing significant opposition, as the director of the California Coastal Conservancy, I decided to take action. I began searching for an artist who could create engaging art combined with informative content that would capture the essence of the environment.
Eventually, someone introduced me to Erica Fielder, a young woman residing in Mendocino. To my astonishment, she had already proposed creating such signage in the county and considered herself an interpretive display designer, a profession I had never heard of before. Impressed by her work, we hired Erica to produce informational signage for the Conservancy’s projects.
If you’ve lived long enough to witness the artistic and informative improvement in signage for public environmental and recreational areas in California since the 1980s, then you should be aware that much of the credit for that is due to Erica Fielder’s efforts.
A thought during those days that pass with little else to exercise ones memory:
I wonder, at times, why it is that Republicans in Congress are so eager to reduce taxes and grant benefits to the Super wealthy. Most of the congressmen and woman, as wealthy as some my be, are not the super wealthy or billionaires. Do they wish some of that wealth would somehow trickle down to them? Or, perhaps it already has.
This morning, Naida came in from the backyard and excitedly told me that the hummingbird hatchlings had started to emerge from the nest and were perching on its edge.
With that happy news brightening our morning, we set off for the Saturday Morning Coffee. The weather was delightful as we strolled to the Nepenthe Club House—sunny with temperatures in the high 60s and a gentle breeze. The Coffee gathering was well-attended, with approximately 35 people in attendance. Unusually, they divided into four or five groups, which was a departure from previous gatherings. Naida treated us to a few piano riffs before our leader, Gerry (with a G), rang her bell to call the meeting to order. I managed to catch the first of the bad jokes, which went like this:
“A mushroom walked into a bar. The bartender shouted, ‘Get out, we don’t serve your kind here.’
The mushroom replied, ‘Why, I’m a fun guy.’”
As usual, once the announcements concluded, I left and went to sit by the pool, waiting for Naida to finish socializing. Approximately an hour later, she woke me up, and we walked home together. Later on, she started playing some jazzy tunes on the piano, while I sat in the studio, waiting to see if anything interesting would happen for the rest of the day.
A mystery or a miracle.
That afternoon, while I was taking my usual nap, Naida came upstairs and started talking excitedly. Since I didn’t have my hearing aids on, I could only catch the words “green” and “key.” I immediately got up, put on my hearing aids, and went downstairs. There, she informed me that she had noticed our spare house key, which we had placed inside a small metal turtle with a hinged top and hidden in the bushes, had started to turn green on one side. She assumed this was due to moisture causing the copper in the key to corrode. Today, when she looked at the key, she noticed it had become even greener on both sides. Upon closer inspection, she realized that the green color was not tarnish, but a lovely shade of green paint with small sparkling white flowers on both sides.
Neither of us remembered painting the key. We also contemplated the improbability of someone sneaking down the alley, discovering the key in the turtle, painting it, and returning it to the turtle just to surprise us. “It’s a miracle,” I exclaimed. “It’s a mystery,” she countered. Which do you think it is—mystery or miracle?
I then took the dog for a walk. There was more barking and snarling than I would have preferred, but aside from that, the walk was enjoyable. After returning, Naida and I watched reruns of the Lawrence Welk Show. Occasionally, we would sing along. We often watch the show. I may not be proud of it, but I refuse to be embarrassed.
On Sunday, the dog woke us up too early. We had brunch at Ettore’s, a place we really like. I ordered French Toast with apples. Instead of toasted bread, it came with a toasted pastry. It was delicious, and I even took a photograph of it.
Around 5 PM, after a nap, I went downstairs to the studio and turned on my computer. Naida was working on her memoir. We continued that way until it got dark, not speaking, neglecting to walk the dog, and skipping dinner until after 11 PM. During most of that time, I asked Chat GPT questions in an attempt to make it respond with nonsensical answers. I succeeded, but when I pointed out that it was spouting gibberish, it seemed offended.
The next morning, Naida went to the backyard to check the Hummingbird nest. It was empty, and she worried that the dog might have eaten the birds. Later, I went for a walk, and it was glorious. The weather was sunny with temperatures in the high seventies, but it felt cooler under the shade of the big trees in the Enchanted Forest. It was a refreshing change because, for the first time in a while, I didn’t feel any pain in my body, nor did I have a runny nose, itchy eyes, or wheezing with each step I took. This rare feeling made it seem like a completely new experience. Perhaps only older people or very young children can relate to such a sensation, where almost every experience feels new.
I walked nearly two miles, pausing at the lake to observe a line of geese paddling across the water. Then, I made a stop at the Nepenthe Clubhouse to collect a parking pass. This pass would allow my son, Jason, to park his car overnight when he arrives to spend the next weekend with us.
While my body often feels even older than my 83 years, my mind still feels youthful. Well, maybe not youthful, but rather, immature. Perhaps not even immature, but more like disconnected. Hummingbirds, mysterious keys, French toast, and bad jokes have consumed my attention for the past week or so. I feel like a three-year-old again, holding a bobby pin and wondering what would happen if I were to stick it into the holes of an electrical socket. I suppose I should be grateful that my body has become so feeble that it wouldn’t be worth the effort to find out.