Nature’s Fury

 

Image by Vinayak Varlikar

Bending over my lawn, scooping up all the daggers fallen from the dagger tree, I think to myself how lucky I am. My trees all seem okay after last night’s devastating wind and rainstorm. A few daggers on the lawn is nothing.

            “Hi, Carol!” my next-door neighbor calls out from her car window as she does a U-turn in front of my house.

            “Hey, K, how’s it going?”

            “That was quite a storm last night!” she exclaims, shaking her head.

            “Yeah, it was,” I agree. “I just have a few daggers to pick up this morning!”

            “Nature’s pruning!” she grins, rolling her car window up and finishing her turn.

            And, I think, okay, yes, maybe so. But really, after the raging winds last night, I would be more inclined to call it Nature’s Fury.

            I finish picking up the daggers, tossing them in the green bin, before heading up the street for my morning walk. The sky is blue with puffy clouds, a gentle cool breeze blows, a yellow-bellied bird flits in front of me.

Image by Wang Teck Heng

            You’d never know that the night before was ravaged by the winds until....

            I stop in front of my neighbor’s yard, two doors down from me. Oh...My...GOD! The beautiful tropical palm had been uprooted by the winds. It must have been at least 3 stories high. Swaying in the wind all of these years that I’ve lived here. A little bit of Hawaii for me in Richmond.

            Till today.

            Lying on the lawn now, its trunk severed from the bottom, it stops my heart. What a death for this beautiful tree! Not to mention that on its way down it smashed through my neighbor’s fancy silver Honda parked in the driveway. 1000s of dollars of damage there.

            Shit.

            I stand for a moment just staring. Wonder if I should take a picture. Why? To document Nature’s Fury? Like folks don’t know about it?

            I decide not to take the photo and continue on my morning Pandemic Pacing, pulling my mask up and over my nose as a lady with a little runty dog passes by on the other side of the street. She waves, shyly. I wave back, still shaken by the fallen palm.

            Why? It isn’t like it fell in my yard, on my car. I can’t imagine. I’d be devasted. But every time these wind storms strike, I worry about my huge avocado tree in my backyard. What if she fell? She’d smash my house. Or my neighbor’s house. And, yes, this neighbor has been hounding me to trim the Avo for years now. I resist. We even had a Tree Guy come out and assess the tree. He said the tree was healthy. Had been there about 60 years. He didn’t think it’d be a risk, but he couldn’t guarantee this.

            And so, I just worry while doing nothing. These storms are so violent. More so than I recollect. It’s like there’s no winter for months with temperatures in the 80s and then wham, the next week, it’s 39 degrees with gusts of 70 miles an hour, and buckets of rain. And we NEED the rain! The rainfall amounts are anemic in the Bay Area with most places registering only 20-30% of their average rainfall.

            Climate Crisis. It’s real. Thank goodness, at least, Biden is president and acknowledges the science of this. Unlike his predecessor. Who didn’t. So much time has been wasted. Is there even anyway for humans to reverse the crisis at this point?

            I don’t know. I hope so.

            I walk on up 31^st street, a light rain has begun to fall. I can’t help but smile now. Rain rain rain. I love love love it!

            I stick my tongue out to capture a few drops.

            For a few moments, I’m 5 years old again.

            And it feels so good.

A Moment of Grace

Cindy Ord, Getty Images

“I’m so sick of a country where everyone just cares about themselves!” Ian and I are puffing up the first hill of Wildcat Canyon (Gawd, I notice the difference in my breath from not swimming regularly!). A battalion of young women is marching down the hill toward us. No one has a mask on. They are talking politics? But whose side are they on? (And aren’t we all on one side or the other? The unfortunate duality of our present day as Kamala Harris has written about)

            These women seem to be on the side of who cares about anyone else since no one is wearing a mask. But, yet, they seem to be complaining about the current administration and its selfish, egotistical sinister leader, Donald Trump. Who also doesn’t wear a mask. Or at least he didn’t till he caught the Virus.

            Yet, these young women don’t seem concerned about catching the Virus. “It’s young people,” Ian says later.  “They think they’re invincible.  That they won’t catch it. Or if they catch it, they won’t be very sick.”

            “Yeah, tell that to my young healthy 28-year-old student from last term who almost died from COVID.”

            “Exactly,” Ian nods, then continues on talking about how he can’t get some BBC theater show on Hulu cuz his computer is too old and he’d have to pay for it. I tell him to get a new computer. He can afford it. Then he can watch HULU for its free trial. Or even better, find another theater show other than this one. There are hundreds of them out there cuz of COVID.

            But I get his frustration too. You just want to watch something on the computer. Or listen to something. Or Zoom someone. And, the technology foils you. It’s so aggravating! Our world is so full of petty annoyances that get blown out of proportion cuz we’re in the Pandemic and everything just seems impossible.

            And it’s not. But I get how it seems that way. I feel that way about swimming. Last month I just gave up. It was just too hard to get a reservation. I’m not a resident of Berkeley or El Cerrito. So, I have to wait 48 hours after the residents sign up. By the time I can sign up, all that’s left is the Dive Tank at night or a cancelation in the middle of the day. It’s so upsetting. And no end in sight. The vaccine rollout is slow and mismanaged. And now there’s a new strain of the virus. It’s more virulent. Who knows if the vaccine works on it? Then there’s a group of healthcare workers in San Diego who all had an allergic reaction to the vaccine.

            It just goes on and on.

            So being out in Wildcat Canyon to celebrate Dr. King feels freeing. Except when a battalion of unmasked young women barrels toward us.

            This passes though. And we walk on in the dimming light of the sky. The hills are greener now even with the damn drought. When we reach our destination, we pause, and I gaze up at the golden light on the green green hills, the cows mooing and grazing. They’re not worried about COVID or politics or the drought or massive racial injustice!

            It’s very calming to stand on the hill and watch the light change. I see a couple, very far away, on the top of the hill in the golden light, a white dog running ahead of them full of puppy abandon. I sigh deeply as I turn to watch Ian march up the hill to join me. He’s puffed.

            We gaze at the cows for a few moments before heading back, the sky a murky purple blue now. As we near the hill where the unmasked women had nearly tramped over us only an hour before, I see a large square dark shape emerge from a tree up in the dusky sky. It’s flying low over me: silent and purposeful. Its eyes are big and watching.

            An OWL!!! I stop Ian and point. We both stand for a moment in awe as it passes over us, off to its nightly rounds.

            “Was that an OWL?” I ask him, when obviously it was.

            “Yup.”

            “WOW! I’ve never seen one up close like that!”

            “No, it’s not usual. You hear them, but you rarely see them. When I lived on St. Jude Road, there were owls out at night when I walked Dundee, but I rarely caught a glimpse of them.”

            “That was special for us, wasn’t it Ian?” I’m so thrilled. I mean, when nature graces us with her treasures, it’s such a treat.

            “Yes,” Ian agrees, “it was pretty special.”

            I hug him. He holds me up. We grin and grin.

            Till we hear a group of noisy walkers coming up behind us. “Let’s get out of here,” I say, heading down the final hill. Ian nods. We stomp down the dark, gravely path. A "Whooo whoo whoo whoo" echoes in the night. I wonder if it’s Our Owl: sure, mysterious, magical.

            We had our Moment of Grace. With nature.

            I will never forget it.

 

           

Wavy Gravy???

            “WHOA! That’s quite an outfit!” Tall, grey-haired

white guy in golf leisurewear hails me from the sidewalk. I’m in the middle of the street on Clinton. Having given him a wide berth---no mask. What is up with that at this point in the Pandemic? Is he just clueless? Or entitled? Or vaccinated? Though has anyone gotten the vaccine yet? Here in Richmond? I highly doubt it.

            Yet, here he is, sans mask, staring at me openly and commenting on my outfit. What’s up with that?

            He’d been staring at me as we approached each other and then, when I gave him the half-moon wide berth street social distancing, he continued to stare at me. I thought at first that I knew him. Or he knew me? Lots of my neighbors know me from walking. And, I might not know them. But this guy? I’ve never seen him before.

            So, what’s his deal?

            “You look just like Wavy Gravy!” he hollers at me, leering at me stupidly.

            “Uh….?” I had no idea how to respond. I look like Wavy Gravy? Isn’t he some old hippy-dippy ugly dude from the 70s? I seem to recall that he was famous back then. For what I don’t know. And I did always wonder why he was called Wavy Gravy. Was it a dance? Or was he just a big vat of gravy with waves coming off him?

            In any case, hell, it’s not a compliment to call some little old lady on her Pandemic Pacings Wavy Gravy! And, what’s wrong with my outfit?

            I look down at it as he passes and I hurry on.

            I’ve got on my blue hat with red earmuffs. Did Wavy Gravy wear hats and earmuffs? And then, I’ve just got on my orange sweater with my blue shirt underneath and my big beige jacket tied around my waist, covering up my non-descript black pants. And then my pink tennis shoes.

            Maybe I’m colorful? Or disheveled?

            I dunno. It’s a weird thing to say to someone you’ve never seen before. Maybe he thought he was making a joke. Ha ha ha! Dude! You are so damn funny!

            And who is he to cast aspersions at my outfit? Sure, he looked clean-cut and tidy with his maroon golf shirt and khaki slacks, but he was wearing NO mask! This in and of itself makes him doubly abhorrent.  Who does he think he is?

            I wonder. Is it just white privilege? This is a term that is so bandied about that it has started to lose its meaning. Until it doesn’t. In this case, it does seem that way. He’s above wearing a mask. He’s entitled to call little old ladies nasty names when they are just out on their pandemic walks, trying to maintain some semblance of sanity.

            His comment doesn’t help my sanity. And in fact, it pisses me off. But what can I do? I can’t run after him and hurl insults, can I? No. first off, this would take way too much energy. And second off, I’m a small old woman and he’s a big old man. (Yes, he is old ---the grey hair gives this away) Also, what would I say? I could scold him for not wearing a mask. Ask him what he thinks about infecting any and all passersby with COVID even if he doesn’t have any symptoms.

            Like he would care! He just seems like the type to not give a shit about anyone else.

            See how many judgments I can make when someone insults me.

            I walk on, down Roosevelt and turn at the first street, 34^th, to get away from him. Glance behind me. He’s long gone. I start to breathe easier as I head down the street, feeling the chill of the evening as the sun has set a few minutes ago.

            Another day. Gone. It’s all so strange. What would Wavy Gravy say about the Pandemic? About Leisure suit man?

            “Groovy, man. Let’s dance and smoke some pot, forget the world and live in the moment.”

            Hell, I have no idea. But as I turn up Roosevelt for the final block, I think how I have to do some research on Wavy Gravy. Maybe it’s not an insult at all. Maybe Wavy Gravy is a good looking smart colorfully dressed man who…

            Well, hell, he’s a man. Right there it’s insulting!

            I march up my street, wave to Rosa who’s taking Buddy out for his walk, and wonder if she’s been called Wavy Gravy too. What’s Spanish for Wavy Gravy?

            Here let me look it up:  Salsa ondulada! That’s so much better! Everything sounds better in Spanish! 

 Even insults? Maybe, but honestly, if I ever see this guy again, I'm gonna walk clear of him. I don't know what Wavy Gravy would do, but since I only look like him, I can do what I want. 

            

Walking Sticks

 

Walking Sticks

 

They look like walking sticks!” Ian exclaims.

And I have to agree

As I pause and watch as one

Methodically plods across the sticky wet path

Its prehistoric claws almost mechanical in their

Focused determination to cross.

Once I waited too long to move the garbage can

It was dark and damp, like tonight

When I did

There was one!

Its rubbery form freed from

The weight of weeks of trash.

Tonight, it’s Christmas Day

The trees dripping with rain

The dampness and the dark

Here at Wildcat Canyon envelop

Them in their migration to where?

Is it time for tea?

Or maybe a beer?

The salamanders aren’t saying

I screamed in shock when I moved the trash that night

But this evening I only smile

As I step carefully over one walking stick after another.