LakeArrowheadLadyWriter

February 28, 2014

Lake Arrowhead, California, USA

My sister-in-law and her husband are just celebrating their anniversary in Arizona today.  Heard they had some great Italian food.  Tomorrow, my mother and father-in-law will be celebrating their anniversary with lobster or shrimp or something-seafood in Wisconsin.  This makes me think about my marriage.  I’m a lucky girl. I will see my husband in about six weeks, after a two month work-related separation.  I look forward to his phone calls the same way I did when first we met.  “Will he call?  Does he miss me?”  But more than that, “I adore his voice and his stories.”

And then, wonderful news, California is finally getting relief from our drought.  This has arrived in a twin package–two storms, the first a mild-mannered rainstorm from the south, and the second, hitting now, a real ripper from the north.  I drove home from school today in water deeper than my tiny New Beetle tires are high.  Walked into the cabin, lit a fire, and poured a glass of wine.  Deep red.

As my dear brother used to say, “Life is wonderful, if you let it be.”

Blessings to All.

Mom’s new husband, Oz, a 5’3” tall Cuban American, was very much in the picture now. He and Mom would literally roll up the carpet and dance for hours. The music had changed. There was no more Keely Smith—now there was an astonishing variety of country, Latin, jazz, pop, even gospel—anything that caught their fancy. Oz was irrepressible, singing and dancing in his every movement. So different from my dad, so good for my mother. At 5’8” barefoot, she fairly towered over him when they danced.
They embarrassed me, but I had to smile, just as long as they didn’t keep me awake on a school night, which they often did. I became the “little warden.” They were so inconsiderate and out of control, I knew someone had to step in, and of course that would be me. They seemed to find these little upbraidings of mine quite amusing. “We really must be more civil, dear,” Oz might say, his big white teeth gleaming at Mom. “The little warden has to go to school tomorrow.” And then, of course, they would continue dancing and forget all about me. One of their favorite lectures of mine was the one that began with my charging out of my bedroom yelling at them to turn down the music and ended with me sliding all the way across the living room floor on my ass. This party involved a group of middle-aged swingers swimming in the neighbor’s pool before rolling up the rug. “Oh, if you could only have seen yourself,” I’d hear over and over afterwards, “so indignant.”
“And with her little nightie flying up in the air like a sail.” Oz couldn’t control his snorting laugh.
Okay, fine. So I guess I didn’t make much headway with them… Their music, laughter, and the occasional rip roaring argument continued to disturb my sleep for the first few years of their marriage, and this was especially hard on me, because I really liked to sleep. A lot. It was similar in an odd way to the earlier experiences I’d had of trying to sleep while Mom cried. But now she was fine, so why was I still so upset? So tired? Sad?
Often, instead of mother, now it was me lying in bed crying.

My Daughter’s Smile
I have spent a lifetime working toward that brilliant, instant, pure uplifting.
The corners of that perfect mouth, turning up to God. Never forgetting the miracle that she came in part from my own imperfect body.
I love you, Hayley Noelle. Now.
My moving is not away. This world doesn’t work that way. There is no leaving love. No closed doors. We are two women, with journeys that come together, over and over. It’s a circle, you know?
A grand circle, too.
Never forget that circles never end.
Future, past, and today, this moment, all of these are ours—to share.
My Daughter’s Smile is a miracle.

Love, Mom
January 2014

Kenosha, Retirement, Thanksgiving, and Love.

Here’s A Short Writing Prompt from the Mission! Write About Gravel Roads and Gardens….

                                                                    Gravel Roads and Gardens 

I can’t recall the last time I drove down a gravel road.  The mountain roads winding through our Rim of the World communities are primarily paved, and at this time of year, just before winter, they are newly graded and smooth blanketed in black asphalt.  Bright white and yellow lines mark the lanes, carved in divits with standing fog reflectors have been freshly placed to help us stay on the road when the dreaded mountain white-outs appear.  Fog, rain, sleet, falling rocks, and accumulating snow make these precarious roads into a challenging and sometimes deadly course. 

The primary road here is Highway 18, a spectacular ride that climbs up from the valley and traverses locals and visitors up the ridges of the San Bernardino Mountains providing access to the mountain communities ranging from Cedar Pines Park and Valley of Enchantment on the lower elevations up past Crestline with its public Lake Gregory up through Twin Peaks, Lake Arrowhead, Rim Forest, Sky Forest, Running Springs, which brings us to approximately 7,000 feet of elevation.  It doesn’t stop there!  It works its way up past Snow Valley Ski Resort and opens out onto the starkly sensational section of the road known as The Arctic Circle.  It finally reaches the spectacular view of Big Bear Lake at the new damn, and then winds around the lake into Big Bear Village and its environs that contain Bear Valley and Bear Mountain Ski Resorts, and from there the highway heads down the back side of the range into the desert community of Lucerne Valley.

Some of our other, smaller roads, often unmaintained access roads that connect homes built on different elevations in difficult to reach forested mountainsides.  They are narrow, compacted earth, often deeply rutted and littered with fallen tree limbs, trunks, and boulders. Jeeps and Pickups with ploughs attached, are the vehicle of choice for many mountain folk.

In contrast, the roads in the city below are always paved.  They look like an endless parade of glistening fairies beneath us, rolling along in a miniature world.  In reality these city streets and freeways are crowded with SUVs, beat-up looking foreign economy cars, big trucks, squad cars, and busses. 

Gravel roads are from different places, special places.  Civilized country places, I speculate.  There’s the attractive clean fresh white color of the gravel, of course; so often curving appealingly through green grassy lawns and past froggy lily ponds, flowering trees and shrubs, and all the while there’s that wonderful satisfying crunch, crunch, crunch as your car’s rubber tires roll over the rocks, rubbing and crushing, sometimes spitting small hard mouthfuls into the sumac or maples at the edge of the road.   You just know after a drive down a gravel road, there’s a wildly spectacular garden, and some kind of spectacular dwelling around the last curve, be it a mobile home, a mansion, or a vintage cottage… it’s the last house on a gravel road, one that invites the romantic part of you to slow down, say hello, and stay awhile.

©Rachel L Pohlman, 2013

Mission Inn Writing Retreat, Riverside, CA

A Short Writing Prompt from the Mission!

In and Out of the Garden: Literature and History Converge in the Post Holocaust World.