The sky is falling

As a kid, I loved the phrase “raining cats and dogs.”

To me, an animal lover, nothing could be better.

I visualized hundreds of cats and dogs dropping into my backyard - I always pictured a soft landing - and they would all be my loyal and loving pets.

To this day, the joy of that phrase is forever linked to dark wet days.

I love the rain.

Is it any wonder I also love the phrase “the sky is falling”?

This time, it’s linked to wonderfully laughable illustrations in the children’s book where I first read about Chicken Little. At those moments in life where it all seems overwhelming, when the sky is falling on me, I have to smile at the ridiculousness of it all.

Have I turned into the squawking chicken, beak agape, short wings flapping at the world?

Now I have an even better image in my mind, thanks to the artwork of Julie Heffernan, now at the Crocker Art Museum in Sacramento.

In her interpretation, the sky rains rocks and boulders down upon a beautiful defenseless woman. All looks lost for her except for the fact that some of those rocks are precious jewels.

I stood in front of the painting for awhile thinking about this. Being hit by a falling ruby is still going to hurt. Maybe that woman should stop standing there and seek cover. But I don’t think that’s the point the artist is trying to make.

There’s lemonade in those falling lemons. Silver linings. I get it. Heffernan adds another note in this painting that I enjoy. There’s a falling Ganesh, the Hindu god of wisdom and renewal. The elephant god has always been a favorite of mine, and seeing him here promising wisdom and renewal in those falling-sky days is reassuring.

Ah, art. We get to interpret it in our own way. Rocks and elephants, cats and dogs. It’s all good.

Season? What season?

 

Our blank dirt slate of a backyard has been transformed. Water falls from a series of rocky ledges, sod has been unrolled and there are trees, trees, trees! It has the look of a too-perfect haircut straight from the salon right now – not grown in and not styled in a personal way. The shrubs hug the ground and the orange tree is all of two feet high.

After years away from California, it’s been difficult choosing plants for my new yard. My calibration is set for Idaho, which has a short and rather intense growing season, mid-May to mid-September.

Gardens shrivel in October and by November, shrubs turn brown and are hanging onto a few last crispy leaves. Lawns go dormant (no mowing til spring!) and my forest of a yard looks like a nuclear blast has hit.

Every January, I’m convinced -- every single one of my 13 years as an Idahoan -- that the entire yard is dead, only to wake up one May morning to discover the forest has returned.

It’s the annual miracle.

Not so in California. The landscaper laughs at me when I stop him over each plant decision with the question: What is its season? At first, he has no idea what I’m asking so I explain, as to a child: What month will it shrivel up and look like death and when will it come to life again?

He responds slowly, as to a younger and stupider child: It has no “season,” it stays green all year.

I can’t remember a yard that isn’t decimated in winter, that doesn’t have to be mowed at Thanksgiving, that won’t be covered in snow in January.

The selection process is slow as I revel in the choices. All these different plants that will flourish year-round? I happily choose an orange tree, something not to be found in any Idahoan’s backyard.

Azaleas, roses, leafy leggy grasses – a fern, for heaven’s sake. Perrenials here take on a literal meaning – they really will grow all year. The only thing I need to worry about is too much sun, not snow.

The crowning glory is a waterfall, something that will not drip icicles in February or need to be drained and wrapped.

We add in three vegetable boxes and I mull over winter plantings, practically rubbing my hands together in glee.

This morning, a week before Halloween, the roses were reveling in 80-degree days, exploding in new pink and white blooms. I thought about picking a couple and bringing a mini-bouquet inside, but I stopped because, what if this is a fluke? What if these are the only blooms til spring?

Even my usual autumn routine of planting a few more bulbs is different here. The ground is soft and yielding, making the process so much easier than cutting into semi-frozen ground. I have 100 tulips and crocuses to set and the task is done in no time. I’ll return to the store to get more before it’s too late in the season.

It will take me awhile to acclimate. But it’s a fun process.

It's festival-o'clock somewhere

If it’s Saturday, it must be festival time in California.

Let’s run some longhorn steers to the state Capitol for the Farm to Fork Festival.

Head to the San Bernardino mountains to what has to be the only festival held in honor of pinecones.

Celebrate all the vegetables and fruits, from apples to zucchini. Add in lobster, just because. Crawdads in the Delta were a no-brainer, but they 86’d that festival because apparently you can’t eat crawdads without drinking gallons of beer and terrorizing the locals. (Now it's the Cajun Festival – so tame, it barely exists.)

Someday, I’m going to the Earthquake Festival in Winters, because that one makes total sense.

Hard apple cider, apple doughnuts, apple pies at Apple Hill, near Placerville. Still good after all these years.

I’m a sucker for all these festivals. Is there really garlic ice cream? An avocado song?

The craft booths equally horrify and fascinate me. Yeah, I now have a tortilla warmer that will let me instantly steam my tortillas in the microwave AND keep them warm through the dinner hour. (Not yet used, but I feel so much better knowing I have it.)

People-watching and dog-watching are half the attraction. Getting there and seeing new places are part of the fun.

Any excuse for a festival works for me.

The long haul

I’m looking into the back of an empty U-Haul trailer for the umpteenth time over the past few years. Kids’ stuff going to the college dorm, then back, then to an apartment, then back, then to a house, then back, then across a couple of state lines to our new house in California.

We had hoped this latest move would launch at least one of our kids closer to our new location.

Not this time, California. I'm loading the U-Haul again.

I wondered if it was the guy that cut us off on the freeway (okay, there have been more than a dozen of you), the homeless wanderers in the grocery store parking lot, the sushi on that really hot summer day (such a mistake). There was city haze, so-so coffee houses, pushy people in a hurry to get nowhere.

But wait. There was a Giants game, Apple Hill, farmer’s markets, Lake Tahoe, picture-perfect days. What went wrong?

Just a few months after the last haul, I’m driving down a lonely stretch of highway with the U-Haul rattling behind. Could I really feel so positive about a place and my daughter feel so opposite? It hits me that while California tugs at my heart, Idaho tugs at hers.

It’s California’s story – and more so, these days. We’re from other states, other countries and trying to find our place here. Our loyalties are divided and we’re not quite sure where we belong. Can we belong to more than one place?

Minutes across the border into Idaho and I’m looking at a mountain vista that is so beautiful it hurts my eyes. There is a purity in the greens and blues of field and sky that I haven’t seen anywhere else. It draws people and keeps them fiercely loyal. We moved there 13 years ago and I feel a twinge of regret as I see it again.

I stay a week in Boise, visiting and enjoying the friendliness of the place. My eyes keep resting on the hills behind the city. I’m glad my children call this place home. It feels strange to think of the airplane that will take me home, somewhere else, to California.

It’s a crisp morning that ushers in my last day in Idaho. My favorite furry vest feels soft and comforting, and I’m reflective as I watch the city of Boise disappear from view far below.

The plane crosses the last of the Sierra and dips into the long valley that snakes through the middle of the state. Checkerboard fields come into view, green sprouting up from the flooded squares and some are golden, their season completed. Black swarms of birds rise and fall as one. I've always loved this sight.

I used to joke that I was a Cali-hoan – half Californian, half Idahoan – and I realize it’s now true. But divided loyalties like this aren’t bad. I know lots of people who talk wistfully of the places they’ve left, but don’t want to return. Their decision has been made to make a new place their home.

My husband greets me at the airport. He looks a little worried as he asks, “Glad to be back?”

I shrug off my fuzzy-lined vest as the warmth of the day hits me. I don’t hesitate in responding.

“Yes.”