Wired

I’m writing this next to 20 of my new closest friends. We are at a writing/creative collective – sort of a shared artist studio for writers.

Long tables are in the rooms along with white boards and banks of sockets where we plug in our laptops. In the back is plenty of hot coffee, tea and a microwave. Cell phone talk is adamently discouraged.

I’ve spent hours here recently and likely will spend hours more. I happily ignore my friends and tap away at my keyboard listening to the music of others tapping away at theirs.

With an office at home, why wouldn’t I work there? There’s electricity, coffee and all the quiet I could desire.

I used to think it was just the lattes that drew me to cafes to write. A little reward for getting something done. Then I found I was getting a lot done.

Others have shared with me that it’s too quiet at home, laundry to be done, a dog to be petted – so many minor distractions that it’s impossible to work in solitude. But put them in a café – with an espresso machine roaring in the background, people coming and going, music in the background – and they have a laser focus. This is true for me.

At the studio, even as we ignore each other, there’s a collective agreement we’ve made that we’ll be working on our individual projects.

This writing group, linked through an internet site called Meetup, has nearly 200 members and all we do is get together and write. Sometimes we meet at the collaborative, sometimes in coffee shops, in groups of two to 20. The internet has turned the most solitary task of writing into a crowd activity.

There are poets, novelists, doctoral candidates, bloggers, PR professionals and songwriters. It’s an interesting assortment. Our conversations drift from writer’s block to word count to publishing tips.

Many people are new to the area too. We share our stories of arrival and, somehow, this makes me feel more grounded in my new home.

Sunday in the park

May-November romance

It’s a beautiful late spring day, the kind that hints that summer is just around the corner. The morning’s cool start has burned off under a warm sun and my short walk has me thinking about iced tea in the shade.

But wait. This isn’t May. It’s mid-November. What the heck.

No wonder I’m confused. Back in Idaho, they’re celebrating the season’s first snowfall. Fireplaces are lit, trees have already blazed fiery red and orange and now are bare, and windows are shut tight til spring. The real spring. Which arrives in May when nighttime temperatures finally rise above freezing.

Here, the locals call this autumn, even though the trees have scarcely put any color on. The leaves, so used to long months of warmth, can only muster a resentful sickly yellow and dull rust before fluttering to the ground. My rose bush has bloomed again, thumbing its nose at the calendar.

Moving to a new state and a new climate zone changes how you live. While that seems obvious, the living of it is something else altogether. I walk to the mailbox without pulling on the fleece. Keep my sunglasses nearby. Ignore my sock drawer – it’s still sandals weather. Lunch at outdoor cafes.

My closet full of coats, cozied up to an equal number of scarves, made perfect sense in a state where there’s a progression of cold that ultimately goes bone-deep.

There are chilly days, cold days, snowy days, freezing blustery days, and unbelievably bone-chilling there-is-no-coat-warm-enough-days. Still, if I were still in Idaho, I’d join everyone else in looking forward to a good snow. Bring it on.

But now 600 miles away, I whittled my coat collection down to half a dozen, but only one is needed here. 

One light coat that is waterproof, living a lonely life in the closet.

Out with the snow shovels, out with the hats that cover my ears, out with the long underwear. I don’t even want to think about my poor boots, already missing companions tossed out in the move.

This is going to free up an awful lot of closet space.

How long do the comparisons of one home to another last? When will this just be November -- not 30 degrees-warmer-than-Idaho November? At what point is a new normal achieved?

Discovering Hidden Falls

It’s a dusty dry day in the foothills, somewhere north of Auburn. The sun has us stripping off our light fleece by 9:30 a.m. and we go bare-armed to the trailhead. I hadn’t thought about a hat when we left home, and I’m already regretting this.

I’m laughing at this bizarre California weather. This is November?

We arrived at Hidden Falls Regional Park after a winding drive through beautiful mountainous wine country and farms dotted with alpacas and goats. GPS is the only reason we made it here, guiding us through turn after turn until signs for the park finally show up.

The goal for the next few hours is walking the oak-studded hills and enjoying the discovery of what’s around the next bend. Of course, our top goal is to see the falls. I’ve heard that because of severe drought conditions, the falls won’t have much water.

The park is huge, encompassing miles of trails over rolling hills and filled with more than two dozen hikes of all lengths and for all ability levels. There’s even a concrete trail that is accessible for wheelchairs, but moderate and difficult trails are to be found here too. Trails branch off from other trails, which branch off again. We quickly find that we could be out here for a few days wandering from trail to trail. It’s best to have a plan and know the trailmap.

A trickle of water can be heard as we cross over Deadman’s Creek, hinting that there may be a vista at the end of our journey. It’s a half-mile flat walk to the falls from the trailhead, but that would be too easy, right? We are with a group and the leader takes the scenic route. So many paths to choose from – Great Egret, Pond Turtle, Grey Pine, Seven Pools Vista, River Otter – all well-marked along the way.

Our group discusses the fact that California does a first-rate job with its parks and trails. It's a priority here to maintain its scenic treasures. Parks are clean, trails are easy to follow, and they don't overpromise. If the marker says there's a vista, it's probably a good one.

Soon enough, we see Coon Creek, take the Seven Pools Loop and then stomp up and over the hill. My black tennis shoes are coated brown from the powdery soil, so dry that it drifts up and sticks to my jeans nearly to my knees.

No bobcat sightings today but a few hawks circle lazily above. Water bottles are quickly emptying and my throat is gritty from the dirt. We pass quickly through a thicket of bright red Manzanita bushes, and then round a corner.

Hidden Falls are revealed.

Water tumbles down over a series of low rocky ledges and the sound fills the narrow canyon. It's not spectacular but it's satisfying. A generous-sized viewing platform easily accommodates our group plus the constant stream of other hikers. The sound of water is cooling and I gratefully sink to the wooden flooring. Before long, more than 25 people and a few dogs are relaxing on the platform, eating lunch and enjoying a sun-sparkled afternoon.

Do I really need to go back? No one except our leader wants to move, but he has put on his backpack. Our group rises in achy protest (or is that just me?). Before long, we have swung into stride, making our way back to the full parking lot. It seems this is a popular place.

Surely we have hiked round the park several times but our leader points out our trek on a large hiking map that shows the park. We have circumnavigated about a tenth of the park.

This seems like a great place to see in late spring for wildflowers and larger water flows. It would be worth the return journey.

Bountiful boxes

I’m just old enough to remember when the milkman would drop bottles of milk off at the front door. The small bottles would clank together as he set them down and I would run to the door, wanting to see him climb back into his white truck. How exciting that milk had arrived!

Wow. Looong time ago.

This morning, my husband opened the front door and brought in a box. Fruit and vegetables had arrived! It was our bi-monthly box from Farm Fresh to You, an organic grower that we’re trying.

Inside today’s box are persimmons, pears, lettuce and kale. One large leek. Small red potatoes. A bunch of peppery radishes. Fuzzy kiwi. The bounty is lush and beautiful. We have a discussion: Do you like persimmons? Hmmm, not so much. The kale is great though. Haven’t cooked leeks in awhile. We examine and assess.

I had the option of going online before delivery, checking the week’s options and making deletions and adjustments. Instead, I prefer the Christmas-like excitement of opening the box and discovering what is in season. Part of the attraction to these delivery services, for me, is the challenge: What will I do with those persimmons? (A recipe in the box suggests persimmon crisps – slice them thin, sprinkle with cinnamon, bake til crispy.)

The leek will instigate an online treasure hunt for recipes, taking me outside my usual repertoire. I overdosed on kale in the last couple of years so hadn’t bought any recently. Seeing it here is welcomed and I find I’m ready to have it again. This time I will fry some onions and bacon together, then add the kale (first draining off the bacon fat) and sauté together thoroughly until the kale wilts and softens.

Twenty years ago, when I first moved to Sacramento, we belonged to a vegetable delivery co-op. My kids were little then but they still remember the excitement of those boxes and pulling out sun-dried tomatoes, small melons and green beans. Apples went into their lunch boxes and they were curious about trying fried eggplant. It instilled in them a sense of discovering new foods. I didn’t care if they didn’t like something – as long as they tried it first. Caught up in exploration, they gave things a try.

Ever since, we’ve belonged to various co-ops, sometimes organic, sometimes not. Over the years, the options have expanded. Now, with the organic trend and people talking about “Farm to Fork,” there are lots of co-ops.

I’m happy with the quantity and quality of what I’m seeing with Farm Fresh to You. For just the two of us, the cost isn’t an issue. For less than the cost of a dinner out, we have a healthy amount of fruits and veggies for a week or more. I will still supplement with other items from the grocery store or farmers’ markets – cucumber and red bell pepper for a salad, carrots and onions for a leek soup – but the box has inspired several more healthy meals than I would have otherwise cooked.

Still, I’m curious about the other services and how they stack up so I’m likely to switch from Farm Fresh to You, not because I’m unhappy -- far from it -- but for the sake of exploration.

Isn’t that part of the Foodie movement? Seek, explore, discover, taste?