A Nose Between Two Storms

(Two actually, but where is the fun in that title?)

Good thing we hunkered down:  The pass on which this campground nestles received three inches of rain in thirty-six hours. 

The first storm rolled in with high winds and pouring rain for twenty-four hours; the Noses and I were outside for a total of fifteen minutes.  The force of the storm was aimed at Beagle’s front door; getting outside was difficult and being outside nearly impossible.  With the Noses leashed I opened the door about four inches before the wind yanked it from my hand and slammed it against Beagle’s side.  Rain came flying in, drenching everything from my bed to the stove. 

Opus refused to go out a second time.

The morning following the first storm dawned bright and sunny but the weather map showed the second storm would be hitting within three short hours.  Time to prioritize!  First off, mental health and well-being.  Thankfully terriers and I agree that mental health starts with physical exertion.  After wolfing down one piece of peanut butter toast and guzzling a cup of coffee, I leashed up the Noses and off we went.

First stop was the dog park where Opus, rather than racing around, chose to dig after the moles.  It is delightful to witness him doing what he was bred for; his single-minded intent to kill is always astonishing.  None-the-less, I stopped this earlier than usual since my need for physical exertion would not be satisfied by using my eyes alone.  

We walked down to the lake shore where I decided to let them off leash.  I had two reasons:  Other than the one night that Opus got loose in the campground, he has been excellent at returning on command; and I cannot run with them on a leash.  The trail ahead was an old road, relatively flat and I could not wait to sprint until my legs hurt and my lungs felt like bursting. 

The Noses took off, Opus quickly sticking his head down a hole and digging away.  River and I raced along the road running as fast as we could, whistling for Opus now and again.  Sure enough, after a minute or so a white blur raced by—Opus, completely horizontal to the ground, all four legs stretched out as far as they could go until they had to meet, briefly touching the ground, to keep the streak alive.  It makes me laugh every single time.

After three and a half miles we returned to Beagle where the Noses could sit outside while I took care of Priority #2:  Cleanliness.  I vacuumed out Beagle, washed the floor, then set about washing my hair and having a delightful sponge bath.  (Not enough water for a shower given my four night hunker-fest and I was sure to emerge filthier from the showers in the campground.)

Refreshed and lunched we walked another two miles simply because it was only sprinkling.

Later, sitting inside Beagle, frustrated at not being able to complete a Fidelity transaction online, I decided to head into the Fidelity office in Santa Barbara.  It was only twenty minutes away and what the heck, it was raining.  So off we went, enjoying Wurzig without Beagle on the curve-filled road down to Santa Barbara.

Usually my interactions with Fidelity representatives are excellent; I find them to be knowledgeable and well coached in customer service.   I anticipated a quick interaction.  The (very) young lady was friendly enough although she quickly exhibited a pet peeve of mine:  She was a “we” person.  As in, “How are we today?”, or “Oh, I see we are from Washington, are we enjoying our vacation?”

Practicing tolerance and adaptability, I decided to let the decimation of the English language float right on by.  I also declined to get involved in the story of my life; I was still hoping this was going to be quick and you all know my story is not a quick one.

I clearly stated my issue:  A form I should be able to submit online was not working.  She clearly thought I didn’t know what I was talking about.  She insisted that we try it online together. 

Tolerance.  Adaptability.  Fine.

Click, click, click.

        “Oh, I see we cannot do this transaction online, we will have to fill out the form, print it and mail it to the main office.” 

She begins to fill out the form online, asking me questions now and again.

“Do we want to use the amortization method or the life expectancy method?”  Tolerance.

“What address are we going to use?”  Tolerance.

         “Are we married?”

This one did me in.  Looking at her with a twinkle in my eye, and in the nicest tone possible, I replied, “I am pretty sure if you married me you would remember it.”

She looked puzzled, “I have to ask the question, it is a Federal requirement for the form.”

          “I understand that you have to ask the question, but how you ask it is…odd.”

She still looked puzzled.

          “You say, “we” when you just mean “you”; as in, how are we today?  Versus how are you today?”

At this point her eyes went from triumphant (she really is stupid!) to pity in two point five seconds.  She put on her excellent Fidelity Customer Service face and, in a sing-song voice, said, “I am sorry you don’t understand the question.  I need to know whether we are married in order to complete the form.”

Good grief.

          “I am not married.  I do not know about you.”  My entire being now devoid of twinkle. 

Suddenly being stuck alone in Beagle through another rain storm sounded heavenly.

Hours later, somewhere in the pitch-black night I woke to Beagle shaking and the continual crashing sound of a waterfall.  The second storm.  At first I could not figure out where I was and began to panic.  Realizing I was in Beagle and that she was holding up ok did little to calm my racing heart.  It was, frankly, unnerving.  The force of the water hitting the side felt like a fire hose was being aimed across Beagle, sending a jet of water from one end to the other, causing her to shake.  I was thankful Beagle, like all Airstreams, is unusually heavy.  

It lasted for hours.  Both dogs were on me; Opus between my knees and River curled as tight as she could next to my side.  I calmed down.  

We were warm and dry; I was content.

-K

And Again Now

Having reached an understanding about the roles of Fate and Free Will in my life I have decided to move on (figuratively and literally as it turns out.)  Two other topics have kept my mind busy over the last few months, one I call Pixilization (not to be confused with pixilation which can refer to “a state of being crazy or confused” although you might end up there) and the other, Dreams as Reality.  Pixilization will have to wait, first up is Dreams as Reality.

But not quite yet.  I know some of you like to know where I am when I am writing; I am sitting at Cachuma Lake Recreation Area just outside of Santa Barbara off Highway 154.  You might remember that I drove this road about a month ago on my way up to Morro Bay.  I love this area:  Rolling green hills (green in the winter around here), farms, orchards, vineyards, an occasional glimpse of the ocean and usually blue skies.  But no blue skies today—there is a monster storm rolling in so the noses and I are tucked into a pitch, hooked up to electric and delightfully alone in an enormous campground adjacent to a lake.  

As I mentioned last time, I decided to stop living like a poor college student.  I think Darlene was a bit sad about me taking off but her daughter, Kat agreed it was probably best.  Easier for them to move things out of the house without having to worry about Opus attacking Kiki (their cat.)  A glass door thwarted their mutual charge on at least one occasion.  (I hate to admit that Kiki jumped against the glass with paws forward while Opus lunged head first.)  

I left this morning in the pouring rain.  Yep, multiple trips from my bedroom to Beagle, everything getting soaking wet.  I was getting a bit grumpy with the whole endeavor but then thought, “Somewhere tonight (I had no idea where) I will be tucked into Beagle with the heater going and a gin coming”, and that made it all better.  I do love my Beagle—nothing makes me feel more like me than sitting in Beagle, laptop on my lap desk, herbal tea on the table, writing to you.

Initially I was just going to drive twelve or so miles and stop for the night in San Luis Obispo at my favorite hook up site (El Chorro County Park) hunkering down to ride out the two-day storm.  El Chorro’s dog park is handy when it is pouring rain—both dogs do their business much faster when they can run free.  But after drying out while sharing a coffee with Kat at Top Dog, my sense of adventure returned.  Plus, I remembered that it was Monday and Bob’s Well Bread Bakery in Los Alamos would be open, conveniently located off the 101 and before my exit for Cachuma.  Done.

I ate lunch at Bob’s and grabbed a baguette, a pain au chocolat and a blackberry lemon curd pastry to help me weather the storm.  Nothing says Storm Fun like butter encrusted pastries; you can see now why I am so content.  The wind outside is picking up, I am looking forward to the storm, to playing music as loud as I want and to hearing the rain on Beagle's roof.  And, of course, to the butter encrusted pastries.

Enough pleasure, let’s get down to business.  Dreams as Reality.  

In life we have memories of past experiences, these memories can cause us pain or pleasure and no one doubts their importance in making us part of who we are.  I posit that experiences we have while dreaming are just as important as waking moments in our development as humans; dreams create emotions, reactions, and memories and therefore shape who we are.

Take a moment and think of a dream you had, one that produced some kind of strong emotion (good or bad.)

Do you feel your body reacting?  Is there a slight smile because your dream was sweet?  Is there anxiety in the pit of your stomach because your dream was frightening?  Why should this be any less important than an experience you had while awake?  What if experiencing life while asleep was just as valuable as experiencing life while awake?  Who is to say that they are different?  In a dream you can feel just as elated or scared as you can in a waking moment and yet dreams so often get dismissed as inconsequential experiences.

When I think of a wonderful dream that brought me joy, I treat it like a memory derived while awake.  And again now, I can feel the joy, it feels real, that memory has a consequence in my life; it reveals something that makes me happy.

I feel I may have lost some of you but I am not alone in pondering this.  Robert Lanza, M.D., (an actual doctor not just some woman touring around in her Airstream) wrote about the topic in his paper, ‘Are Dreams an Extension of Physical Reality?’ published online by the Huffington Post.  (I found this after my writing and included it as proof that I am not in a state of pixilation.)

Perhaps just sleep on it.

-K

PS:  The picture is from my apartment in Seattle.  I flew up and did a gut check on living in the city for the winter versus Morro Bay.  As delightful as my apartment is, Morro wins.  But I will miss that view.

The Love Affair Continues

Normally I would take a bit of sadistic pleasure in leaving you wondering what happened between RG and me.  But, because the reason for us not seeing each other anymore is the same reason we saw each other to begin with, and said reason is a primary driver of this trip, I have decided to share a bit more. 

If you have been reading along, you know that we started dating mostly because I took a giant breath of free will and, as my brother so eloquently said, hunted RG down.  As I wrote, he was not trying to ditch me and, even better, was happy that I had found him.  What I did not tell you was how he chose to spend his time while I was busy tracking him down.

He took a nap.

Yep, he was saddened by the fact that I was apparently not going to contact him for dinner and, instead of, oh I don’t know, driving to the two campgrounds in Morro Bay looking for a red Cayenne towing an Airstream (utilizing the few facts he knew about me), he decided fate had dealt the cards and he took a nap.

We came to laugh about this over the short course of our involvement but, in the end, it was his fatalistic approach to life versus my free will approach that ultimately closed the door.

Having both been runners out of relationships in our pasts (with my one exception being Alan, of course) we would often joke about who would run out the door first.   RG once noted that we could end up running at the same time and, like a scene from The Three Stooges, get crammed into the door frame, legs and arms flailing, stuck together.  That appealed to both of us; the getting stuck together.

As it happened, following a civil conversation on our different approaches to life, both of us heavy with disbelief and disappointment, he held the door while I walked through.  There are some things about growing older that are nice; knowing what works for you is one of them.

Of course, the fatalist would read these stories and just see Fate.  The fatalist might say it was Fate that made me put his telephone number incorrectly into my phone and therefore Fate ultimately won because we did not stay together.  Silly Kit, thinking she could use Free Will to make things different.

But I would not change a thing.  Having rediscovered the pleasure of experiencing life with another person last summer, I am happy to report the trend continued.  In less than four weeks I had three perfect moments in time.  Moments when I stopped to appreciate life through my human senses:  The touch of another person; the smell of warm dirt; the sight of a star filled night; the sound of dogs quietly playing; a taste of contentment.  This time I mentioned the moments as they occurred and RG was right there with me.  We knew how fortunate we were.

So sorry Fate, you don’t get to call this a win.  Without Free Will my one precious life would be decidedly less precious.  It is the combination of the two that makes life so interesting:  I may believe Fate will give me what it gives me but I know how much fun I have in between is entirely up to me.

In other news, my new neighbors invited me and the seller over to dinner a few nights ago.  Darlene and I ended up sitting next to each other at the table and, when someone asked how long it took to sell her house, we immediately leaned into each other, hugging with one arm, heads bent together, as Darlene said, “Just long enough to find Kit.”

-K

PS:  I have decided not to live like a poor college student anymore.  After a brief visit to Seattle, I will be hitching up the Beagle and heading out for two weeks until Kismit is truly mine.  Darlene has been incredibly gracious but I think it best to give her the freedom to completely enjoy her home; it is not an easy thing she is doing. 

A Moveable Target - Opus' Version

One evening I returned to the Beagle to find three tents, two cots and five young children clamoring around my pitch.  Had this been the middle of summer, I would not have been surprised.  But the campground was mostly empty; why was this group of apparently three families crammed right next to me?

Trying to stave off a bad mood, I said hello to them as I entered Beagle and they gave me a cheery hello in response.  In campground life, it is important to make that first connection immediately.  If you see each other a few times before saying hello then a tension builds that is difficult to overcome.  

From what I have experienced, campers come in two types:  The type who camp to get away from it all and will rarely say hello (yours truly) and those who camp to be more social.

It appears my neighbors camp to be more social.  The three families shared time around a campfire (four feet from Beagle, filling my environment with a constant stream of smoke) or playing the game where you attempt to toss a bean bag into a hole.  Clearly not a very talented group, I was treated to the thump, thump, thump of the bags hitting the boards; a nice break from the almost constant shriek of children.

Around 10:00 PM (standard quiet hours in a campground) my patience with it all was beginning to wane.  In a vain attempt to drown out the kids, I had turned up my podcast to the point I felt Sam Harris was yelling at me (he and I have enough issues without yelling at each other) but the turning point was when I heard the kids running between Beagle and Wurzig; entering another person’s pitch, even if yours is less than five feet away, is a social faux pas.

Trying to keep my smoke-agitated voice friendly and my temper in check, I opened my door a crack to ask the kids to play somewhere else.

Opus raced out the door.

Free at last to chase the squirrels he had been watching for days while tied to Beagle.

River went into hysterics. 

It was pitch black.

I changed out of my pajamas.

Every so often you could see a white blur jetting from one bush to the next.  I knew there was no way to catch him but wanted to alert other campers in case he found his way into their pitch.  I leashed up River and walked around to a few sites where people were outside enjoying a campfire.

River continued to whine and cry.

People decided to help.  As you may recall, in catching Opus there is no help.  So despite me saying it won’t work, soon there were three people out with flashlights trying to corner Opus. 

Cornering Opus in a Campground; just when he thought there wasn’t a better game than Chasing Opus in a Dog Park.

Then a lady decided to bring out her German Shepherd as a lure.  Sure enough, Opus began to circle around the Shepherd, barking manically, as the lady kept walking toward the Beagle.  River, who was tied up, began to sound like something out of the Hound of the Baskervilles; howling, crying, sounding like she was being tortured. 

Nothing quiet about these hours; no one was sleeping now.

Eventually I convinced the woman to take her dog back home.

After a good hour of racing around Opus appeared at the back of Beagle.  I had been sitting outside, bundled up against the cold, occasionally squeezing his favorite toy.  He stared at me, panting, from fifteen feet away.

My neighbors had just grilled some chicken and tried to grab Opus when he came over for a bite.  They made the mistake of giving him the chicken without grabbing his collar first.  Classic dine and dash.

They gave me a piece and Opus followed me to Beagle’s door.  He would not come in but he did sit still while I walked up to him, grabbed his collar and fed him chicken.  Just like he planned.

***

That was one of my final nights in a campground.  As I write this, I am sitting inside my room at Kismit, the house soon to be mine.   My door opens to the back yard (delightfully Opus proof) a combination of pavers, grass and ornamental plants including a fig tree.  I walk through the yard to cook my meals in Beagle while the noses chase each other around.  Half the time I cannot believe my good fortune and the other half I find it odd that I am basically living like a poor college student.

The house closing has moved up a few days to January 29^th, Kismit passed inspection with flying colors.  I am anxious to get to work on upgrades but am trying to keep a low profile; I have been the seller with an excited buyer before and it is difficult to see someone else making plans for your house.   I pick up paint and flooring samples and hide them in my room.

The noses and I are working out our routines; the six mile round trip walk into town only happens about three times a week—it is a little tiring for River.  The three mile round trip to the dog park happens on the other days, every evening we walk to the beach and watch the sun say goodnight.  Today is my first day to drop in on the tennis group—turns out I did have the wrong courts on that fateful day in 2018.

As most of you know, the click of a digit is not an impetus for me to change perspective.  But driving into Morro Bay on New Year's Day, with the rock and the smoke stacks standing before the shimmering sea, I was struck by it actually being 2019 and then was immediately filled with a quiet, peaceful joy.

-K

PS:  Dairy report:  Butter and Parmesan cheese have made it back into my diet.  It takes so little of them to make broccoli taste extraordinary I figured it was worth it.  I did have an ice cream on New Year's Eve, it was sweet and delicious and I treasured every minute; it will be a long time before I taste that again.