I Own A Yellow Journal

It is so rare in life that you get the opportunity to knowingly appreciate a pleasant experience for the last time; humans are good at thinking the good stuff is just going to keep on coming.  Recognizing the last of a bad experience is much easier, “I will never taste Campari again.”  You can reasonably be sure that, if you don’t like something, then you will recognize when you are experiencing it for the last time.  But the delightful experiences?  Not so easy to see when those are coming to an end.   Over the last two weeks I was determined to focus on this being the last Beagle trip and found such attention helped me to appreciate the small comforts she affords as well as occasionally providing a much-needed shift in perception.  Of course, there was a great deal of Kitness evident as well.

I believe I last wrote to you from Cachuma Lake, where the Noses and I had hunkered down through four days of epic rainfall.  All told, over six inches of rain fell on the pass where we were located; roads were blocked due to mud slides and a few areas even had mandatory evacuations.  Consequently, it was with some trepidation that I decided, at the last minute and without any Googling, to take the long, back-road way to Ojai.

This was my kind of camping!  Back to driving 100 miles or less, getting into camp early enough for a long walk with the Noses before a hot shower and an iced cocktail.  The few hours it took me to get through Ojai and into the KOA outside of Venture were delightful; I enjoyed the blue sky meeting the top of the rolling, green hills and the tourist-packed Ojai village.  I could see where the mud had blocked many of the roads, the signs of scraping still evident.  But thankfully I had no problem reaching my destination.  And, after four days of quick sponge baths, I thoroughly enjoyed the clean, hot, token free KOA shower. 

I am not a fan of RV parks or KOA’s but this is a nice one; well organized, not too big, helpful staff.  When I pulled into my assigned pitch there was a giant mud puddle through which the dogs would have to cross in order to enter Beagle.  That would not do.  As Kitness would have it, a roving KOA ranger was checking out Beagle and I asked him if I could change pitches.  He immediately radioed the office and determined that I could move a few pitches down—the current occupants were leaving unexpectedly.  And it was ideal:   Beagle sat on a hill with her door opening toward the edge, overlooking the much more crowded area below. 

Two nights there and we were ready to move on.  Forgetting that it was a holiday weekend, I headed to Emma Woods State Beach, where I had camped in early December.  I knew it was a popular campground on the weekends but figured I would be fine as it was Sunday.   I pulled in and greeted the ranger who remembered me from before (another joy of Beagle); it was crowded, he wasn’t sure there was room for me as two-thirds of the campground was missing now (due to the storms eating away at the coastline) but he assured me that I would have enough room to turn around if I couldn’t find a spot.   I took a breath and headed in.

The campground is just one long, narrow road along the ocean.  To the left is a hill and then train tracks and to your right are the few remaining pitches, just a few feet from the crashing waves.

I decided to pull into the first spot I saw, got Beagle backed in, hopped out to check level and realized that I was crammed between two giant fifth-wheels with all their bump-outs bumped out; one with a generator running.  I looked longingly down the road.  And then I saw someone pulling out of my original pitch from months ago.  Number 17!  The last one on the edge so that, instead of Beagle’s front door opening into someone’s bump-out, it would open to a view south along the shore-line.  Kitness prevails once again. 

It was a loud two nights with the waves crashing on the rocks just behind us, occasionally sending ocean spray against Beagle’s rear door.  Not even the Noses wanted to be outside despite the warm sunshine, so after our long morning walks, we hopped inside Beagle, left the screen doors open and enjoyed the cave-like comfort as the sun streamed through the windows and I caught up on my reading.  (The picture above was taken from there.)

I finally started Homo Deus - A Brief History of Tomorrow, the book I purchased following Sam Harris’s interview with the author, Yuval Noah Harari; you may remember it was the interview that ended most of my dairy digestion.  What a phenomenal book:  Not only due to what he has to say which is well-written, entertaining and provocative, but also the book itself.  The pages are thick and slightly glossy, making it a joy to highlight and leave notes in the margins.  The whole experience makes me happy to be human.

My original plan was to stop next in Mugu State Park, just an hour or so south of Emma Woods.  After a brief stop in Oxnard to wash the salt spray off of Beagle, I jumped on Highway 1.   Much like its northern cousin, this portion of Highway 1 winds along a cliff but we eventually dropped down to sea level.  Coming around a curve, I could see the campground ahead; it too had been ransacked by the storms, mounds of sand were competing with the RV’s lined up next to the ocean.  I didn’t even stop, all three of us were tired of the crashing surf and Beagle was free of salt.  Plus, it was early in the day and I knew I could make it to Laguna Beach by three; I only needed a bit more Kitness as I was showing up two days early for my reservation at what is always a busy campground.

Not only could they fit me in, but I was able to spend two nights in the same pitch as my reservation, so I didn’t have to move Beagle for five nights.  The weather was sunny and warm, I knew where the dog park was, the dog wash, the best huevos rancheros and all cotton t-shirts.   There is a lot about Laguna that still feels like home but I appreciate it much more now that I only pay $45 per night.

Alas, the weekend came and the campground, like all southern California campgrounds I have been in, became Party Central.  One night I was sitting outside enjoying a cocktail at sunset when a couple pulled in below me.  (The campground sits on a hill so each row of pitches has a beautiful ocean view.)  They proceeded to set up not just the ordinary things like camp chairs and coolers, but also gas fired heat lamps.  Plural.  Then they did the unthinkable:  They fired up their generator (at sunset!) and drove off in their truck.  Drove off, leaving the rest of us to listen to that horrible sound.

After five minutes I walked down to their pitch.  I wasn’t sure if both people had left, so I knocked on their door.  No response.  I stood for a moment looking at the generator then I leaned down and turned it off.

There was a short applause from my fellow purists.

I had just made it back to my gin when the couple returned, looked a bit puzzled, shrugged, and fired up their generator again.  Ahh well.

Once the sun went down the partying began.  I was sandwiched between two large groups, one had three tents and three cars crammed into a one-tent spot and the other had two tents and an Airstream.  Both sets proceeded to get high and drunk and, around nine, the pure tent group began to sing.

Rather than get frustrated (you can’t really get mad, quiet hours aren’t until ten and then are rarely enforced) I reminded myself how good a Friday night could feel when you had been working all week.  Remember that feeling?  That ahhh, like the last day of school.  I miss that about working; how well it defined Not Working.  I gave up trying to read and decided to watch some Mrs. Maisel while I enjoyed the sounds of happiness.

My last day in Laguna was supposed to be spent with my brother and girlfriend but my Kitness was in short supply; while driving out of camp a terrible metal on metal grating noise began emanating from my right front wheel.  I stopped on the campground road, looked under the car, into the wheel well, couldn’t see anything.  Tried to go again.  Even worse.  The sound so bad people were coming out of their sites to see what was going on.

A man came up to see if he could be of any help.  We discussed the issue and decided it would be better to leave Wurzig where it was and call a tow truck.  He had AAA and would call them from his RV.  Once he left I realized that I had Porsche Roadside Assistance, so I set off to find him, Noses in tow.  After knocking on the wrong RV door, I found him already talking to Porsche.  He realized, given the year of Wurzig, that it must be covered and he was right. 

Eventually the tow truck showed up.  A male chauvinist like I have not seen in years.  Some kind of eastern European giant with cold blue eyes and a thick accent.  I explained the sound.

               “I think maybe you drive with parking brake on.”

You can imagine how well that went over.

               “No.”  Was my short reply; my green eyes now equally cold.

He set about hooking up Wurzig’s rear to the tow line and began to pull it up the ramp.  There was no grating sound.  I asked him to stop, unhook the car and let me drive it forward a bit. 

No grating sound.

               “I think maybe you had rock stuck on rotor.”

               “Yes.”

And so my last day in Laguna was spent dealing with Wurzig; I opted to drive it over to Porsche and get their opinion.  They agreed it was no longer a problem. 

But what was a problem all of a sudden was living on the road.  When something goes wrong with your tow vehicle you are stuck and it is a terrible feeling, particularly for someone like me.  I have had enough.

The next day we made it all the way back to Morro Bay, complete with a stop at Bob’s Well Bread Bakery (again!) where, after standing in line for twenty minutes, I snagged the last lemon curd tart (Kitness returned!), a pain au chocolat and a loaf of fig, raisin and walnut bread.  I also had a nice chat with Bob who agreed with me that Thursdays in the bakery are much more fun than crowded Sundays but he hoped it would get better now that he was opening a store in Ballard. 

“Ballard?!  As in Seattle’s Ballard?”  Talk about Kitness!

“No, Ballard, California.”

Ahh well.

So here we are, in the Morro Bay State Park Campground, a few nights away from sleeping in Kismit.  If you have enjoyed this blog, take note—you are experiencing this for the last time.  It is time to settle in for a while, get to work on the house and back to work on my book.  (It is still my intention to camp with Beagle while going to and from Seattle but the first of those trips won’t be until May.)

Thank you for reading and for the kind comments.

-K

PS:  Some of you know my love of the Ciak journals, I have made my way through at least three of them now.  On my last trip up to Seattle (the only place I can find them for sale in person), I purchased two more, one for myself and one for a friend.  They only had two colors left, orange and yellow.  I chose the lesser of two evils for myself and enjoyed a private joke in sending the orange one to its owner.  I would never have thought I would own a yellow journal.  Or a house.  Welcome to 2019.

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.

A Moveable Target - Kit’s Version

I realize that I left you all with a giant, “But what happened?” after my recent post so let me try and fill you in.

When I last wrote, I was at El Capitan State Beach where the wind had just blown Wurzig’s door into the back of my legs causing me to spill drinking water down my shirt.  That, after my lovely morning in the campground shower.  I am happy to say, life has turned around nicely since then.

As usual, I came to enjoy my spot at El Capitan:  The pitch was at the top of a hill, Beagle’s nose faced south-west down the coastline and the front door opened to a grassy field drawing your eye out to the sparkling ocean.  It was delightful.  The campground was almost empty and so on Day 2 I cranked up the music while doing the dishes.  When Uptown Funk came on, I took my speaker outside and danced for the squirrels and dolphins atop the sun-filled grass, cooled by the ocean breeze.

Being gone only two nights I had plenty of water for a shower at the end of Day 2.  I heated up the hot water and, when finished with the dishes, climbed into Beagle’s shower.  After the campground showers, it is nice to climb into Beagle's; although small, it is perfectly clean and when I step out I am stepping onto my cute navy bathmat and not some barely-clean (if you are lucky) tile  floor.  So I was well prepared for an enjoyable experience.  Even enough water to shave my legs (and you know how important that is to me.)

So I hopped in, washed my hair and began to shave my legs.  Decided I should start with the opposite leg than the other day.  That proved wise as I had only completed one when, yep, I ran out of hot water.  (I had forgotten that I had run it while doing the dishes.)

And so, to answer your burning question, that is how my other leg came to be shaved.

***

After my nights in El Capitan, I pulled Beagle up to El Charro, a county park outside of San Luis Obispo, and into a full hook up site.  I took everything out of Beagle, vacuumed, washed, cleaned, felt like a new person, and then moved the following day back to my dry pitch (no hook ups) at Morro Bay State Park. 

Here Beagle sat alone for two nights while the noses and I enjoyed the Skyview Motel in Los Alamos where I took at least five token-free showers.  If you are ever in the area, make a trip to stay there:  You feel like a movie star walking around it is so low-profile elegant.  A delightful place to stay and, if in town, visit Bob’s Well Bread Bakery where you will likely meet Bob himself working the register.  I went there three times in one day; after the first time, with a twinkle in his eye, he refused to turn the terminal toward me, thwarting my ability to leave a tip.  People like that make life fun and a mere twenty-four hours later I met two more.

Two nights in a hotel was just what I needed and I was happy as can be driving back up into Morro Bay.  As I saw the Highway 1 sign directing me off the 101, I had an overwhelming feeling of coming home.  I drove to my favorite coffee place, and thought, “This could be my coffee place.”  Almond latte in hand, I headed to the dog park so Opus and River could run; they are great hotel dogs, but didn’t get a lot of exercise so I knew they needed some freedom to race.

While at the dog park I felt the calendar alarm buzz on my phone and looked down; a reminder of an open house.  About a week ago while hiking along the coast (picture above) I thought to myself, Who in their right mind wouldn't live here if they possibly could?  Maybe I should see what houses cost.  

That day, a week ago, I did a preliminary run through Zillow.  Knowing that I was headed out of town for a few days, I felt safe from any kind of impulsive purchase.  Surprisingly, Zillow showed a few houses that I could afford but one that jumped out at me:  Angular Frank Lloyd Wright-ish, cerulean blue, fenced yard, parking for Beagle, open house on the 18th; the event to which my calendar was directing me.

Gathering the noses, I drove the one mile and parked at the curb.  It started at 11:00, I drove up at 11:10 and knew it was my home before I walked in.   

The house was for sale by owner and, when I entered, there was one man talking to a lady; I had no idea who was who so just introduced myself to them both.  Turns out Kat was the owner’s daughter (and running the sale) and Tim was my competition.

Finally, finally, Tim left and it was just Kat and myself.  Then a cat walked through the room.

               “If you are Kat, then what is the cat’s name?”

               “Oh, that is Kiki”, Kat replied, then, pushing her palms up toward the ceiling (like the old-school raising the roof dance) she said, “Kit, Kat and Kiki in the house!”

I trusted her implicitly at that point, five minutes later we had negotiated a price.

During our earlier conversation she had learned of my travels in Beagle and, as we were working on dates for closing, she said, “Why don’t you just pull Beagle into the backyard and use the efficiency apartment while we are going through escrow?  The dogs will love the yard.”

I have said it before but my life reads better than any fiction I could write.  Plus, if this were fiction, my editor would draw a thin red line under that last paragraph, continuing the line out to a note in the margin:  Too obvious.  Unbelievable to the reader.

The reader would not be alone; it was unbelievable to me as well.  I had to pinch myself all day and walked through Morro with a shit-eating grin on my face.  We met at 4:30 for wine and document signing and I was able to meet Darlene, the owner, who is selling her precious home of thirty years so she can move closer to Kat in Oregon.  

When I walked into the house, Darlene said, “Welcome home.”

Excuse me, I am going to get a Kleenex.

The three of us shared wine and snacks then walked to the beach for the sunset.  Upon our return, Darlene and I sat on the front patio. 

               “Darlene, I promise I will take good care of your house.  I adore it.”

               “I know you will,” she replied with tears in her eyes, “I told Kat that price doesn’t matter, I want someone who will love the house like I do.”

It is a good thing price didn’t matter because they were offered more money all day long. 

The three of us met last night at a bar to hear a local band and, as they took turns telling me about all the places to visit, they would say, “Just go out your front door, turn left…”, or “It’s about two miles from your house.” 

Geez, I need another Kleenex. 

That really catches you up now:  Both legs shaved and house purchased.  I am headed to San Diego (with noses and without Beagle) for Christmas and then will move Beagle into my soon-to-be new backyard on December 28^th.     Full possession happens the end of January.

-K

PS:  Stay tuned for Opus’ version of A Moveable Target

The Violet Nebula

“I am the most popular person in California!” exclaimed a friend of mine upon returning from her trip and I know what she means.  If you are from Seattle where the default upon meeting someone in the street is to stare right past them, the welcoming smiles and hearty “Good Morning’s” of California are addictive.   I find myself opening up to people easier and, this past week, my social calendar was more full than it has been for months.  OK, maybe years. 

Common in these encounters is the nebula between Fate and Free Will.  I think of it as the Violet Nebula because everything should have a color.  I believe you have a giant rock of Fate on one side and a giant rock of Free Will on the other and what lies in between, colored in a beautiful violet, is your life. 

I have mentioned my favorite Sartre quote before but it wasn’t until this week that I thought of it differently; I had thought when he said, “Freedom is what you do with what’s been done to you”, that he was thinking of a negative thing happening to you.   Frankly, I find it odd that my first impression was to assume it was negative, being the generally positive person I am (you know, unless I am in a shower with one leg shaved and time running out.)  The thing being done to you could just as easily be a positive experience—you still have the same freedom to do.  If you choose.   

And so last week I chose.  Not just once, but twice in the last week, fate dropped pleasant experiences in my path and I chose to, as best I could, freely accept them.

The first occurred at a dog park:  I was heading out to find tennis people and, at the last minute, decided to bring the noses as the courts were adjacent to a dog park.  I was early for the tennis group so we entered the park and began the usual romp.

As luck would have it, there was a puppy there.  Always a delight to be able to play with a puppy, Opus and I were thrilled.  She is a sweet six-month Golden Doodle, but black so I assumed she was a Portuguese Water Dog.  Her nice owner corrected me and thus began the usual California social chat.

The first thing I noticed about the puppy's owner was his glasses:  Cool frame, transition lenses.  You know me, I like to be able to see people’s eyes and you can just make them out through transition lenses.   The second thing I noticed was no wedding ring but there was one on his friend’s hand.  They seemed quite close so I hung back a bit, assuming they were there together and trying to have a conversation.   From afar I noticed his big city, effortless kind of sophistication.  You just don’t see that in a dog park every day. 

Eventually it was time for me to leave and find my tennis people.  So I said my goodbyes (just like the hellos, goodbyes are the norm in California too), leashed up the noses and walked over to the courts.  Sadly there wasn’t the group I was anticipating.  I had read online that a group met Fridays from 1-3 and they welcomed people (of course) to participate.  I checked with a couple who were playing and they did not know of such a thing, perhaps I had the wrong courts.

Closing the tennis gate, I hesitated.  I was about to just walk to the car and head back to camp.  But I stopped.  Just stood still for a minute, debating. 

               Why go back to the Beagle where I would have to tie up the dogs?  It is a gorgeous day, why not go sit in the grass in the dog park and let them run free?

And, if I am totally honest, a thought much like a good friend of mine had thought while standing in a ditch:

               That guy looks like an interesting person; he looks like someone I would like to know.

I returned to the dog park, explained to the guys that there was no tennis and the three of us continued an easy conversation during which I learned the puppy owner had an affinity for design and architecture.  I decided to call him Renaissance Guy (RG) which, you have to admit, sounds better than Dog Park Guy.  I did consider Transition Man (due to the lenses) but that just seemed…wrong.  One thing led to another and RG and I decided to go have a beer and some French fries.

At a delightful, sun-dappled patio restaurant overlooking the marina, our dogs under the table, the easy conversation continued.  Being single, we were lamenting the bore of dining out alone and so decided that dinner in a restaurant was in order, we thought Sunday would be best, I typed his number into my phone and said I would text him and we could arrange the time/place.  This was on Friday.

Saturday morning I got up and, while walking the dogs, met Jane.  We began chatting and it turned out that she and her husband are on the same quest as I:  Searching for a winter home, wanting to escape the snows of Truckee.  They are staying at a house that I notice every day on my walks due to the Casita (small travel trailer) parked in the driveway.  It would be so nice to have a house where I could park the Beagle.  They use their trailer to move from town to town and then rent a house for a break (as was my plan until I realized how expensive everything was and how cheaply furnished—I would rather stay in Beagle.)  Anyway, she said, “This is so not like me, but would you like to come over tonight and watch the boat parade?  It’s just my husband, myself and another lady.  I’ll throw something on the grill.”  To which I replied, “This is so not like me, but yes, I’d love to join you.”

They are wonderful:  Seventy-years old, they met when they were fifty-five and just got married this past Thanksgiving.  Turns out George worked with SAP his entire career at Chevron so we had a lot in common.  They understood the demands of being on the road and continually offered their laundry facilities.  A charming, delightful, full of life couple.  We made plans to watch Monday Night Football and then go golfing on Tuesday.

See?  Doesn’t even come close to my life in Seattle.  These two encounters I put in the Fate category; at some point, life is going to give you what it gives you no matter what.

Sunday arrived and I texted RG but got no response.  I called the number and received an automated voice mail message with no indication that it was RG.

Hmmm.

So either RG intentionally gave me the wrong number or I typed it incorrectly; but even worse, I hated to have him think that I was one of those people who say they will text and then never do. 

And here lies the junction of fate and free will, jump into the Violet Nebula with me. 

Some people may stop at this point and say, “It wasn’t fated for us to meet again.”  But not me.  I believe life will give me what it gives me but I think it is imperative to do everything in my power to make life go the way I want.

So I had to find RG, if only to make sure he knew I wasn’t the flake.  Since I knew we were both in the software world, I decided to solve it like a software issue:  When you have a bug in the program, you go back to the last point at which everything was working.  I decided to have lunch where we had beer and fries.  What was there to lose?  At a minimum I would have fish and chips while sitting in the sun.  Hopefully RG would be thinking the same thing and appear. 

Nope.

I swung by the dog park. 

Nope. 

Deflated, I returned to Beagle for some afternoon reading.  I opened my book and thought, “Book inventory software, that’s what RG worked on.”  So I Googled (of course) RG’s name and book inventory software, did a bit of digging, figured I had found the company for which he had worked, took a deep breath because I knew this might be embarrassing (particularly if he was trying to ditch me) and emailed customer service. 

               Hi, I know this sounds weird but I think I met a guy who created your software and I wrote his number down wrong.  Would you do me a favor and, if you know RG, would you forward this note to him?   

Signed my name and left my phone number.  I felt good about doing everything in my power to make life turn in the direction I wanted.  It was now about 3:00 on the day we were to have dinner.  Fate would have to take over.

And it did.  Thanks to the company’s 24/7 customer service, RG called me in about an hour.  And, indeed, I had incorrectly entered his telephone number.

I think there is a reason people come into each other’s lives and clearly my reason for being in RG’s life was to provide him with fodder for his superb story telling ability.  (It’s really too bad you can’t hear these from him.)

First of all, the email I sent didn’t just go to one person.  It is a small company so many of the principals receive the customer service emails.  Lovely.  I am even more thankful he wasn’t trying to ditch me.

And then this:  The other day we were sitting in Beagle, just chatting, having a cocktail (and yes, KC, the second glass did come in handy, as you said) me trying my best to not appear like trailer trash.   We had walked the dogs and I put Opus and River into Wurzig so the puppy could experience hanging out inside Beagle.  She was thirsty and all the dog bowls were outside so I took one of my regular bowls and gave her a drink.

 I wasn’t expecting company that day (or ever) so, when we got hungry, all I could offer was a pre-mixed salad.   I divided the bag of salad into two bowls, tossed in the dressing, grabbed two forks and returned to the dining area.

Happily eating along, I began to notice that my salad was rather runny; there seemed to be an extra amount of water at the bottom.  I dropped my fork, it clattered against the plastic bowl, “Oh my god, I am eating out of the dog dish!” I exclaimed.

The absolute personification of grace and sophistication. 

-K