Trading Paradise For a New Zip Code

               

Six weeks ago my husband and I joined the exodus of Baby Boomers out of  California.

Leaving our state was a wrenching emotional decision, but the hardest part was explaining our decision to friends and family. We mentioned a slower lifestyle, a desire for four seasons, fairer tax rates, better hunting and fishing. It’s hard for them to understand. I get it. I’ve lost friends and family to the moving van.

So why did we trade paradise for newer zip code?

I’ve been a resident of the Central Coast long enough to watch the county fill with new Southland arrivals armed with passion for volunteerism, winemaking and dining out that transformed our sleepy burg into a world class wine region (at least until the water runs out.) Together, my husband and I have 120 years of history in the area. While we were rearing our family, most of our relatives lived within a thirty-minute drive. On holidays, aunts and uncles dropped by with gifts.

But, with all that familiarity the short track in our brain got lazy. It had already stored every decision we would ever need. We had our medical, church and shopping tracks down pat. We’d traveled every road on the Central Coast in car, truck, Jeep and motorcycle. We were living without wonderment, in a daze of half-interest and putting things off until tomorrow.    

 Always we yearned to see the other side of the mountain. We’d spent years traveling the West looking for that special place. Our family thought we were lookie-loos as we drove through Washington, Nevada, Colorado, Wyoming, Montana and made appointments with realtors to show us their “banana belts.” Some we liked: Chilawack, BC, Coleville, WA, Garden Valley and Boise, ID, Grand Junction and Fort Collins, CO,  Helena, MT, Tensleep, WY. Some seemed foolhardy, and none seemed like home.       

Then one day we saw it. Someone produced escrow papers and I managed, in a single stroke of the pen, to overrule my every trepidation. Now we have a lovely house with a woods, and pasture for three feeder calves. We have an orchard, a chicken coop and a mini vineyard. Ag and forest exemptions. Our insurance and tax bills are a fraction of what they used to be. And no sales tax!

As perfect as it is, the house is only a backdrop for the movie of our lives where every sunrise brings a smile and every cloudburst catches me outside doing the happy dance. My brain is filled with street names and utility companies. My internet provider involves a receiver on our red cypress pointed at a tower two miles away. The measly local newspaper arrives in the afternoon, filled with news about people I don’t know. The neighbor’s dogs bristle and snarl.

I grapple with huge gulps of silence in a house that needs laughter and I wonder if I will ever have enough friends to fill it. The first week the silence was so profound that I could hear deer nibbling grass outside. Now I hear the distant train, turkeys stalking through dried leaves. The orchard fills with fruit, ripens and droops with peaches, plums and pears.

I’m afraid to close my eyes for fear I’ll miss something. The irises bloomed and disappeared before dandelions took over the lawns. The meadow grass ripened and a neighbor cut and baled it before we could get our tractor moved. This morning had a tang of fall and a flock of geese flew into our meadow while I picked blackberries at the springhouse.

Before the move I toted tons of valuables to the thrift shop. I would probably cry if I could remember what I gave away. But apparently none of it was necessary for the me that I'm morphing into. I'm using this time to reinvent myself. (More on that next time.) But I make it a rule to meet someone new every day—preferably over a meal or coffee. I’ve rediscovered the joy of living in the moment.

No doubt when the days turn gray and damp, I will pine for the gorgeous Central Coast. I will probably grumble about the fog and pop Vitamin D. I will suffer the indignities of being snowed in. (We’re in a banana belt. Two feet of snow. Melts out the next morning, I’m told.)  I’ll teach classes in writing memoir. I’ll write another book. I’ll publish the first in my historical novel series set in SLO County. 

I was afraid I would feel like I’d lost part of myself when I moved. Instead, I’ve gained a bigger world. It's more authentic, living in the moment. I hope I never forget the lesson.

Has anyone else experienced a live-changing move? Care to share?

  

When Appliances Break Down—A Survivor’s Guide

Go on, life-hit me with your best shot.

I’m studying the synchronicity of household appliances that are failing at the same time. Breakdowns seem to be “my thing” this month and I’m contemplating the downside of inconvenience versus the feeling of freedom from things electrical, followed all to quickly by a heightened sense of appreciation when they're all working again.

My exercise began with a simple change in propane suppliers. The old company charges $85 to drain the tank if it is more than 5% full. Ripoff! It seemed easy to monitor our usage, but since one of the reasons we were changing was because the gauge didn't function, we underestimated. Our tank ran dry on Memorial Day weekend. No stove or hot water heater for three days.  

Days earlier we hired a handyman to do some odd jobs, one of which was to put in a new kitchen sink. He was buttoning the job when he discovered that the new faucet was defective. Since we had to let the sink adhesive season for two days we agreed to a replacement faucet shipped by overnight mail. Overnight became three days without water in the kitchen.

Couple of days later the microwave bid adios in a hale of fire and sparks.

Then the black DIRECT satellite box sent out a stench of singed electrical wire and everything went fuzzy.

A week later the growl in my computer expanded to intermittent freezing and a cacophony of whirls, grunts and agonizing groans. What I thought was a bad fan turned out to be a warning that my hard drive was crashing.

The  following week we were traveling north in our pickup, towing a trailer toward a truck stop with $3.89 diesel a mile ahead when the truck sputtered to a stop. The computer claimed we had forty-five miles of fuel left, but an empty tank was the least serious scenario of our choices. It was and we did, but running out of diesel involved having the system recharged. The AAA tow truck driver couldn't do it, so we had to be loaded onto a tow truck and the trailer towed to the nearest Dodge dealership.

So that’s been my month. I’d like to say it’s been hell, but actually I enjoyed every adventure.
    

I’ve learned a lot about myself through these trails. Mostly that I like living a slower-paced existence and that change is fun. That conveniences don’t define me or limit me as much as I feared. The primitive woman emerged and is having a great time living with less.    

The lack of a stove and running water gave me some well-deserved days off from the kitchen. We ate out a couple of times, had paper plate picnics with sandwiches and cold cereal. We peeled oranges and listened to the birds singing. I suspect we ate less. One night we drank Margaritas for dinner with guacamole and chips. Thank God the coffee maker still worked.

The missing faucet gave me a chance to appreciate all the things I take for granted. I thought about the women and girls who have to walk three or more miles to the river and risk rape every trip. All I had to do was fill a pot with hot water from the bathtub spout and count my blessings while I washed dishes in my pasta pot. Hand washing settled me.

I’m still without a microwave and happily steaming veggies and boiling water. I use my wok and sing while I cook. I’ve missed the satisfaction of taking my time.  

The replacement satellite box arrived a few days ago and we haven’t hooked it up yet. Who knew that  sunsets happen during my favorite program. That neighbors walk their dogs while I’m tuned to the tube. I’m not saying that I’ll NEVER hook up again, but for now, it’s nice.

The truck debacle allowed me to watch my husband be a hero with reflectors and road flares. We rode in a tow truck like kids, and chatted with the parts guy at the Dodge dealership while his mechanics fixed the truck, added five gallons of diesel and refused any money.

I’ve intended to replace my computer for years. It was given to me nine years ago by a retired geologist from Nevada who had used it for five years. It was time. I unplugged the old soldier and phoned my computer guy and he’s building me a new one.

What I learned this month is to take a deep breath and give thanks when life changes directions. I’m strangely happier and relaxed. Life is better. Go figure. 

What’s  it like when something you depend on breaks? 

Three Ultimate Gifts from the Heart.

Ever think about the gifts we give and receive--what they say about us as humans? Here's a list of alternatives that will change lives. 

I just finished reading a commentary by Nicholas D. Kristof, columnist for the New York Times. His post Mother’s Day article is about saving the lives of moms. Specifically it’s about fistulas, a consequence of childbirth when girls, most often third-world girls, get raped and impregnated when their bodies are small or malnourished.

The details aren’t pretty, but they’re even less so for the girls who are ostracized by their communities when their fecal matter and urine oozes in an uncontrollable stream from a rupture in their vagina caused by childbirth trauma.

Kristof calls it the leprosy of the 21^st Century. The consequences are long-lasting: no prom dates, no jobs at McBurger. Death by self-induced starvation, infection or hyena attacks orchestrated by villagers including family and friends.   

 The girls are taken to a hut at the edge of their communities and left to die. Some manage to crawl or walk to clinics supported by American donors and staffed by compassionate doctors who perform a simple surgery.  

Ironically, I read about fistulas right after my daughter Sam called to tell me that she has donated in my name to an organization that repairs cleft palates in babies.

Right after I sent a donation to an organization that provides goats to African villagers in my mother’s name. Great minds think alike.

Now I’m sending a donation to the fistula foundation on behalf of both my daughters. A perfect Mother’s Day Trifecta.     

Here are some links. (Note--there are others. Check them all out.)

(Author’s note: Gift ideas are suitable for all occasions and are not limited by gender or age. Comes in all sizes. Items described don’t require exchanging, packing or dry cleaning.)

http://worldwidefistulafund.org/ $450 buys an entire fistula surgery and changes a life.  For $150 we can provide her with social reintegration and job skills. For $25 we can give a girl a new dress after her surgery.

Operationsmile.org . (888) 377-2289. or Smiletrain.org .  $250 buys a new smile for a baby born with a cleft palate. Our donation comes with a Bonus Offer—after the operation the village will no longer assume that the repaired, beautiful three-year-old is possessed by the devil. 

Worldvision.org . The gift catalogue is online. Browse among the options that include a goat, three chickens or two ducks. Gifts benefit AIDS widows or women abandoned by their job-seeking husbands, or grandmothers left with the care of all their grandchildren. $75 buys a goat to milk, breed and develop into a small herd.

Let’s add to the list. Share your best big-hearted suggestions. 

California Casual--Is Rudeness the New Rule?

In California, we have a different way of doing things.  

. For us, RSVP are four random letters that appear on the bottom of invitations, indicating nothing. An invitation means that someone is having an event and seeks your commitment. If you're naive or new to our way of doing things, you should understand that no one holds you to your promise.

As everyone in California knows, an invitation is a mere technicality. The game plan is to throw it on the counter and fuggetaboutit! No worries. The hostess will give you a ring on the day before the party to see if you’re coming. You can decide then.

Weddings, intimate dinner parties—makes no difference.

According to my friend, no-shows are very common in Santa Barbara. Yes, even for dinner parties. People respond "yes" and then wait to see if something better comes along. She blames the practice on the "Biz (the film industry.) And it gets worse the closer you are to Hollywood.

Makes sense. Why waste your time at a "B" dinner in your honor if you can tag along to an "A" event and gawk at the movie stars. Even the concept of "A" and "B" comes from California. Remember the old Disneyland ride ticket books? Who wouldn't rather ride the Matterhorn than the train?

So I live in California. Time to bring this around to me.

I have a writer’s critique group on alternate Tuesdays. This group is new and just beginning to jell. Like any newborn, it needs attention. It helps to know who will be there. I requested that everyone RSVP, and they did. As of last Friday six plus me made seven. Yeah!

Tuesday morning the house is clean. Snacks are ready. Husband is fed and out of the house. And the calls start coming in. One member has a sore throat. One is still in jammies. A third one has slept late and can make the last half. The others are no-shows. And that’s when the idea for this blog starts.

As a new writer, for three years I used to drive 70 miles round trip every other Monday to attend a critique group that started at nine. I scheduled my life around that group! The moderator was a retired grade school teacher who ran that group like her classroom. I was terrified of getting “the look” if I walked in three minutes late.

No coincidence that in the years I belonged I wrote a bazillion short stories and essays and submitted them to markets all over the US and Canada. Had thirty acceptances (a 1/23 ratio. Not bad for fiction in the era before e-publishing.) I wore out three Writer’s Market books in the process and won ten awards. Wrote two novels. I quit the group when members started writing travel stories and essays and I was the only fiction writer left.

Point is, that critique group launched me. That’s what I hope to do for the newbies in my group.

Clearly the fault is mine. I need to develop “the look”. Tough love. Next week we’ll revamp the rules and get down to business. As soon as I finish writing this, I’ll dig out my cousin’s wedding invitation from the junk on the counter and send my RSVP. She even included a stamp.

Hope it’s not too late.

Anybody have a similar experience or want to add to the discussion? Here's your chance. 

Five Steps for Organizing the Closet After You Say Goodbye to 4” Heels

Feet Hurt? Is your closet overflowing with clothes you never wear? A plan for what to save and what to dump when you start to dress for comfort

Going through my closet this week I began to realize that I'm a clothes hoarder. Even if I haven’t worn it in 10 years, I feel physically ill at the idea of parting with any of it. Sure, I watch “What Not to Wear”, but the problem is how do I finesse into a (ahem) Woman of a Certain Age.

I asked my Magic Mirror and this is what she whispered to me:

Young women dress to emphasize their assets and their hair. Middle-age women dress to minimize their deficits. Older women dress to match their shoes.

Sound harsh? Think about it.

Somewhere in the fifties the tendons and bones in the foot soften. Certain foot bones are the most frequently broken bones for women after fifty. That’s when podiatrists’ numbers get put on the speed-dial.

Out of necessity, shoes become less fashion statement and more a comfort accessory. It breaks our hearts to abandon this vestige of youth, but it happens.

Unfortunately, I have dresses that don’t “do” comfortable. They want a 4” heel. And nylons and a smoother. Without tough-love, those dresses will hang in the closet pretending they’re next-up for the party. Ten years will go by and still no party. Still, maybe when I’m seventy I’ll want to wear that sleeveless cocktail dress with the slit at the thigh that I didn’t even wear when it was new.

But the sad truth is, I’ve already dumped the heels.  So in order to downsize my closet and keep it real I’ve had to take a reality check. 

Here’s my plan:

Step One: Pick out the shoes I wear. Dispose of any I haven’t worn in three years. (I know, the rule is 12 months, but I’m a hoarder, remember?)

Step Two: Pair skirts, dresses and pants with the shoes they go with. Permission to pile them on the bed, the sofa, the floor. Use bronzer, pantyhose, hairdo, anything to get an accurate assessment, including daughters and husband.

Step Three: Try on everything with the shoes. If it doesn’t work, Get Rid of It. I picked the STYLE of shoe for a reason—comfort, style or because it fits my personality. When it wears out I’ll replace it with next season’s substitute, so if it doesn’t have a companion outfit now, I doubt the old shoe will ever have a love match with anything in my closet.

Step Four: Pack up the off-season clothes and shoes and store them. That way I'll have a new wardrobe in a few months. Vacuum seal sweaters so everything will pack down small. Kmart, $9.95 for three.

Step Five: When I go shopping I’ll wear the shoes I want to match. If something doesn’t, I don’t. It’s as simple as that. 

As a footnote—I won’t keep anything that needs a 10-pound weight loss to look good. I won’t pretend I’m anything I’m not. If I lose weight or change personalities, I’ll buy something new. Clothes are what I wear, not who I am. (Okay, who am I kidding?) But shoes do become what we wear, like it or not.

Am I right about this? Share your comments.  

Easter Bunny Blues

Is there too much "Ease" in Easter? On this holiest day of the Christian calendar I feel abandoned by my family. Because I know I'm not alone, I'm sharing my angst.                                                   

Father Hercek loves a colorful congregation on Easter Sunday so I put on my brightest bonnet and take myself to church. I arrive early to celebrate in song and sermon with my sisters and brothers in Christ. By the final blessing I have hugged twenty people, have been moved to tears at little girls and boys fresh from their First Holy Communion. Songs of jubilation ring in my ears, songs of rebirth and hope and thankfulness. 

For an hour (make that an hour and a half, Father Hercek has a captive audience on holidays,) I glow like a new bride. There is nowhere on earth I would rather be on this glorious Spring morning than in church.    

Driving home I sing “Come, Worship the Lord” while my eyes fill with tears because I’m feeling embraced by the Holy Spirit. I want to share my joy with the whole world. 

Once home I step into my kitchen ready to spill out Easter blessings on my family, but no one answers my call. The household is still asleep. In the next hour they straggle out, husband, three children, young adults all. My middle daughter is exhausted from having worked a double shift at her restaurant job, The oldest has stayed up until the wee hours, catching up with cousins who are only in town for the weekend. My son is off to go motorcycle riding with another cousin. My husband is on the phone, arranging to meet a buyer for his street motorcycle, an out-of-towner on his way home.  

I call my sister to confirm lunch at my house: pork roast, applesauce, angel food cake with pink icing, but she hedges, frazzled from trying to fit everything into a busy weekend schedule. She’s staying with Mom, who has had another tiny stroke during the night, worn out from the excitement, and is too weak to make it to Mass. My sister needs to fix breakfast and watch over Mom.

Guilty because she lives four hours away, it is her turn to help.   

In the end I take off my Easter finery and join my family for a catch-as-catch-can breakfast before everyone goes off in different directions. My sixteen-year-old will eat when he returns at dusk.   

As the afternoon wanes I try to recapture the early morning's hope. Still, I can't help wonder what is wrong with us. I don’t think we’re alone. I don’t think I’m the only mother who ever felt like she’s failed in her spiritual guidance. 

As soon as they graduated my children demonstrated their "grown-up" independence by eschewing their Catholic upbringing for an extra hour of sleep.

"We're a Christian family," I remind them.  "Easter is Our Day."  It doesn't matter that I voiced my hopes the day before in hopes of an old-fashioned bring-us-together Easter morning: church and sit-down dinner.

But again this year Easter Sunday feels like a "morning after."  

For our large extended family, Good Saturday is Easter Bunny Day: a family picnic, chocolate bunnies, egg hunt and all the fun stuff.  I don't deny that I love it. We adults organize a softball game while the kids whack away at a pinata. Later we catch up on family gossip while we graze our way from grilled linguica appetizers to a whole smoked pig, all the way to homemade ice cream. This is great stuff.  It's the next day that drives me to tears. 

Is it too much to ask that my family attend Mass with me, share an hour of elation and rebirth before they go about their business? When she's rested, Mom feels the same way. During Holy Week we attended reconciliation service and vowed that this year we would attend church as a family. But once again the Easter Bunny foiled our plans.          

Now it’s Easter evening. If I feel cheated, I wonder what Jesus is feeling.

How about you? Anybody ever felt in the same boat? 

Cheap Dates on California's Central Coast

  

Stuck for ideas about where to go for fun?  Short on money?  There's more to do on the Central Coast than just wine tours.  Here's a whole list of ways for sweethearts to celebrate Spring! Or for old timers to celebrate the fact that they're not dead yet. Don't live in CA? Substitute your own fave's.   

Hike the trail and watch the whales at Montana de Oro State Park

Picnic along the Nacimiento River

Catch the wildflowers at Shell Creek Road off Hwy 58 near Santa Margarita 

Take in the National Geographic Theater at Hearst Castle and visit the sea lions further up Hwy 1

Visit the gardens at the Cambria Pines Lodge then walk Moonstone Beach

Take a weekend drive to the Pozo Saloon for lunch or dinner. 

Visit the Museum of Natural History at Morro Bay State Park

Drive to the end of the Lopez Canyon rainforest.

Walk around Atascadero Lake.  Bring bread crumbs for the ducks

Dance barefoot on smooth concrete in the dark

Make fudge

Visit an animal shelter or a pet store

Wash and wax your cars together

Catch a movie at the Sunset Drive-In.  Arrive early for a tailgate BBQ

Go treasure hunting at the Nipomo Swap Meet

Attend services at different churches and synagogues

Pick up coupons in any hotel lobby

 Visit all the local beaches: Avila, Cayucos, San Simeon, Pismo

Hunt for sand dollars at low tide near Morro Rock

Go roller skating or bowling

Go paintballing at Central Coast Paint Ball Park or Franklin's Pond

Serenade each other on guitar/harmonica/kazoo

Climb Bishop's Peak

Go swimming at Franklin's Pond in Paso Robles, Sycamore Mineral Springs or Paso Robles Hot Springs

Play tag after dark in a park with Glo Sticks or flashlights

Read poetry on the steps of City Hall after business hours

Catch the moonrise over the hills of Shandon and have dinner at the Parkfield Inn

Fly kites on the summit of Hwy 46 West, on the way to Cambria

Hike the trail to the Indian relics at San Simeon State Campground

Take a Sierra Club hike on Saturday mornings

Ride bicycles to the beach

 Fish off of a pier

Visit the Missions at S.L.O., San Miguel, San Antonio

Drive the Nacimiento-Ferguson Road from Fort Hunter Liggett to Hwy 1

Visit the PG&E Community Center. 

Take a tour of art museums and art shops

Listen to old records on a vintage phonograph

Visit the Dalidet Adobe and the Jack House in SLO, the Rios Caledonia in San Miguel

Visit the Charles Paddock Zoo in Atascadero

Take your town's historical walking tour

 Take free golf lessons at your local golf course on Saturday

Pick your own fruit at Cal Poly or local berry farms

Hike the boardwalk at the Guadelupe Dunes

Give each other a foot massage

 I've had these and a million other adventures in my own back yard. What can you add about your own back yard?