Missing Ridgecrest

I've been feeling nostalgic about Ridgecrest the last few days. Thinking about what it will be like to leave, what I'll miss about our life in the desert. No, we're not about to leave. We've started to think about it, started to look around for something else to do, somewhere else. But I wouldn't be surprised if we're here a few more years.

But you can be nostalgic about something before it's over. I think nostalgia is the sense, the realization, that you care about something -- and that it will not be with you always. You can have that sense long before the actual loss takes place.

I've mentioned before that our local newspaper has a regular feature called "Valley Voices," where they interview some local person of note. They always ask the person what their favorite aspect of life in Ridgecrest is, and the person always says "the people -- everyone's so friendly."

This would not be my answer.

What would my answer be? What do I like -- or even love -- about my current home?
1. The enormous sky, day and night.
2. Desert tortoises and the opportunity to get to know them.
3. The barren desert mountains.
4. The nearness of nothingness.
5. The absence of almost everything.

We did another Palmdale shopping trip today -- despite the big fire raging just south of Palmdale -- and despite the fact that we didn't really need to buy anything. We just couldn't think of anything else to do, especially with the twins, and especially since it's 105-107 every day. But the whole trip just seemed so pointless. We drove there. We went to Kohl's and bought cheap clothes for all of us. Then we went to Target and bought stuff.



And then we went to Trader Joe's and bought stuff. Food stuff, but still just stuff.



When we got home, after we had dinner, and visited the tortoises, and put the boos to bed, and unpacked all our shopping bags, and put away all our new stuff, Rocket Boy and I watched our latest Netflix -- "Encounters at the end of the world," which is a Werner Herzog documentary about Antarctica. Wow, what an amazing film. I highly recommend it to everyone. So interesting, and such amazing scenery.

Antarctica reminded me of Ridgecrest. Not the details, but that "end of the world" feeling and the attraction of it. I imagine I will probably never go to Antarctica -- never say never, but it's not likely. But it looks interesting -- the scenery and the people. The filmmakers interviewed a linguist there who talked about how when he arrived he realized he'd found his people -- PhDs washing dishes, all these super smart people -- some of them actually doing the science and others doing menial jobs. Everyone seemed to be a philosopher, and everyone (at least according to Werner Herzog) is expecting the human race to end soon, due to global warming.

I thought Ridgecrest would be like that, but it isn't, it's a refuge for conservative Christian weirdos.

But when you think about it, that's not really so different, is it? I mean, it's a different belief system (most people in Ridgecrest don't believe in global warming, for example), but still, you've got all these people in the middle of nowhere thinking about philosophy and/or religion.

Eventually we'll leave here, we'll go live someplace where stuff is readily available and people are able to lead "normal" lives, so there isn't as much need for heavy end of the world thinking. But I can see clearly that I'm going to miss this life. Even though I hate it so much now.

At the park

We've been spending a lot of time at the park this summer. It's our replacement for stroller walks. When it got too hot to push the boos in the stroller -- even at 9 am -- I gave up and switched to park visits. Now we go every Tuesday and Thursday morning, plus sometimes on weekends.

Ridgecrest has 3 parks with playground equipment, and they're all nice enough, but only one, Leroy Jackson, has much shade -- which is crucial. It's a big green park, lots of trees, nice playground for kids. We bring cookies and water, a bag of sand toys, our hats. Sometimes a book for Mom, though I rarely get to read more than a page or two.

I push the boos in their stroller from the car to the playground -- it's not that they can't walk the distance, it's that I'm afraid they'll run away from me, run into the street, run into the arms of a registered sex offender, that kind of thing. There are often odd characters sitting here and there in the park. I keep my eye on them.

We set up shop next to a bench with some shade. I get out the sand toys and the cookies. Sometimes, if there are younger children around, one or two of them will come up and try to take our sand toys or cookies. I don't let them take the cookies, because I figure their moms should decide what they eat, not me. But I let sand toy distribution work itself out. Baby A tends to be very possessive: "Dat mine!" he says fiercely to a tottering one-year-old reaching for our toy bulldozer. But if he doesn't notice, I'll tell the child "Yes, you can borrow that."

I notice that some moms are very careful about this. They watch their kids and if one picks up our shovel, they're over there in a flash: "No no Logan, that's not yours, your shovel is over here." Other moms pay absolutely no attention. The other day a little girl (maybe 3 or 4) came over to us and gathered up all our sand toys, both buckets, both shovels -- and then came back for the bulldozer and dump truck. I watched in fascination. The mom didn't blink an eye. Eventually Baby A noticed what was going on and grabbed everything back. I'm sure he thinks I'm useless.



Today Baby A was being weird and kept getting back into the stroller (where he could best protect his cookies from any would-be thieves). But Baby B happily shoveled sand into buckets and trucks. Eventually I noticed that the cookies were being shoveled along with the sand, so I threw them all away.

I used to feel very isolated at the park, because there are always all these church-based mom-and-baby groups there and nobody ever talks to me. But I guess I've kind of gotten used to it. I enjoy eavesdropping on the conversations, and other than that I just figure we wouldn't get along anyway so I won't worry about it. Pretty much the only people who have ever spoken to me in the park have been people who just moved to town the week before. Seriously. That's happened 2 or 3 times now.

Actually, last week a long-term resident spoke to me -- a grandma looking after her 3 grandchildren. She was quite a cheerful grandma, encouraging her grandkids to put toy cars down the slide and clapping excitedly at the cars' crash landings. I clapped too, and we put our dump truck down the slide. It was almost like socializing. But not quite.



The park is crammed full of ravens (to the boos: "ray-ray" or "ah-ah" or more recently "coh"). They are just everywhere, presumably waiting for people to leave their garbage lying around. Right now there are lots of baby ravens too -- the ones with their mouths hanging open, running after the adults. I've mentioned to the boos that those are baby ravens, but I don't think they get it, since the babies and adults are all the same size.

It feels a bit threatening, having all these ravens about, like the early scenes in a horror film. The other day some little girls were actually chasing the ravens. Of course we should not harass wildlife, but these ravens hardly count as wildlife -- they are terribly destructive to other birds, and also they eat baby tortoises -- so I cheered the girls on. They ran laughing across the grass, causing raven after raven to fly up into the trees.

The park is across the street from a fire station and the boos enjoy pointing out the fire trucks to me. We are also close to the courthouse and other buildings, so there are often police and sheriff vehicles about. Baby A loves those. "Race car!" he says to me, whenever anything goes by that looks even remotely like a police car. ("Race car" means "police car" -- I think he's actually saying "reese car" which is sort of an abbreviation for "police car.") Almost every day interesting aircraft associated with the base fly by at top speeds and the boys shout "Eh-bey!"

It's hard not to compare these days at the park with how it might have been if we'd stayed in Boulder -- or if we'd moved somewhere more congenial than Ridgecrest. Maybe I would have made a friend, maybe I'd go to the park WITH other moms who I actually KNEW and we'd sit together and talk, and ignore our children, not to mention the lonely conservative moms sitting by themselves.

But for what it is, this is OK. Which pretty much sums up my feelings about Ridgecrest these days.

More on language

Since that last post I've been thinking even more about the boos' language development, and thus listening more closely to them. So here are some corrections and additions:

1. It's NOT just my bad ears, they mix up kee-kee, kee-tee, and tee-tee all the time. Baby B calls our cat "kee-kee" which is also his word for "cookie" and Baby A sometimes calls the cat "dih-dee," so no wonder I'm confused. And cookies are sometimes called "tih-tee." So it's all a mess. I think that t, d, and k are kind of all the same sound for them -- they hear differences when I say the sounds, but they don't know they aren't distinguishing between them in their own speech. They're still learning their way around their own mouths.

2. In addition to "bee" (bees and assorted little bugs) and "bee" (raisins and other small dark food items), there is also "bee-bee" (toothpaste). Explain that one!

3. Baby B has started to call sheep "sheep" instead of "cow." A horse is still called cow, a pig is still called cow, but not a sheep. I don't know why sheep are so special. However, we saw a horse at the park last week, and both babies call that a horse (at the park they point to where the horse was and say "man hor" because a man was sitting on the horse).

4. In Ridgecrest we don't have any crows, only ravens. I have taught the boos that those big black birds all over everywhere are ravens, and they have been calling them either "ray-ray" or "ah-ah" (which is their general word for bird -- I think it's actually derived from the sound the ravens make). But last week Baby A started calling them "coh" (crow). He already knew the word for crow because we have a book called "A Crow's Journey." What's interesting about this (to me) is that crows are sort of the more generic big black bird -- but how would Baby A know that? We read one book -- but the ravens are everywhere and I always call them ravens. I want to blame this on daycare, but in this hot weather they don't use the outside playground, so there would have been no opportunity for a teacher to refer to a raven as a crow.

5. My stuffed penguin is called "ah-ah." At first I thought they had just made that up as a name for a penguin, but now it's clear that "ah-ah" is their generic name for bird. I think this is kind of amazing, because it means they recognize that a penguin is a bird. A penguin is a very un-typical bird!

6. Baby B calls his stuffed duck, "Duh'-tee," with kind of a glottal stop after the first syllable. That must be the result of an early attempt at "k" midstream. I think he can say "k" in the middle of a word now, but maybe he couldn't when he first got Ducky? I think "Duh'-tee" is a cute name and often pronounce it that way too.

7. Boos have learned to recognize the letter A. Baby B has a shirt that says "A is for Awesome" and they both point at it and say "A." Today, Baby A pointed to the back of Baby B's Nikes and said, in surprise, "A!" (Baby B's name begins with A, so we have marked his shoes with an A.) I know this is daycare's fault and they seem too young to have learned a letter, but still it is kind of exciting.

I still go back and forth on whether I should get them some speech therapy, but it is so fun just watching them grow and change. Maybe if they stop making progress I'll look into it. For now I think we're OK.

Homophones and other language delights

Have not been posting lately -- too tired from the trip, then Rocket Boy went out of town, so too tired from taking care of two two-year-olds by myself, also it's quite a bit over 100 degrees every day. And I'm 50. Excuses excuses, I know.

Spending all this time with the twins, I find myself listening closely to their language. I still worry about how slow their language development is, but at the same time, I'm happy that it is still developing, and it is certainly fun to observe.

Sometimes I think it must be hard to be the boos -- so much to say, and so few words to say it with. Can't remember if I've mentioned here that they have one word for all large farm animals: cow. A horse is a cow and a cow is a cow and a pig is a cow, etc. We have a nice wooden jigsaw puzzle of farm animals, and poor Baby B will grab a piece of the pig and say "Cow!" and then a piece of the horse, "Cow!", and then a piece of the cow, "Cow!" and so on. He can tell that he's holding up pieces of different animals, because he matches the piece of the pig up with other pieces of the pig, not pieces of the cow, but he still calls everything cow.

They have many other category words, such as "mococko" which means motorcycle, dirt bike, bicycle, and wheelchair. "Cake" means cake, but also means ice cream, or any sort of dessert other than very plain cookies. "Apple juice" covers all kinds of juice, and "apple" includes many other fruits, such as peaches, plums, cut-up watermelon, and small tomatoes. It is surprising, then, that they distinguish between hot tea and iced tea, but they do. I suppose it's because their parents drink so much of both beverages.

Several of their words sound exactly like their other words, but clearly are intended to mean different things -- in other words, they are (at least temporarily) homophones (words that sound the same but have different meanings, like to-too-two). For example, "eh-bey" means airplane and it also means blueberry. And actually it also means grape. I believe they think they have 2 different words, both pronounced eh-bey, but one means airplane and one means "small round fruit such as a blueberry."

Another homophone -- I think -- and category word -- I think -- is "bee," which means (1) bees and various other insects, and (2) raisins and other very small food items, mostly dried fruit but also I think a chocolate chip would be a "bee" and an M&M would be a "bee." I hope I'm right about this one, and "bee" isn't just a really big category word, including both insects and raisins in the same category. That would just be too weird.

Then there's kee-kee, kee-tee, and tee-tee, which are not homophones, but which sound enough alike for me (with my failing hearing) to confuse them. "Kee-kee" is cookie. "Kee-tee" is kitty, specifically our skinny little cat Whiskers. Our huge black cat Pie Bear is never called "kee-tee," only "Pie." Oh and then there's "tee-tee," which means train. Tee-tee sounds a little different from the others, but I am constantly mixing up kee-kee and kee-tee, offering the boos a Teddy Graham when they are trying to tell me that Whiskers has just entered the room.

Despite their limited vocabularies, the boos are constantly picking up on things I say, and then repeating them. And it's always the things I don't want them to say, such as "shut up!" which they yell at each other crossly while sitting in their carseats. "Oh no, don't say that to your brother," I call sweetly from the front seat, insincerely, since it was obviously ME who said it originally. Another recent phrase is "Stupid cat!" which I obviously say entirely too often about Whiskers. The babies wander the house muttering "stupid cat, stupid cat."

Baby B in particular has a good ear for profanity -- when he could say almost nothing else intelligible we would hear him saying "Shit! Shit!" to his stuffed animals. I haven't heard that in a while, nor have I heard "oh my God" which was also popular for a time, and which I made a determined effort to stop saying. More recently he has been saying "God damn it!" when he drops something or experiences some other minor difficulty. I pretend that he's not saying that, and try to rephrase: "Got do it? You got to do it! That's great!"

I think it's kind of neat that most of their recent vocabulary building has been names: Baba, Nonny, Matt, Ohray, Rick, and I think I'm finally hearing something like Jim. They spend all their time talking about how none of these people are with us. "No Baba, no Nonny," etc. This weekend we visited their cousins in LA and now they talk about no Dubee, no Jaw, and no Ree. Also there's someone called Ow (not to be confused with an "owie") but I don't know who Ow is. Whoever he or she is, he or she is not with us, because the babies tell me, sadly, "No Ow." And of course, "No Dada. Dada fo (phone)."

But I'm here. "Got Mommy!" Baby B says when I greet them in the morning, and Baby A chortles in delight.

Silver City

Almost every year for the past 9 years, two of my cousins and their wives have organized a family reunion style trip and hike to some part of the Sierra Nevada mountains. The first trip was to scatter the ashes of their dad (my Uncle John) on Half Dome in Yosemite National Park, and the second trip was to scatter their mom's ashes in the same place. Since then, the trips have just been to beautiful spots around the state. We usually stay in some gorgeous house or condo, and there's always a big hike involved. Rocket Boy and I go when we can.

At June Lake last year the group decided they'd like to visit Sequoia National Park next, and Sandy (the wife of one of my cousins' cousins) said she'd find a place. Unfortunately, Sandy and Jeff couldn't make it this year, and neither could anyone else except my two cousins and their wives who started the whole thing -- and Rocket Boy, the twins, and me.

Well, OK, that was too bad, sorry not to see any of the other people who sometimes come, but still, I really like my cousins & their wives, so I was game. The place chosen for this year was called Silver City, in the Mineral King valley, in the southern tip of Sequoia National Park.

In case anyone doesn't make it through this long post, I'd just like to say it right now. Silver City: NOT RECOMMENDED.

OK, so Friday morning we all slept in rather late. I got up before Rocket Boy, and the twins were just making little sounds in their room, so I took advantage of the quiet time to clean the kitchen and do a little trip prep. Around 8:30 I decided I'd better get everyone up, so I went into the twins' room. And this is what I found:



A few hours later, we were finally de-Desitin-ed and packed and ready to go. Silver City and the Mineral King valley are unfortunately kind of hard to get to, especially for us. Mapquest recommended that we drive to Bakersfield and then take Highway 99 -- well, we didn't want to do that. So we drove over Walker Pass to Kernville and had lunch, and then took the most impossibly winding little road I have ever been on, over a mountain and down into the little town of Glennville. Along the way, Baby B apparently got carsick (though I think his morning ingestion of Desitin might have had something to do with it) and threw up all over his blanket, clothes, and carseat. We cleaned up as best we could, and then meandered on to the town of Porterville, where I stopped at a grocery store and bought 7-Up and saltine crackers and Pedialyte and bananas and other things that one might feed a vomiting child. And then we meandered on to the town of Three Rivers, where we picked up Mineral King Road, which is 21 miles of narrow winding torture.

We got to Silver City at 6pm, just in time for a fabulous dinner prepared by my cousins. Which somewhat mollified my fears about the weekend. But only somewhat. Here is the "chalet" we stayed in:



Silver City describes itself on the website as a "boutique resort." Hmm. I need to research the current meaning of "boutique" (and for that matter, the current meaning of "resort"). The website explains that because they are a boutique resort "operating off the power grid" you must bring your own sheets and towels. What they don't explain (among other things) is that the electricity for the "resort" comes from generators, and those generators are off from 10 pm to 12 noon.

Actually, having the electricity go off at 10 pm turned out to be a plus for me. I didn't like the smell of the propane lamp that we turned on after 10, so I just went to bed, and got a fabulous night's sleep. It was not having electricity until noon the next day that was annoying.

Don't get me wrong -- I understand the joys of the rustic life. My parents used to take us camping every summer. We slept in a tent, had a fabulous time. But the "chalet" my cousins rented in Silver City cost $350/night. For $350/night, the power should come on before noon. Also the promised Internet service should work (it never did). Also, you should not be expected to clean the toilet and MOP all the floors. Yes, MOP. Signs posted around the "chalet" listed all the things guests were expected to do before checking out. I didn't memorize the entire list, but it included cleaning the refrigerator, cleaning the toilet, sink, and shower in the bathroom, sweeping and MOPPING all the floors, shaking all the rugs outside....

On Saturday, the first full day of our stay, we took the traditional "Iron Man" hike that my oldest cousin always organizes. Sadly, fewer and fewer of us are really up for this anymore. I'm certainly not. Rocket Boy is, but we have these two-year-old twins... This year we carried the twins in backpacks up the trail until I started to feel sick -- only about a mile in, but we were at 8,000 feet or so, and I am not, to put it mildly, in peak condition. So Rocket Boy, my cousin's wife, and I turned back at that point, returned to the trailhead, took the twins out of the backpacks, and then Rocket Boy went back up the trail to try to find my cousins, while my cousin's wife and I went off to entertain the twins for the rest of the day.

This is the start of the trail to Eagle Lake and Mosquito Lakes:



It really is an incredibly beautiful area. Though as Rocket Boy said, a better place to conceive children than to bring them when they're two. I recommend visiting the Mineral King area -- without young children -- as long as you camp! In a frigging campsite, of which there are many. Just don't stay at that stupid Silver City boutique resort.

The hike turned into a mild disaster because Rocket Boy never found my cousins, so didn't come back to the "chalet" with them. The twins and I drove back to the trailhead to wait for him, but he never showed. Then my cousin drove back and finally found him. He figured he hiked at least 10 miles, much of it scrambling over rocks. He's skinny, but he's not in good shape anymore either, because we live in Ridgecrest and just get sick all the time. So Saturday night found us turning off the electricity at 9:30 pm -- we were so tired.

Sunday I awoke with a deep sense of unease. I wanted to get out of there so badly, I could taste it. But I couldn't leave -- we had to stay and help mop the floors on Monday before checking out. Oh! I've forgotten half the story! The water! Or rather, the lack thereof. The day we arrived, Friday, it had rained heavily (or maybe it was the night before). Friday night we noticed that the water in the toilet bowl was very dark. It got darker and darker and we began to be worried about the safety of the water in the shower and sink, all of which was getting darker. Saturday the toilet stopped working altogether -- it wasn't stopped up, it just had no water. We had to take a soup pot into the bathroom and fill it with water from the sink to flush the toilet. There was also no longer any hot water.

It was finally explained to us that the toilet water came from the creek, which was full of mud from the rains -- because the Forest Service had done a controlled burn on land above the "resort" earlier in the year. (Of course, as my cousin noted, if the Forest Service hadn't done the controlled burn, perhaps the whole resort would have burned down in a forest fire.) Eventually the creek water system got completely clogged up with debris, which is why the toilet stopped working. (It did eventually start working again.) The sink water was treated well water, so it was safe.

Anyway, on Sunday we decided to return to the area near the trailhead, but on the other side of the creek, and have a picnic. The boos wore their backpack leashes and hiked along with the rest of us, if a bit slowly. The walk was enlivened by the presence of numerous marmots -- almost one to every large rock. Very tame -- I know, TOO tame, too used to people -- but still it was fun for the boos, who referred to them as "ammal" (animal).

And then disaster struck. We were walking back across a narrow streamlet, to have our picnic on the other side. I picked up Baby B to ferry him across. My foot caught on a branch. I went down like a ton of bricks -- no way to break my fall -- and Baby B, in my arms, landed face first on the rocky shore of the stream, followed by fat old me, and then my heavy backpack (full of food, water, diapers, wipes, extra shoes, extra clothes, camera, novel, you name it).

I thought I'd killed him. Everyone else gathered around, mopped up the blood, assessed the damage. I dragged myself to my feet. Someone took off my backpack. Rocket Boy ran back to the car and got the first aid kit, cleaned and bandaged the cut. Baby B cried and cried. I didn't cry but I was wailing inside.

The only visible damage to Baby B was one really nasty cut in the middle of his forehead, where he'd obviously landed on a rock. After a quick, subdued lunch we went down the hill to the ranger station, where they strongly recommended we take him to a doctor. So we went back to the "chalet" and packed up our stuff (which took an hour) and then drove 2 hours to the Visalia walk-in clinic, where a doctor super-glued Baby B's nasty cut back together. She said he was very brave.

We spent the night at a Comfort Inn in Visalia. (For $75, breakfast included, no mopping required.) This morning we drove home on Highway 99, which honestly wasn't that bad, and then took 178 through Bakersfield to Lake Isabella and then on to Ridgecrest. We were home by 1:30 and Rocket Boy actually went to work. (It was 112 degrees and our A/C is broken again -- who could blame him?) The babies and I unpacked and went to the grocery store.

I keep thinking about how my cousins had to clean the whole stupid "chalet" without our help. The mopping. The disgusting muddy toilet. Granted, with the twins around we wouldn't have been much help, but Rocket Boy is a good mopper. Also, I was kind of looking forward to scrubbing that horrible toilet. Nope, no chance. They must have done it all.

Baby B is fine, but I think we're going to stay home for a while. Last night at the hotel in Visalia I could not get him to calm down and go to sleep. He didn't sleep well any night of the trip, but last night was the worst. "No Baba," he would say sadly. "That's right, Aunt Barbara is at her house," I would say. "Now go to sleep." "Baba hou. No Nonny," Baby B would continue. "That's right, Aunt Nancy is at her house," I would say. "Nonny hou. No Matt," Baby B went on, utterly desolate. Then he pointed to the orange patches on my stuffed penguin (who he calls Ah-ah). "Ah-ah owie," he said. "Does Ah-ah have an owie?" I asked. "You have an owie, a bad owie. I'm so sorry."

I'm so glad we're home. And I'm never ever ever going to the Silver City boutique resort EVER AGAIN.

Getting through the day at 113 degrees

So what is it like, you may ask, taking care of two-year-old twins at 113 degrees?

Well, first of all, I'm not sleeping well because of the heat. We run the swamp cooler most nights, but it's been humid recently, so it ends up being too hot and I have night sweats and wake up feeling a little spacey and cranky.

Daddy goes to work, twins and I have breakfast, day gets going. Thursday has become a problematic day because it's library day, but the library doesn't open until 11 am. Normally we go to the park in the morning, but on these hot days I like to be home by 10, not sitting in the park at 10:59. So there's a problem.

We hung around at home, waiting for it to be time to go. I really needed to get online and do some banking stuff (a CD maturing in a few days, had to decide what to do with it -- what a bad time for a CD to mature, just when the interest rates are practically zero). So I worked on that, and for once the boos left me alone. They were outside on the patio, I could hear them, no screaming. Then I got off the computer to see what was going on and found them covered with crayon marks -- crayon pieces clutched in their hands -- crayon markings all over the french doors, the table, the water table on the patio... Where did they get these crayons? I still don't know. FORTUNATELY they were washable crayons, so I washed everything -- diaper wipes worked well on the french doors -- and got things back to normal.

Then it was 10 am and time to go to the park. With great trepidation I drove us there. On the way we passed 2 electronic signs on businesses that gave the temperature. One said 98 and one said 103. Either way, it was clearly really hot already. We got to the park, parked the car in a bit of shade, and headed for the playground equipment.

The boos' new thing at the park is they don't play on anything -- they just demand food. So we ate the package of animal crackers I had brought, drank our water, and then just sat around. There were some young ravens in the trees near us and we discussed the "ray-rays" at length. There were almost no other children at the park, but I noticed that the few others were also not moving much. And guess why? Could it be because it was hot????

At 11 I ended this charade of being at the park, plunked them in the stroller, and walked to the library. The children's section has a low bookcase covered with board books, and I parked the stroller there so that the boys could look at board books while I grabbed a few regular picture books. I was only a few feet away from them, but I didn't notice what was going on. Fortunately the head librarian wandered over and took a look. "Uh, Mom?" she said, politely. I ran over. "Yes?" She showed me what they had done -- one of the board books had paper in it that could be torn and either Baby A or Baby B had just ripped it to shreds. I was horrified. "I think it can be fixed, so we'll just charge you a dollar," she told me. (A dollar is their weirdly low standard fee to repair a book.) I wanted to cry, or at least pay more than a dollar, since the book did not look fixable to me. I figured it was time to go, so we checked out quickly (paying our sad little dollar) and left.

Next stop was the grocery store -- even though it was 11:30 and way over 100 degrees -- because when else could we go? I couldn't have gone BEFORE park and library, because then the food would have sat in the hot car cooking itself that whole time. I will say that Albertson's was deliciously cool and I would have liked to spend the whole afternoon there. But eventually we had to go back to our hot car and go home.

Lunch followed, followed by more rambunctiousness. We stayed indoors and that got old quickly. I tried to hang on, stay alert, and pay attention to their every move, since they obviously cannot be left alone for any period of time right now.

At 2:00 the patio thermometer read 110; by 2:30 it was 113. At 3:00 we left on our nap drive. I decided that I was just going to drive for the rest of the afternoon, and I did. We went to Olancha and back, and then I just drove around and around the block, essentially. My carbon footprint is the size of an elephant (not an elephant's footprint, an actual elephant), but really, what the heck else am I going to do?

Finally at 5:30 I gave up and went home. The house was an oven, even though we'd left the swamp cooler on. A storm was moving in -- yes, a storm -- and the humidity level was rising, which makes the swamp cooler useless. I turned the swamp cooler off and turned the A/C on. We have a very old, inefficient air conditioner that is very expensive to run, so we don't use it much -- but I just had to. It was still 108 degrees outside -- 87 degrees inside -- in the hallway, which is the coolest place in the house -- and it was humid.

And then I had to make dinner! I looked at the package of fish sticks in the freezer. It said: Preheat oven to 425 degrees. I closed the freezer door. But then I opened it again. What else was I going to make? Baby B won't eat eggs. I'm a lousy pancake maker. I set the oven for 425 degrees.

After dinner I realized that the sky had gotten very dark. Here came our storm! The babies and I went outside to feed the tortoises and the wind was raging, blowing dust in our eyes. I sat on the patio with my novel as the babies played around me, and I realized I was starting to see flashes of lightning. There was also a rainbow. No rain, though we did get just a little bit later in the evening.

And now here I sit, listening to the wind blow. We turned off the A/C, and the swamp would be useless. It's hot. The low tonight is supposed to be 79.

How do people survive this heat all summer? I'm truly baffled. Am I going to drive my car up and down the highways all summer long? Or maybe we'll just move into Albertson's.

Home again

We've been back a few days and I thought I should post something about our return, though it is really too hot to do anything except lie around eating ice cream.

We are here and life is OK. Not great, but OK. It's over 100 degrees every day. Supposed to be 111 this weekend. I am 50, boos are 2, Rocket Boy is some never-to-be-mentioned age. Whiskers is skinny, Pie Bear is fat, I am fat. TOO much fun food in northern California. Not to mention all the Weight Watchers ice cream bars in the freezer here.

I did a lot of "acquiring" while I was up north (where they have these things called STORES) -- lots of new clothes for me (bought with birthday money), delightful new shoes that I have been wearing every day since I got back, clothes for the boos, a huge stack of books (mostly birthday presents), an Ikea table and stools for the boos (big hit), and some other miscellany. I have really had to reexamine my attitude toward STUFF since moving to Ridgecrest. Before, I would have said that STUFF wasn't so important to me, I wasn't a shopaholic, I could go for long periods without using my credit card. Turns out that's a total lie. I live for STUFF and am miserable out here where I can't get any.

They even have better garage sales up there. No, I did not go to any garage sales when we were up there, but I WAS TEMPTED.

I feel quite transformed by my new clothes, and especially by my new shoes. They make my feet feel good. More importantly, they are GREEN. Here they are, posing on the new Ikea table:



But the family members who are REALLY transformed by their trip up north are Baby A and Baby B. Quite often when I visit my family I also get my hair cut. Not this time, and it's too bad, because I could have used a trim. Instead, boo bears got their hair cut and it has made quite a difference.

BEFORE, they were a slovenly pair:



AFTER, they are refugees from the 1950s:



Who are these little short-haired boys? Baby B in particular seems to be a different creature altogether. Rocket Boy isn't sure he likes them like this, but I kind of do. These two little men seem like people who might say please and thank you, pick up their toys, drink all their milk, and pet the cat gently instead of dragging her by the tail down the hallway.

Might do all that, but actually don't. I need to work on "please." I do say "thank you" to them quite often, at appropriate times, and I could imagine them saying it back to me someday. But I only say "please" at desperate times, as in, "PLEASE don't throw applesauce in my hair, PLEASE put down that knife, PLEASE stop driving Mama out of her mind!" I need to show them that it is a word that can be spoken by a person who is not crying.

When we were up north, life was a lot easier. We stayed in this wonderful apartment, full of books and toys and pictures. We saw one or both aunts every day. We played on soft grass, it wasn't hot, I didn't have to cook dinner. In other words, it was heaven. And even though I was sick most of the time, it was easier for me to handle the boo bears. Even at the Peninsula Creamery the day before we left, when Baby B was dancing in the booth, having his own little pre-lunch party, and accidentally whacked me across the face, really hard (and it really hurt), all I said was "That's one!"

Every time I look at them with their dignified little haircuts I think maybe we can all keep treating each other with a little more care. I am trying.

Even though it's going to be 111 on Friday.

Happy to day

Happy birthday to me! Or, as Baby A puts it, "Happy to day," although I was hearing another version today, something like "Happy cake day," from both boys. They don't understand about getting older, but they know cake, and they know birthdays are all about cake.

We came up to the Bay Area this weekend for the holiday, my birthday, and a little vacation. My sister Nancy brought gourmet cupcakes for our 4th of July dessert last night, and after lunch today my sister Barbara pulled out a leftover double chocolate cupcake, put 5 candles on it, lit them, and everyone sang happy birthday to me. Then the babies and I went out on the front lawn and ate the cupcake together, and then Baby A ate the green candle.

I was remembering another birthday -- which one would it have been? Maybe 20? -- when I didn't want to have a cake. I was going through A PHASE of some sort, and I decided to make a batch of chocolate chip cookies, put on a long dress, and sit on my parents' front lawn all day. If anyone wanted to stop by and have a cookie, they could. As I recall, some of my friends did, although they were all irritated with me.

My oldest sister, Jenny, was also irritated with me, because her children were 5 and 2, and she felt that they wouldn't understand that it was a birthday if there wasn't a cake. So she made a small cake (I think it was the one-egg cake recipe) and put candles on it, and everyone sang happy birthday to me after dinner. I can't remember if I was gracious enough to actually blow out the candles (probably not). I remember that I was irritated with my sister.

Oh memory, what a bother you are! So hard to look back and remember what a colossal ass I was at age 20. I guess it is nice to be able to look back and realize that I've grown up a little, even if it did take 30 years.

The little 5-year-old who was at that earlier birthday party was at this party too -- she's 35 now, my beloved Risa. Now, I might be making this up, but I think Risa spent some time out on the front lawn with me and the chocolate-chip cookies, 30 years ago. She was fascinated by my whole "alternative birthday project." I think I had my guitar out there too -- not my guitar, really, it was Barbara's guitar, but I had it on indefinite loan. I could play about 3 chords on it. I guess I must have sat out there and played guitar. This is really painfully embarrassing to recall. I don't know why I'm torturing myself with these memories.

Those of you at home doing the math may have noticed that 20 + 30 = 50. I'm not quite there with you yet -- in my heart I'm still 49.

No, that's not true, I'm with you. I'm ready to come clean to the world. I'm 50. I'm 50 years old with two-year-old twins. Does that mean I've grown up, or does it mean I've completely lost my mind? Maybe a bit of both.

The other memory that's been teasing me today is of my old boss, Lauren Langford, who died when she was 50, of ovarian cancer. She was 10 years older than me, so that was 10 years ago. You know what they always say when people complain about their age -- it's better than the alternative.

When we were trying to get pregnant, all those hard sad years, I tried various "alternative" methods, including positive thinking, visualization, meditation, that sort of thing. I remember at one point trying to reach out to people I loved who had died, asking them to help send me a new little soul from the other side. I tried asking Lauren for help, because she was always so on top of everything in this world. I thought she'd have good connections beyond the veil. Instead, I had a dream that she was actually too busy to help me, because she was helping SO many other people with real emergencies.

It's OK, we got our little men. And if there is an "other side," I just know it's full of people who are cheering us on -- including Lauren, though she's probably still really really busy.

50 years old! Half a century! What an amazing achievement, and all I did was stay alive. It makes 100 look possible. OK, maybe not likely, but heck, worth a try. One day at a time, and all that. In the meantime, I'm going to bed, so that tomorrow is a good day too. Happy birthday to me, and thanks to all of you for being there.

End of June reading update

I can't believe it's July already -- June dragged on and on and then suddenly was over. I managed to read 8 books, for a total of 51 so far for the year, but I could easily have read 10 or 11 if I hadn't gotten bogged down several times. The book I was listening to on CD went back to the library unfinished, another book went back half read, still another went back barely started. Other books I finished but didn't like.

I have decided that next year, REGARDLESS of what happens the rest of this year, I am not going to try to read 100 books. I'll have some other goal, like "finally read Moby Dick" or "read all of Dickens" or something like that. But not 100 books. It's horrible.

That said, here's the list for June.

44. Let the Great World Spin by Colum McCann. This received glowing reviews but it didn't work for me. I just didn't buy this young Irish guy's take on prostitutes and priests and rich people in New York in the 1970s. BUT the sections about the guy who walked on a wire between the two World Trade Centers were spellbinding. As a result we Netflixed the documentary on the same subject, Man on Wire, and found it captivating.
45. The Weed that Strings the Hangman's Bag by Alan Bradley. The second Flavia mystery. OK, but did not like it as much as the first (which I didn't like that much either).
46. Winter Dreams: An American in Moscow by Jay Martin. This was one of my father's books. He liked books about Russia, and I grabbed several when we were emptying my parents' house, but they've just been sitting on a shelf in my house since then. Finally I picked one up and read it. Published in 1979, it's a series of linked stories about the author's time in Moscow as a visiting professor. I was in Russia for a few days in 1986 and this book was very evocative of that experience for me. Enjoyed it.
47. Welcome to My Country by Lauren Slater. Confession: this is a re-read. I first read the book about 10 years ago, but wanted to revisit it, and I had forgotten a lot. It's about her experiences as a young psychotherapist, working with patients with schizophrenia and other disorders. Since I now have a brother-in-law with schizophrenia, the book means more to me than it did back then. Slater writes beautifully.
48. Fugitive Colors by Margaret Maron. One of her mysteries featuring her "other" detective. Didn't like it as well as her more recent books, probably won't read any more with this detective.
49. The Walking People by Mary Beth Keane. A novel about Irish people who come to America in the early 1960s. Recommended by sister Barbara, but it didn't work for me. (I'm not doing well with recommended books right now, obviously.) I didn't like most of the characters, so didn't enjoy following them through their lives. And the only one I did like developed Alzheimer's, which was upsetting.
50. High Country by Nevada Barr. A mystery set in Yosemite National Park. Enjoyed it very much and will look for her other national park mysteries at the library.
51. Love Works Like This by Lauren Slater. I like Lauren Slater's writing, but not this book. It's about her first pregnancy and first year of motherhood, with a focus on how her own mental illness affected the pregnancy. She doesn't bond with her daughter until the daughter is a year old, and right there, she lost me. Kind of a weird little book.

OK, onward into July. I've started 3 different books already, but I'm not in love with any of them. Need to read 8 or 9 books per month for the next 6 months to reach 100. We'll see.