Accumulation

When I was growing up, I looked forward to snow days with gleeful relish. I remember waking up and wishing as hard as I could before I opened my blinds, hoping to see the world transformed by swaths of fluffy white frosting. If it started to snow the night before, I worried that the plows would clear it away before morning, or, worse, that it wouldn't stick, but melt away silently in the night before we had a chance to enjoy it.

Snow days meant a surprise vacation in the middle of the week, hours and hours of unplanned time and a whole new landscape to conquer. My sisters and I would stuff ourselves into snowpants and parkas and dive bodily into the drifts, immune to the cold - or at least untroubled by it, in the face of so many adventures to be had. Icicle maintenance was always on the agenda. We would check the length of our favorite specimens, debate the best time for harvest, and build cushions out of snow in case they dropped too soon. Next we might explore the mysterious caverns under the bushes, where miniature icicles adorned the branches and a thick ceiling of snow lent a magical, bluish light to the space.

Of course there were always sculptures to be made: snowmen, snow angels, snow caves and forts. One winter, Dad was inspired to pile all the snow he shoveled from the driveway into the same place, so that the resulting hill nearly reached our (admittedly non-standard) basketball backboard. That glorious mountain allowed us to make a two-story cave with a slide on the outside.

One of our favorite snow activities, though, was making snow houses. These were not three-dimensional constructions but rather floorplans stomped into the yard that outlined palatial residences with as many rooms as our imaginations could muster up. Somehow these simple layouts were even more inspiring to the imagination than anything structural we ever attempted. I loved the feeling of having my own space, deciding where I wanted everything to go, and inhabiting the fantasy world that seemed to spring up around me from just a simple schematic on the ground.

When we moved to San Diego, one of the hardest transitions for me and my younger sister was the loss of our winter wonderland. Southern California had seasons, but they didn't seem particularly linked to the time of year, and they never preempted school. Worst of all, when December rolled around it didn't feel like Christmas. The Christmas tree in the living room helped, of course, but if you took one glance out the living room window, the mood was ruined by the view of a glimmering blue swimming pool surrounded by birds-of-paradise and tropical palms.

So we had to take matters into our own hands. Commandeering the kitchen and demanding absolute privacy, the two of us embarked on a top-secret mission to bring the snow to San Diego. I'm sure the secrecy was compromised more than once: we weren't exactly using a low-traffic area of the house. But on Christmas morning, when Mom opened the living room curtains, we were all treated to a panorama of arctic bliss. The swimming pool had become an ice skating rink, visitors warmed their hands at the jacuzzi, and concession stands sold hot chocolate at the patio tables.

As the years passed, I expected to get used to the Southern California climate: cool and cloudy in June, mild through the summer, windy and devilishly hot in the fall, and cool-ish in the winter. By the time I left California in 2009, I had lived there for more than 20 years. In fact, I lived in my apartment in Los Angeles longer than any other house I'd lived in up until that point in my life. Yet still I felt California's weather patterns were unnatural, and I longed for signs of the seasons, thrilling with each colored leaf or overhyped local TV weather StormWatch. Maybe there's a certain window of childhood during which your experience of the world around you shapes what you believe to be natural. I knew that I was romanticizing the snow, that driving in it would be a challenge I'd never had to face before, and that I was probably soft after years of living in a climate that rarely dips below 50 degrees. But I was ready for snow again, and when I had the opportunity to choose where to live (twice), I chose somewhere with four distinct seasons (both times).

Winter in Denver has, therefore, been something of a dream come true. It took its time in coming. November came and went with only a dusting or two of snow, and temperatures remained buoyantly in the upper 40s and 50s. But in December we experienced a few cold fronts from the north, and my wish for a landscape swathed in snowy beauty was granted.

Meanwhile, I've been doing some accumulation of my own, indoors. I have officially moved all my belongings here to Denver, and now am setting about the task of finding a place for everything. It's very strange going through boxes and boxes of stuff that was important enough to keep in storage but not necessary to my more spartan style of living in the past year. But I'm also getting some enjoyment out of defining my new living space, carving a new structure for my life out of the nebulous freedom I fell (leapt?) into a year and a half ago. I like it here. And I think it's going to stick.

Catching up: I live in Denver now!

I have been meaning to post for so long, and working (in occasional feverish, well-intentioned yet doomed bursts) on the next entry, that I was very surprised recently to look at my blog and realize that the last time I posted was almost 6 months ago.

The short version of the story is that I moved to Denver.  The medium version of the story is that I decided to try out Denver for the summer, and liked it so well that I am still here, and have moved at least enough of my warm clothes here to make it through the winter.  I guess the long version is something we'll have to hash out in person.  Want to meet for drinks?  I know the perfect place.

My previous attempts to sum up my Denver experience so far have been way too wordy.  I think what I'll try to do instead is mention a few things I'm enjoying so far and illustrate it with some of the pictures I've been taking.

I love being near the mountains again.

     

The weather is spectacular...

...and the seasonal changes are very exciting.

     

Denver has lots of cool little unique sub-communities.  More info here.

   

Public transportation is always nice... so is public art.

 

The arts are indeed alive and well here.

Cool digital installation at the Denver Art Museum

 

 Playing at the Museum of Nature and Science ... singing Brahms Requiem at
                                                                        St. John's Episcopal

 

Singing with St. Martin's Chamber Choir at the Botanic Gardens

Returning from a recent trip to California, the pilot announced the weather over the intercom:  "It's 75 and sunny in Denver.  Welcome to Paradise!"  I laughed to myself.  He doesn't realize we've just escaped Paradise!  Or maybe the joke's on me... 

Spring

Someday I will look back on myself at this moment with envy.  As I sit on the cliffs at Torrey Pines overlooking the vast ocean, I can't deny the beauty of my surroundings.  I can sense Spring waiting just beyond each bend in the path.  Like a child impatient to reveal the most exciting secret she's ever known, it quivers in the sleepy buds and crouches beneath each dusty bush.  The hillsides are poised to burst into color.  The air smells wild and spicy and free.

Spring is a moment of tension - a promise, but one filled with uncertainty.  Maybe there will still be storms and cold weather.  Maybe these first tender buds won't make it.  Maybe those baby robins will die in their nest in the next downpour.  When I was about 10 my family gathered in front of the big living room window to watch in awe as a vicious hail storm knocked all the new leaves off the trees and subjected the green shoots of the first brave bulbs to an unrelenting assault of ice pellets.  I doubted my parents' assurances that the leaves would grow back.  How could they be so sure?  Even the buds were gone - I couldn't imagine the trees and flowers recovering from such a setback.  Maybe we wouldn't have spring at all that year!

But the next season is inevitable, in spite of the struggles of this tenderest, most vulnerable time.  Sumer is i-cumin in, no matter what I do, and events will unfold and develop and change whether I will them to or not.  Maybe it's okay to release my grip a little bit and cast my fate to the wind.  This is not the last sunny day, and it won't be the end of the storms, either.  Might as well take a seat at the big window and enjoy the view.

Escaping Armageddon

Kim Meyer suggested this new name for my blog... and I think I'll take her suggestion, for at least as long as Los Angeles is burning.

I have never had to deal with the California wildfires up close. The nearest I've come is when Griffith Park caught on fire back in 2007, which is when I took this background picture from the parking lot at work. We saw the flames on the hillside, but were never personally affected. My sister, Amy, had to evacuate last year when the fire showed up in her San Diego neighborhood. She described her experience eloquently on Weekend America on NPR (click here to listen).

I hope all of you back in Los Angeles are holding up okay. I know how disturbing it is not to have fresh air to breathe, and for those of you who are waiting to hear if you have to flee your homes, I can't even imagine the suspense. My thoughts are with you all.

Southern California is prone to a sobering number of natural disasters. Devastating earthquakes, wildfires, floods and mudslides are all common occurrences - in fact, a year going by without all three would be unusual. In his disturbing Ecology of Fear, Mike Davis even offers convincing evidence that tornadoes could be added to the list of predictable catastrophes in the southland. John McPhee describes the eerie cycle of dry weather, fire, torrential rain, and cataclysmic debris flows in The Control of Nature. (I've quoted this book before, but it really is fascinating!) With startling regularity, McPhee writes, heavy rainstorms are actually drawn to recent burn areas. This ensures maximum devastation since there is little underbrush to deter the flow or even healthy soil capable of absorbing the moisture. The pattern repeats itself time and again, and yet Californians still have no effective way of mitigating or preventing the destruction.

Is this the punishment Southern Californians get in return for their year-round beautiful weather? Or is it always beautiful? Clearly there have to be enough storms large enough to wreak havoc on a regular basis. Maybe it's because we have such a sunny view of things that we don't prepare adequately for the hard times. Southern California has always presented itself as a temperate paradise; to prepare for storms and disasters would be to admit that things aren't always perfect. But once the rain begins, it doesn't take an expert to see how very ill-equipped Angelenos are to handle the elements. Drivers continue their wonted practice of accelerating until an obstruction presents itself in their path. Unfortunately, streets that haven't been wet in a long time are much slicker than anyone expects, and suddenly there are accidents everywhere, turning freeways into parking lots. On the city streets the gutters fill up in less than an hour, and intersections are flooded to dangerous levels. On the other end of the thermometer, when temperatures soar, brownouts dot the city as residents lucky enough to have air conditioning switch them on and leave them on. Those of us who live(d) in older buildings find ourselves sweating it out in 90+ degree temperatures INDOORS. How is it still acceptable to sell or rent a building without a/c? Just as with the rains, it seems there is a collective agreement to forget those few days (weeks!) of the year when we are all severely uncomfortable.

It seems other states are forced to plan for inclement weather, since it affects the entire population for weeks or months on end. Although I haven't been here long enough to observe the full range of nature's challenges, I have noticed a few ways in which Boise seems well prepared for the elements. Peter's parents live in a community in Meridian that doesn't have any gutters next to the sidewalk. Instead, the strip of lawn bordering the street is sloped down in the middle to collect water and irrigate at the same time. (I'm sure Amy, who is a landscape architect, can provide more insight into this technique.) Furthermore, every building I have entered so far has been air conditioned, and we haven't experienced any power outages yet. The summer heat is so intense and so persistent that a less robust power grid would be untenable.

We enjoyed our first thunderstorm the other night. We saw several flashes of lightning and heard the thunder in the distance, and I opened the back door to get a whiff of that lovely pre-rain smell. (It's not as lovely when you're surrounded by cow farms, by the way. More on that later.) Turning back to Peter, I heard a strange noise. "Where's the cat?" I asked him. "I hope she doesn't get caught in the rain!" The family who lived here before us left their pets behind, and they were adopted by the neighbors. But one kitty in particular remembers that this was her original home, and she'd been hanging around that evening. "She's already inside," he told me, and pointed to Her Lounging Highness, already getting comfortable on his pillow. She wasn't a moment too soon, because as soon as I closed the door the rain started coming down and it sounded like the End of Days. Pretty soon our back yard was covered with little marble-sized hailstones. The hail only lasted a few minutes, and the storm eased not long thereafter. But it made me so happy to experience that again, the purple stormy sky and the moody grumblings from above. It's been a long time for me. It never rains in L.A.