Mountain Lion Eyes

Growing up with a spontaneous, moody, tall tale talking father made my childhood both rich and uncertain. For example, in early elementary school, I came home one day to find my dad had procured a kitten. This was no ordinary kitten. My father told us her name was Haywee and he had been given Haywee as a present from an “Indian Chief.” At this time my father worked for the Los Angeles Department of Water and Power. Out on an isolated stretch of land far up the Angeles Crest Highway, he had come upon this authentic “Indian Chief.” They talked as two open-hearted men might, my father sharing in loving detail about his three small children. Taking an immediate liking to my handsome, gregarious, six-foot father, the Chief wanted to give him a present for his children. Thus, Haywee became a part of our household.

As a self-employed landscaper, the love of nature and gardens was in my Dad's blood. Our great grandfather was the director of the Hamburg Botanical Gardens in Germany. One of our traditional, unplanned weekend excursions was to La Canada's Descanso Gardens. These acres of groomed yet wild public terrain had once been privately owned. Dad would throw together a bag of cheese, bread and fruit plus an added sack of duck food and off we would tramp. The gardens were free and entering by the main gate, we would make our way first to the small duck pond. From there we hiked through large, towering trees, open meadows and spacious rose gardens to enter the sumptuous former residence on the grounds. As we kids crossed small man-made bridges, sneaked in an out of bushes, Dad would spout his natural wisdom, never failing to point out this bird or that squirrel. Dad loved taking us off Descanso's beaten paths. But one visit brought us in contact with poison oak. Though we showered immediately upon coming home, we all broke out with the dreaded itchy rash. Mom railed and Dad felt slightly contrite, but further adventures continued.

The adventure that gave our family the happiest moments was the only vacation my father could organize and afford to take. It was this camping trip which brought us in contact with the mountain lion eyes and initiated us into the “Koch Warrior Tribe.”

Dad bought a huge burlap tent, outdoor cooking utensils and stove, plus five flannel-lined sleeping bags. These items were loaded into the back of Dad's Chevy pick-up truck, we were squeezed into the cab and off we went one summer to Sequoia and Yosemite National Parks. Nearing Sequoia we drove our car right through the hollowed trunk of a gigantic redwood. We found a camp site on the edge of Sequoia's mountains, forested by further towering, ancient redwoods. It was our first camping adventure, but Dad seemed to know what to do. Mom became the primary cook and keeper of our camping quarters. Dad was the “scout leader.” Within hours of our arrival we were back in the truck, driving the rim of Sequoia's wilderness. For every animal/bird we spotted Dad paid us a dollar in spending money. We saw a family of quail waddling along the highway, chipmunks scurrying towards the tree tops, innumerable birds and eventually bears!

In the dark pre-morning, bears arrived at our site looking for food. While Dad and Mom slept in the tent, we children cuddled in the back of the pick-up. Lumbering down from the forest, two bears began creating an awful racket with the metal garbage cans. “Bears,” Mom nervously exclaimed, shaking Dad's shoulder. Groggily replying, “Uh Huh,” Dad rolled over and fell back asleep. We children sucked in all possible breath and sound and with no food left on our picnic table, the bears departed. When we went to cook breakfast the next morning, we found two plastic drinking cups with teeth marks on their rims. We kept those souvenir cups for years.

On our final Sequoia evening, Dad took us on a flashlight walk. As we hiked along a dusty road, we begin to hear strange noises. Our imaginations made these noises into growls and the growls into fierce human eating prey. “Quiet! Turn off your flashlights,” Dad suddenly warned. He led us to the edge of a small cliff, pointing down into what appeared to be a dark, redwood and fern lined cavern. To this day we swear we saw two bright yellow glowing eyes staring up at us. Dad said those were mountain lion eyes and we had hit the jack pot! Not one gasp of air escaped our little bodies as we stared and stared.

If we thought Sequoia had been an incredible adventure, Yosemite proved to be beyond belief. This was the mid-fifties, when camping was allowed right in the heart of the National Park and “fire falls” was the evening entertainment. Our camp ground formed a circle around this huge, lush meadow. Once the tent was up, we wandered over to the lodge to see what activities would entice us. Dad booked us on a half-day donkey ride and I remember wishing I could stay on my donkey forever. We hiked, we roasted marshmallows; we played with our neighboring campers. This was a kids' summer paradise.

During our first day, Dad repeatedly mentioned there would be a special evening ceremony. After supper, as twilight colored the meadow, Dad gathered us around the camp fire. He told us we had been extremely brave when the bears visited us in Sequoia; he added we had become expert animal watchers and outdoor enthusiasts. It was time for our initiation as Tribe Warriors.

We entered a darkened tent one at a time and met Dad's loving, flashlight glowing face. Sitting cross legged, speaking a strange native tongue, he placed a twine roped wooden, glazed medallion around each of our necks. This Sequoia medallion had a carved black bear face on the front. With this necklace we became initiated into the KOCH Tribe. We each received an appropriate name: I was Dancing Girl; my father was Chief Meat and Potatoes; my sister was Singing Princess; my brother was Chief Droopy Drawers; and my mother was Laughing Maiden. We treasured these medallions as if they were made of gold, and slept proudly that night.

Like the climax to a fairytale, on our final camp evening, sunset brought deer down from the hills. One young stag with new budding antlers walked into our camp site. Dad signaled us to step softly. The deer showed no fear as we cautiously surrounded him for a memorable photo. I remember being mesmerized by his elegant beauty and loving deer ever since. As darkness descended all the human families gathered to sit on blankets on the open meadow. The sky was pitch black with no flashlight or lantern lit. Our eyes strained towards the top of the monstrous, jagged mountain peering down upon us. There as if on a high wire were tiny men arranging the “show.” In an instant we saw chunks of fire streaming down the mountain, becoming a falling fountain of fire.

We never went camping again. In our teen years we once did a spontaneous weekend excursion to Sequoia/Yosemite, staying in cabins, but it wasn't the same. We grew up and Dad grew older. His stories became rants and sermons. As his adult children left, he didn't know how to hold onto us. Despite my father's dysfunction; despite my fears of him; despite our later conflicts during my college years, I want to remember the magical education he provided. I want to remember his youthful heart and yearning for a close, loving family. I want to remember his serene face whenever he was in a garden or a forest or a meadow. I want to remember the wisdom he shared with a then unresponsive teenager. And most of all I want to remember forever those yellow, glowing, mountain lion eyes.

© 2011

Simple Joy

(Published in Chicken Soup for the Soul Think Positive, 2010)

There are times I have sat in my small yet cozy home and wished for a larger living room, a tiled kitchen floor with a stainless steel glass top stove, and a new couch with matching chair and ottoman. But I have come to realize through raising a child and having family and friend gatherings that what matters is not the furnishings of my house but whether love seeps into every corner.

Over the years the hair shedding dog has slept on the couch in my absence, the latest kitten has repeatedly clawed the corners of the chair and cat pee and spit-ups have been cleaned up a thousand times from rugs, floors and down comforters. With an only child and the raising of home day care children for eight years, my house has that lived-in look. I admit I went through a period of railing against the universe each time I cleaned up the next mess: Why can't I have anything nice? All I want is simple elegance! Little did I know then that the lessons I needed to learn were just around the corner.

As the recession hit, we have felt lucky our small home is paid for. We have felt deep gratitude for our jobs and for our ability to save money for our daughter's college, although out-of-state tuition was killing us. Then our daughter recently decided to move back to Oregon to live with her then girl friend who was studying in Portland. Suddenly, my year of constant saving made me rich.

After going through a clothing and shoe shopping spree, I began reading, meditating, walking, writing. With my daughter gone, my small empty nest loomed large, surrounding me with mothering memories. Tears filled the corners. I had to begin again. I had to reinvent myself. I felt overwhelmed by my wants and needs. Yes, let's hire this guy at my husband's work to tile the kitchen floor. Let's redecorate the bathroom. Let's dig up the side garden and put in a new lawn. The house projects became endless and my self contentment diminished with each new décor I envisioned.

We made a visit to Portland, to see our daughter's new living space. We parked across the street from the five-story red brick building. There was an old fashioned broken buzzer by the locked front door, so we pulled out a cell phone to tell her we had arrived. She came downstairs and led us up to their studio on the second floor.

We entered their combined living room/bedroom which had a bed and a shelf for the non-functional television and their modest DVD collection. “Remember those large pillows in your bedroom that grandma made? They might be great for your floor in front of the television.” Her face lit up, “Yeah,” she replied. On the left side of this one open space was a narrow kitchen, capable of only one person cooking at a time. They had a small, square card table, but no chairs. On the right side was a decadently large (in comparison to the other dimensions of their studio) walk-in closet with two tall dressers and one long wooden rod for hanging their clothes. Going through this closet, one got to the tiny bathroom which had the usual wall sink, toilet and claw-foot tub with a removable shower device. Our daughter absolutely praised this bathroom because she had lived in a college dorm where the only bathroom on her floor seemed miles down the hallway.

Her girl friend had spread out a simple lunch for us of cheese, crackers and fresh fruit, plus goblets of mineral water. We had wanted to take them out to lunch, but this thoughtfulness touched us. “We don't have chairs,” they laughed as we sat on the bed or the floor to eat. The walls were covered with their own drawings; I recognized our daughter's batik cloth print covering one window shade; the vase of flowers I brought now added color to a shelf by the stove.

Memories floated to the surface of when my husband and I had first met. He stayed with me in my small studio, even smaller than the one we now ate lunch in. We clicked glasses and made toasts. I swallowed their every loving glance; I drank in their oozing of contentment, their bubbling of gratitude for simply being together.

Since their apartment happened to be located in a lovely neighborhood, a walk seemed natural. There was the bustling, trendy Hawthorne Boulevard to our right as we walked out the main entrance. We strolled the opposite way through Victorian style houses towards a meridian circle rose garden. I was captivated by the lushness of this garden which apparently was one of four, one at each corner of the tic-tac-toe-like crossed streets. The surrounding homes were a combination of well-worn two-story mansions and more modest one-story residences.

Across the garden was one such mauve-colored Craftsman. They were having a garage sale out front and there prominently displayed were a pair of chairs. My daughter and I simultaneously quickened our stride and were practically running to sit in those chairs. Each carved wood chair had a music staff design on the back and deep rose colored tweed cushions. They were perfect; my daughter and her girl friend are musicians. “We want to buy them for your apartment,” my husband and I said excitedly. The asking price was $35 for both chairs! What a bargain, we thought as we wrote the owner a check.

We proudly carried the chairs through the rose garden, down the neighborhood streets, through the halls and up the stairs to their studio. We placed the chairs by their table and Aspen and her girl friend immediately sat down in them. “We can dine elegantly now,” they teased. I have rarely felt happier than I did at that moment observing the glow on my daughter's face. It is all really so simple, I thought to myself.

When my husband of thirty years and I first met, we packed up all we owned in his van and my station wagon and drove north to Eugene, Oregon. When we rented our cozy one-bedroom duplex, we only had my childhood rocking chair and his childhood bureau drawers. We slept on a foam pad. I bought yarn and braided a rug. We found a used kitchen table and chairs plus a two person couch. My husband made my desk by copying one I wanted at a furniture store. I don't think I have ever felt more fulfilled than I was during those early years. We filled our lives with friends. We filled our lives with family. We filled our lives with love. Sitting in my daughter's Portland studio, watching her radiating happiness, I remembered and reminded myself to treasure the simplicity in my own life.

© 2010

What's for Breakfast?

Every morning when I wake up, I tiptoe around the house and open the curtains, turn on the heater, and fold up the futon bed. In the dusky silence I listen to my three year old daughter Aspen's breathing or hear her small voice trailing down the hallway, “Mommy, I want to nurse. What's for breakfast? Where's Daddy?”

We cuddle together on the green rocking chair as the sun slowly filters in through the windowpanes. “Look, Mommy, it's the morning light.” I dress myself and then help Aspen. We make sure to go potty and then she sits at the kitchen table with her stuffed friend f the day, waiting for her juice and cereal and Mommy's company.

A mother's life is full of simple, ordinary tasks, I think to myself. Many days I love opening the house to light and these daily routines. At night I ceremoniously draw the day to an end by closing the curtains, turning on artificial lights to continue the warmth and glow of the sun, and putting away the remnants o the day's activities.

Evenings bring quiet times: reading or acting out stories, building huge towers or other magical Lego structures, treating ourselves to popcorn or ice cream, listening to our favorite music. Again, simplicity.

Is this life, I mean the very essence of life? IS washing dishes, doing laundry, wiping a runny nose, hugging away pain, hugging in joy, reading stories, telling stories, licking each other's faces like slimy slugs, cooking, IT? Is this the warp that holds the fabric of life together?

Put on pajamas, brush teeth, give good night kisses and hugs, tuck ourselves in for another dream-filled sleep. Where is the deeper meaning of why I am here on this earth? It seems like I've been searching all of my life for something more, something that's really important that I'm supposed to be doing.

I wake up in the middle of the night next to the rhythmic breathing of my husband. The house radiates a humming quiet until I hear Aspen cough. I crawl across the bed and move toward the entrance to her room. I peer in and see her round, innocent face framed by her cloud-like pillow. Her arms are cuddling her brown stuffed horse. A halo of peace and contentment surround her. I want to crawl into her bed and hug her tight. I want to crawl into her bed and become three years old again.

“Where does the sun go at night, Mommy?” Nothing is simple or mundane to Aspen. Everything is wondrous and totally new.

I go to the bathroom. Let out the cat. Look up at the moon and notice the light reflecting off the lilac bushes. I feel a chill in the air, but buds are forming and it will soon be spring.

I crawl back into bed and feel the warmth of my partner's body. I snuggle closer to him. Have I told him lately how much I love him? How much I love being a part of our family?

Our lives are simple, we often tell each other: we parent and we work. I hear movement from our daughter's room. Little feet patter across the floor to our room. She drags her pillow and stuffed horse over the middle of our bed and places them and eventually herself between her father and me. I kiss her and tuck her in We sleep.

In the morning I quietly get up and open the curtains and turn on the heater. I let in the cat and feed her, put on some water to boil for tea and get dressed.

Looking out the front room window I notice a few people biking down the street. A professionally dressed woman walks briskly by on the sidewalk near our house. She stops for a moment to notice the flowers and vegetables in our garden. The school bus turns a corner; a few cars drive pass.

I hear Aspen's small voice in the background, “Mommy, what's for breakfast?”

And without hesitation I turn and tell her, “Life, dear heart, life.”

© 1995