Thousand Oaks

I was a little girl when I first heard of Thousand Oaks, California.  Our neighbors had kids much older than me and their daughter was marrying and moving to California.  It sounded so exotic back in the sixties.  A young bride leaving her parents for the Golden State.  I didn't occasion to speak with this sophisticate much, but I recall her saying how warm and nice it will be.  By the ocean.  Palm trees and tropical year round breezes.  I was enamored by her wanderlust.

Every once in a while as I grew up, made my own cross-country treks, settled in the mountain west, I'd think of Thousand Oaks and the dreams of Judy Grasiola.  I'm not sure that is her real name.  A Facebook inquiry to a hometown group I belonged to yielded ambiguous results.  But I'm going with what I remembered.  Anyway - I've been to California three times in my travels.  The first time was in 1987.  My wusband and I took almost a whole year and bummed around the United States in his little light blue Chevy S10 pickup truck.  We drove many miles and logged about 40 states into our National Parks passport.  That inaugural trip to the land of nuts and fruit started in northern California.  We dropped in from Oregon and took the famous US1.  A thrilling and nauseating adventure.  It is hard to remember more than 30 years later, but I am pretty sure we only got as far south as the San Francisco area.  We visited my Uncle Frank and his friend Kay.

Trip number two was in 2001 - pre 9/11.  My ex and I took the kids to SoCal for a Disney/Sea World/Legoland whirlwind.  The most memorable part of that trip was having to buy winter coats in April - in California!  It was warmer in Colorado when we departed, than when we deplaned at John Wayne Airport.  We treated my nephew Michael to Disney Land.  I recall him donning sunglasses and proclaiming what a sunny day SoCal was having.  My ex and I both chortled.  To us it was hazy and overcast.  The skies did not compare to our everlasting Colorado sunshine.  The bonus on this trip was connecting with my childhood friend - and sista of anotha motha - Pamela, and her kids at Legoland.

My last visit in was in 2014.  I drove with my youngest daughter through western Colorado, Utah and Nevada to arrive in San Diego where we stayed with my cousin Billy and his family.  His mom, Cookie is my first cousin on my dad's side.  These two were fabulous hosts with a great guest set-up.  Our own casita on the property in the hills just east of San Diego.  We were enjoying our time so much that we convinced my middle daughter to fly out and join us.  We went to the beach, ate amazing meals and enjoyed the sunshine.  Yes - finally the state lived up to it's nickname.

We also visited my childhood friend Pam again this time in Ojai - just east of Ventura.  Beautiful landscape.  But dry.  Lake Casitas, the source of drinking water for these parts was depleting.  The trees appeared to be suffering.  Landscapes were tinder.  I recognized all too clearly conditions that were ripe for disaster.  Just two short years earlier, my own neighborhood in the suburban/mountain interface of Colorado Springs was ravaged by a wildfire.  The wood slat fences designed to assure neighborly privacy fueled the flames.  Dried out decks, lack of a defensible barrier surrounding homes and even wood shake rooves contributed to the decimation.  To my untrained, but familiar eye this artsy enclave was in peril.

Now the news of fires in California are prolific and heart-wrenching.  In the past few years we have seen my friend's beloved Ojai surrounded by the Thomas Fire.  The Mendocino complex.  Napa Valley.  Southern California.  Even metropolis' like LA are barely spared.  The list of names to denote the fires is voluminous.  The headline remains the same "Largest fire in California history", but the place name is constantly changing.  The Camp fire is massive.  More than 600 people missing, though authorities are hopeful that this number will decrease as evacuees mark themselves as 'safe.'

The fire near Thousand Oaks, Woolsey, came on the heels of (another) mass shooting.  How much grief can a community endure?  No time to process a hail of bullets before a wall of fire prevails.  I cannot imagine how this childhood notion of a town with swaying palms and ocean breezes is holding up.  Reality always tempers fantasy.  These people are suffering.  The way my neighbors suffered in Colorado Springs.  Just two years past the Waldo Canon Fire, we had a shooting in the same supposedly bucolic corner of the city.  Tragedy after tragedy.  I am mentally fatigued.

I don't know what became of Judy from Edgewood Lane.  If she still lives in Thousand Oaks, I hope she was spared the sufferings of late.  If she ever reads this, I want her to know that I have thought about her and her Utopia many times over the years.  Perhaps her move to California  was an early seed of adventure planted in my pre-pubescent consciousness.  To her and for that- I am eternally grateful.

Time to write,

Jane

The Heat is On!

The heat is on!  Not really.  My heat is off, it went kaput two nights ago.  Yesterday I woke up to a balmy 63 degrees and in my half sleep, no coffee perusal at the thermostat I was confused.  It was set for 70, but I was cold.  A cup of joe later, it all became clear.  The heat wasn't working.

I live in a nice townhome that we rent from a nice lady.  But she is a senior and a widow and utilizes a management company to save her from headaches like this.  So I don't call Rose.  I call the middleman.  Or, more accurately in this case, middle women.  The management company is newly owned by two former female employees that bought out the company and renamed it to reflect their first names.  J & J Management Co.

I enjoy an early morning go-round of voice mail.  Press this, wait for an entire message, leave my own plea for warmth and then?  Wait.  At nine am when I am sure a human will answer the phone I try again and connect with one of the J's.  Oh, yes.  She got my message.  The HVAC company has been notified.  I'll get a call.  Not one to sit around all day, I go to Nia.  I go to Al-Anon. I bring my phone to two places where I cherish no interruptions, but I will need to take this call.  I shouldn't have bothered.  No buzzing or blinking.  No courtesy call.

I am driving home from my meeting and decide to call Rose, just to confirm she is in the know.  She is and she is also surprised that at one-thirty nothing has been done.  No worries I tell her I'll call one of the J's, and I do.  This time I am reassured a call and appointment are forthcoming.  OK.  I can go home and wait.  Chill out.  Chillax.

I'm kind of handy.  I've been joking with my own two girls recently that I am a genius.  Because I know little things.  Big things.  Some things.  Nothings.  It has been a fun little joke.  I decide to take myself seriously and tackle the heater.  I used to live in a house with a furnace and a man.  I'd watch while he fiddled and fixed just about anything.  How hard could it be?  My instinct was the door switch.  I'd had to push the door in tighter recently, and even secured it with duct tape.  My favorite go-to tool.  Silence may be golden, but duct tape is silver.

So I switch on the thermostat, take off the door and press the button in.  Hard.  On comes the heat.  I decide to tape the switch down and see what happens.  I have a voila! moment.  The furnace is cycling on and off according to the thermostat settings, the house is warming up.  I am proud.  Preening.  I tell my girls via text that I really am a genius.  The HVAC company calls and I tell them don't bother to come.  I don't need a man with a tool belt and biceps to warm me up.  I call the J's and leave a message.  We're good.  I saved the day and Rose some money.  I am truly beside myself and my abilities!

Darkness falls and it is shower time.  I decide to really crank the heat up.  To like 78.  I never do that.  Get a sweater.  Wear socks.  Put mittens on.  Drink hot water.  I can sound just like my dad at times.  But I am thinking, maybe intuiting, that if the heat decides to die again, I should at least blast the furnace as a preventative measure.  I can't hear the heater blowing while in the bathroom with the water cascading and the exhaust fan going.  I can't hear the heat when I step out to towel off, because of the fan and the closed door.  I switch off the exhaust, open that door and hear...  nothing.  Shit!  I look at the thermostat and it is a balmy 72 in the house.  OK and crap.

I dress in pajamas, my usual work clothes, and open the closet that houses the faulty furnace.  I press buttons, utilize tape, tap the buttons on the thermostat, toggle the on/off switch.  Nothing.  I am really bummed.  Now it is after hours and I've missed my window of a service call.  I humbly call back the HVAC company and the J's and tell them I am not a genius.  I did not fix the heat.  I do not know what I am doing. I may need a man in coveralls after all.  Dammit.

The oil filled space heater in the living room has done a damn good job of keeping the main areas of the townhome warm.  I debate between arm-wrestling my daughter for whose room should house that trusty standby this evening.  I decide upon hers.  My room faces the sun most of the day.  Hers does not.  She comes in late from her restaurant  job, and needs to shower.  That would not be pleasant at the frigid midnight hour.  I grab some pot holders and carefully wheel this apparatus across the townhome.  Being ever so mindful of not inflicting second degree burns upon myself.

Finally, just now, a man who is really wearing coveralls shows up.  Yeah!  I'll let him mess with the heater.  The furnace.  The boiler.  I don't care what we call the dang thing, I just want it fixed.  I'm OK with wearing mittens, a sweater and socks.  I'm alright drinking decaf all morning to stay warm, but not buzzed.  I'm strong - I can handle this minor inconvenience,  But only for two nights.

Time to Write,

Jane

Ballots and Bullets

I voted on Tuesday.  Actually it was Monday night, via a drive-by collection box.  My county of residence sent an "I voted" sticker with my ballot and it is somewhere in the bottom of my purse.  I did intend to don it, but I forgot.  Maybe people who don't vote should be the ones to wear stickers.  They could say things like "I don't care" or "Who gives a shit?".

I do care and I do give a shit.  And even though it is just one vote, it is important enough for me to take the time to wade through the voluminous ballot, discuss the initiatives with someone else, read the accompanying  booklets and frankly hope for the best.

Colorado now has a gay governor who introduced his partner as the "First Man of Colorado".  That's worth noting in a state that passed Amendment 2 back in 1992.  Even Barbra Streisand spoke out against it way back then, encouraging fellow Hollywoodians to boycott Aspen in protest.  It must have been important if she spoke out!  Sarcasm, here.

Jared Polis is also Jewish.  I'm personally hopeful this will be positive for Colorado.  The state I have called home - on and off for almost 40 years - has a history of prejudice.  Lynchings, an active KKK back in the day and perhaps even now. Polis's opponent, Walker Stapleton's grandfather was a hood carrying member in the 1920's during his five term stint as mayor of Denver.  But hey, that's crosses under the bridge.

I'm happy Congress will be decked out in blue.  I feel my health care is safer.  Not perfect, but as a person with a serious pre-existing condition I feared the red tide of stripping protections.  I try not to think about Medicare and Social Security.  It is my head in the sand moment.  I just hold out that when I am eligible, it will still be available.  But really, who knows?

I listened in full to the president's press conference yesterday.  Ironic to tune in while in Boulder and turn off in Arapahoe county.  45 was like a street thug, itching for a fight.  So what if he wears a designer suit?  Pedantic and uninformed, in my humble opinion.  I was impressed to learn how every world leader congratulates him FIRST THING when they meet.  I can only imagine the real words - loosely translated.  "Mr. President - a warm congratulations on bamboozling the American people into voting for you.  We did not realize how many stupid people live in the worlds (formerly) most powerful country."

Time to step off my soapbox and ponder another mass shooting.  They come rapid fire these days.  I am hardly through processing Pittsburgh, Kentucky, Parkland, Vegas and Orlando.  Now I add Thousand Oaks to my list of sad cities.  I have lived in places where events have caused collective community grief.  I lived in JeffCo during Columbine.  Colorado during the Aurora shooting.  A niece on my ex's side was in the theater next to the tragically picked shooting gallery.  I had never received a group text before.  "My kids are safe".  I was confused.  Clarity came all to quickly.

Every time I clear my head.  Every time I pray for the victims and the families.  Every time I hear the political rhetoric of don't politicize these events.  Every time I cry.  Every time I wonder...  Did my vote count?  Will there be change in our perceptions?  Our values of human life v make my day?  Time to turn the dial to music.  The 24 hour news cycle is not good for our mental health.  If you hear crazy voices in your head?  Turn off FOX.  (and the others)

Time to Write,

Jane