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One thing I am learning to absorb is the social angst that can come from living in a town this small. I was standing outside of our painting class recently, talking with the 3 other women before we all left the scene and one of them said to another woman, “hey, it’s my birthday this Wednesday, I hope you can come to my party”. The invitation was for one of us but not for the other two. We were all standing and talking together. This kind of thing happens all the time. Everyone is kind of friends but some people are better friends. Because it is such a small place, you almost always know when you are not invited to a gathering. I frequently have the experience of being somewhere in a small group and two or three of the women will start talking about an upcoming event to which I am not invited.
I have experimented with different ways of coping with what feels like repeated rejection. One way, has been to go home and complain and vent and rant and whine to Blase about the middle-schoolishness of clique behavior here. That’s gotten a bit old for dear Blase and doesn’t help me much in the end. Last week, I tried another approach. I just went up to a friend whom I’d heard was having a little party and asked asked about it until they felt required to invite me. Though I ultimately got the invitation by inviting myself, I did not feel very positive about actually attending the party. This technique felt too passive aggressive for my comfort. My new plan is acceptance and thick skinnedness. It is a small place. In the city, there is anonymity and volume so groups of friends do not often overlap. They can orbit in different realms of your life so overt social exclusion within your own social scene is rare. Here, it is inevitable. When you plan a gathering, if you don’t invite everyone, you are excluding people who you consider friends. The lines between friends, acquaintances, and good friends is very fuzzy here so drawing lines can be a tenuous and reckless act.
Now that the blueberry farm is open, we go every Saturday morning to pick a few pounds. Despite the potentially dire consequences, the owners allow you to eat as many berries as you can while picking. Ossian tends to eat at least a pound while she’s “harvesting”.
Blueberry picking, while tasty and practical, is equally a social event. The only things juicier than the grape sized blues that fall into your bucket before your hand even makes contact, are the sound bites of local gossip wafting through the air as you walk from aisle to aisle in search for the biggest berries – or the latest dirt. Clutches of women in sun hats crouch and chat – the most confidential gossiping usually takes place deep into the blueberry rows. Meanwhile, kids gorge themselves on berries, jump in the woodchip pile, and run down the aisles propelled by glee. It’s a charmed ritual that has left our freezers, bellies, and diapers full of bluberries and our minds full of scintillating tidbits.
We feasted on tacos al pastor to mark Blase’s 35th birthday last week. 35 is such a grown up number. It’s the age at which you can no longer think of yourself as someone in their early thirties. When you are in your early thirties, you can imagine yourself as new to the thirties, really just beginning to say goodbye to your twenties. You can even think of the early thirties as the late 20’s. At 35, however, there is no more fooling yourself. 40 is the next big one and then 50. You’re halfway to 70 at this point. Oh, but it’s just a number anyway. I’ve started to get a new look from folks in their 20’s when I tell them I am 35. It’s a faint, but now recognizable look of mild shock. Like they didn’t realize they were hanging out with someone who was THIRTYFIVE. I’d never gotten that look before turning 35. Sometimes, I get the “you DO NOT look 35”, which is both compliment and reminder. It means that 35 has a look – more crow’s feet or stayed clothing or something. I know what they mean. I used to think that, too – back when I was just a twentysomething.
At the end of Blase’s birthday dinner, we found a pair of shoes on the porch. One of our friend’s had forgotten to wear their shoes home. That is a sure sign of summer in Petrolia.
Violet came up from Oakland for the weekend. She brought her parents so that Blase and I would have someone to play with while she and Ossian made art, lounged in the pool, and generally ran wild. The girls are cute pals – trading shoes, bike riding, and spontaneously hugging.
Justin, Amy, Blase, and I enjoyed cocktail hour at the river while the girls covered themselves with sand. We all slept well after joyful days of summer frolicking.
The Horner-Lemleys joined us for the monthly pancake breakfast at the Grange hall. This is the closest thing to eating out that we have in the Mattole Valley. I’d have to be on my deathbed to miss breakfast at the Grange. They cook the food, bring it to your table, AND wash the dishes – all for just $6. It’s also one of the rare social events that brings together the two main cultural groups here – the “ranchers” and the “hippies”. Some will mention a third and fourth group, the “rednecks” and the “homesteaders”. I’m not big on labels and certainly don’t think these capture the odd diversity of individuals here, but these labels are standard terminology in our neck of the woods. This month, some of the x (you guess the group), smuggled real maple syrup into the Grange and passed it around in place of the Mrs. Butterworth’s on the tables.
Our new Mattole currency was for sale. One community member took it upon himself to design and produce currency – made of gold and silver. His goal is for the valley to be self-sufficient and the currency is one piece of his grand plan.
There was a fire drill after breakfast outside the Grange. Clusters of our friends and others stood by in their bright yellow uniforms awaiting the landing of the fire helicopter. It was endearing to see Petrolia and Honeydew characters in uniform – all members of our volunteer fire department. The kids were mesmerized by the helicopter as it circled and made a ruckus to land.
what’s an avatar? seems like everyone but me knows.
I just added more documentation to the “on our way to the store”entry (June 12th)…. FYI. Some very important additions… lots of distant, blurry photos of subjects that only really interest me. Ahhh, the beauty and danger of a blog.
I’m smitten by my children. Even though I’m ragged, dirty, and strung out from several sleep deprived nights of mothering, complimented by a turbulent day spent nurturing a volatile toddler, at the end of the day I am just in love. I may have to crab at the husband, scapegoat the dog, and fiend for chocolate to manage my exhaustion, but darnit, I love these little girls. They wear footie pajamas and laugh at my jokes. Intolerant of agendas or rushing, they undermine my automatic multitasking, demand that I be fully present… a challenging and healthy thing for me to experience.
Today, we made nachos and painted rocks for father’s day with Unesai and Nick.
Gheez, I love that husband, too.
I know I’ve talked about this before but I feel that I need to go over it again…. let’s talk about all the things we see on our way to “town”. We definitely see deer and tiny bunnies that hop out of our way just before our feet hit the brakes. We often see pelicans. We always see cows and sheep – usually some standing or laying in the road as well as the more conservative ones that stay on the shoulder or behind a fence. We always see quail, vultures, and turkeys, and horses. If we’re lucky, we’ll see the elusive emu who lives on the outskirts of Petrolia (that’s the large black dot on the first photo below). Sometimes. we see foxes, coyotes, and bobcats. Always, there are hovering red tailed hawks. Nowadays, we see lumpy expanses of blooming lupin and tall grasses blowing in rhythmic waves. Last week, I saw a white cow galloping across the side of voluptuous hill (the blurry white blob in the 3rd photo below). He was sort of the Bo Derrick on the beach of his cattle community.
Until recently, our meditative drive is only occasionally peppered with a passing car. The warming of the season has made our landscape ridiculously scenic. As it does every year, the steady trickle of tourists has begun. The trickle, so I hear, will become a stream over the course of the summer. The tourists, not fanny pack wearing disneyland shoppers, but more the fleece and Tivas types who pull over to photograph the ocean. Also some retirees humming down the road in gleaming RV’s. We’ve been getting our share of large herds of precious little sportscars. Whole clubs of them out for the day. The sound of the wind and chainsaws on Mattole Road interrupted by 10-15 sportscars parading through. There are also the backpackers who come to explore the lost coast. Clutches of motorcyles have been throbbing through lately, too. All smiles after what had to be glorious biking down the twists, turns, and vistas of the Wildcat. There are also a few rogue bicyclists who always earn my amazed reverence as they rock back and forth, iron calves pumping pedals up our steep terrain.
On my last trip to town, I passed 14 or 15 cars during the hour it takes to drive the Wildcat ( the road that takes us to hwy 101 and civilization). This was an unprecedented amount of traffic, a sure sign of the coming summer. Usually, I’ll see 3 or 4 cars during that stretch of our drive. Sadly, I’ve seen also seen logging trucks hauling out monstrous old growth trees. In our 6 months here, I’d never seen that until a few weeks ago but now I see 2 or 3 of these trucks on every trip to town. Not sure why now or where exactly they’re being harvested but it’s a bit like seeing a whale in captivity -except the trees are obviously more than just captive, they are dead.
The 5th photo is of my favorite horse who lives in Capetown, on the Wildcat.
Today, Nola, Ossian, filthybabyemma, and I took our new double jogger out for it’s maiden voyage. After our pediatrician ratcheted down my anxiety about putting a two month old baby in a jogger and told me it was a totally fine thing to do, the girls and I went shopping and bought our new rig. Ossian named it “Sissy the Jogging Stroller”. Nola seemed to love the view from her reclined front row seat and Ossian inhaled grapes and kept saying that she was “fascinated”. I felt like I was driving a rickshaw or something, the thing is so big – like a Suburban of strollers. An alien spaceship would be no more out of place on these country roads than our conspicuously bright orange, tricked out, double jogger.
The stroller itself weighs about 25 pounds and the two kids weigh 44 pounds combined. So, that’s 69 pounds plus baby emma, snacks, Ossian requisite mobile library, water bottles, and the full diapers brings it up to 70 something pounds of nylon, mesh, flesh, and metal that I am pushing in addition to my own postpartum self. This is all a great excuse for my pace which was slower than an entrenched bureaucracy. Ossian kept yelling, “faster! faster, mommy..RUN!”. She really cracks the whip when I slow for oxygen, water, or rest.
Ossian has recently taken an interest in what clothing she wears. On good days, this results in wildly patterened, exuberantly colorful ensembles that make us feel proud, entertained, and a bit overwhelmed all at the same time. Some of today’s photos give a flavor for the kind of fashion funkiness that is emerging in our little O.
Also emerging is Ossian’s demonstration of love for Nola. She has always been sweet with her but recently, she’s bowled us over with spontaneous outbursts like putting her hands gently on Nola’s cheeks and saying “I love you baby Nola.” Other times, she’ll just stop what she’s doing and go to baby Nola and kiss her gently on the forehead and say “hi baby Nola”…
Last weekend, we loaded up the fam and went on our first family trip. Our destination was the Music and Arts Festival on the Eel River in Benbow. We rented a very overpriced but convenient and comfy trailer in Benbow for the weekend and relished the “just for fun” basis of our little trip. This is a very different kind of travel – in contrast to traveling “to a conference”, or “to visit relatives”, or “to load up a moving truck and move out of our house”, or “to have a baby”, etc.
There were lots of white people with dreadlocks and an equal amount of swirly dancing – a true Humboldt County scene. Aside from great moments including Ossian hula hooping, wading in the river and dancing to our friends’ band – Sambada, the highlight was when Ossian got on stage. A children’s musician named Lisa Monet invited kids onto the stage and Ossian was eager to go. She was the only little one that took the invitation and she stood behind the microphone, frozen as if caught in the headlights, for three songs. She kept asking to go on stage the rest of the weekend and is now asking for a stage at home.
For several weeks, Ossian has been very focused on using the potty instead of her diaper. This has been very exciting but created some akward moments over the weekend when she announced it was “poo poo time” on the street in Garberville and had her pants down and project underway by the time we looked down in response to her announcement. With no other choice, we then spent the next THIRTY minutes standing guard as she completed her project and celebrated her first non-diaper poo poo somewhere besides home.
The last photograph below is the first photo Ossian has taken all by herself. I am so proud of her accomplishment that I am posting it despite how blatantly it depicts my greenish-yellow teeth (yes, I do brush frequently!), my bad hair day, and my dumpy mom uniform. Oh, the sacrifices we make for our children…
life on the lost coast 
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