The First Time I Saw Her

The first time I saw her name in print was on her grave. I was 22 years old. She is my namesake, who had greatly anticipated my birth, but died a month before I was born, and two days after her 44^th birthday: the same age I am today. An yet my grandmother’s legacy has lived with me my entire life – making her a saint, sometimes martyr, always an enigma larger than life.

What I know of her was she was loved dearly by grandfather whom she met packing lemons at Villa Park Orange Association. She laughed most with friends Rosie and Annie with whom she drank tequila in Tijuana. She always wore lipstick, her favorite color was navy blue and she was a sharp dresser: the visage of someone who carried herself with dignity and aristocracy inherited from our ancestors. She was the one to tell her daughters about the china, silk, and horses the family once owned.  “We are Californios, not Mexicans,” she had said on more than one occasion.

She felt the ironic, painful twist of fate the day she stood on the train platform in Anaheim in her finest heading down to the Del Mar Racetrack when the dark skinned elder in the ragged shawl asked her for directions in Spanish. Her friend chuckled and whispered sardonically, “You will always be a spic.”

It’s quite amazing the hole that is left when someone so important to your life, the link in a long family chain, is replaced by other people’s stories and none of your own.

Reconstructing the history of the citrus packing culture for my current job with the Anaheim Packing District leads me to her, the town she grew up to see if I can find a story all my own.

I found her pictures in the 1935 annual in the history room this week. She was one of the only dark haired beauties in the freshman class. She’s brooding, but also looks shy. It’s the only picture and the only yearbook there is of her, as she gave birth to my uncle the following summer. I wonder if she were pregnant at the time of the picture? Did that affect how she stood with eyes looking up through her eyelashes, rather than directly at the camera? Who was she? I’m driven to find out, to find new pieces to the puzzle.

This Pedestal for Which I Stand

Who among us does not wish for comfort? Once held, security is hard to release without the hollow feeling of desperate abandonment taking a fierce hold. Cold and scared, the newly destitute must wonder if it would have been better to have never known the wonders of a full belly, the delicate softness of silk or the freedom of travel and choice.

At least this is how I have long imagined and empathized with the forgotten fall of my Californio ancestors who lost their land, their way of life, and their privileged standing when California became a state of the union. Years of digging into the historic annals that depict their habits, clothing, character, prestige, intelligence and eventual vulnerability have fueled a longing to assuage this wound and restore their dignity through the only way I know how. Words. I tried to put these ghosts to rest through my published books (Latino Writer’s and Journalists and Rogelia’s House of Magic), two unfinished books (Born in Blood and Hauntingly Familiar) and a screenplay Standing Against the Storm: Toypurina’s Legend.

And still I shed tears for their pain.

You can’t imagine the swirl of emotions I felt watching Romeo and Juliet (playing now through November) at the Oregon Shakespeare Festival in Ashland, which placed the centuries old tale in Alta California in 1840s. As soon as I saw the silver buttons down the men’s pants, colorful sash at the hips and distinctive hat, plus the women’s full silken skirts and mantillas, I knew this was a family story come to life. I smiled broadly as if truly present to a Californio fiesta with the music that somehow has carried its tune in my heart for 200 years. I sighed when I saw the father daughter relationship between Don Capulet and Juliet that so reminds me of my grandfather and his love and protection. And the one book I still intend to breathe life into.

The American flag caught my breath though and it has stayed there, as a wall to a fresh set of tears.

From the program:

“The intimidating US occupation inevitably helps to aggravate the simmering feud between the two great families. For prominent Don Capulet, a marriage between his daughter and a respected American officer would prove highly advantageous in the face of the onslaught of the New Order. Conversely, for any ambitious American, an alliance with an aristocratic Californio family, with its wealth and political influence, would be a profitable coup.”

I must admit it is hard for me to ask for empathy via storytelling for privileged gentry. Perhaps I’m drawn to this attempt because I know as Americans we are the same. Children in our own land pick fruits and vegetables for our table, but enjoy none because it is too expensive. Children half way across the world wipe their desk clean of coal dust from the energy generated so that we may continue to use far more than our share of resources.

I want to get off this pedestal. But I fear the fall.

Transcending Work into Art

Alive soil feeds the soul as well as the body. Dead soil strips the soul spirit and the life force that it was intended to nurture. Terra (Earth) Vita (Life) fed my soul these past five days…

Spring green meadows, dotted with conifers, impossibly beautiful, rolled and undulated over the curvature of Mother Earth below me. More open land than construction, asphalt or man-made linear boxes that herald civilization. Circular, flowing soft lines – signs of life in movement, healthy, true and real – natural. This is the welcoming sight of southern Oregon.

Silence enveloped me as I walked through the woods and tall fresh, tender grass and hopped creeks as the warm May sun begged me to allow its rays to caress more of my bare skin.

Standing in the open barn, I attached wires to bee box frames for TerraVita Springs, Cousin Elise’s working farm, while listening to Bob Marley and Neal Young and looking down the fecund valley. There will be 30 hives, which means 300 frames that require a process of nails, staple gun and a tight wire that will support the honey, even in hot weather. I completed 25 frames and trained two interns to take over.

The chill of the morning mountain fog swirled around my ankles as I inoculated felled branches with Shitake mushrooms. First, pick off the lichen, scrape the bark so it’s nearly smooth, drill holes four inches apart, put in the spore (Night Velvet strain), pound it in with a mallet and cover with wax. I finished one out of the 100 to be completed.

A dream of a writer’s workshop here on this mountain bubbled to the surface. In my dream, creative wordsmiths will work in the farm in the mornings and write in the afternoon. The content and camaraderie would inform the writing. I don’t know if I’m pushing myself beyond my capabilities again – whether I will teach or simply hold space. But I know that I am drawn to honest manual labor and work with my hands to prepare food and medicine. My sweat will find rivulets for transmission in the written words as stories, poems and essays capture my relationship with self, others and nature. Swirling words transcending work into art.

Indie Films Inspire my Muse

The candles are burning, so is the incense. I’m drinking red wine on a school night past 11pm because I want to write. I haven’t felt like this in a very long time. My inspiration? The films of the Newport Beach Film Festival, the conversations they have inspired and the people I’ve met.

Saturday night, Kobe, Charity and I saw Bitter Seeds, a powerful portrayal of the Indian cotton farmers’ plight. Trusting Monsanto’s marketing, the farmers tossed their conventional seeds and bought Monsanto BT seeds believing they would yield high crops. Instead of good fortune, they have sunk into debt due to costly pesticides and fertilizer with half the promised crops and the harsh reality that they must buy new seeds every year because BT seeds are designed to be fertile only once. So connected to the land, they become utterly forlorn and distraught, feeling forsaken and deeply shamed, resulting in a suicide every 30 minutes. Afterwards we went to Alta Café for a slice of carrot cake and a discussion of the film and what we could do: vote to label GMOS in November, buy organic t-shirts, know your farmers, donate.

Jeff and I saw Winter, a film with breathtaking footage of freestyle skiing and extreme sports such as rope swinging, climbing the world’s tallest peaks without additional oxygen, free jumping, mountain uni-cycling, and more. We were captivated by these athletes’ focus, determination and fearlessness. The roper swinger employs his love of physics to calculate jumps with incredible precision and the very much loved and missed Sarah Burke, whose relentless excellence for her sport allowed women to be in the X-Games. The movie conveyed to me the exhilaration of being alive when you make peace, even welcome, fear rather than avoid it to stay safe.

This afternoon, while waiting for a volunteer assignment I engaged in conversation with a beautiful silver-haired Jewish woman from Long Island. She asked me what I did and told me she was curious because I used multiple syllable words! When I said I was an author turned business writer and community developer, she didn’t flinch. Her sister had been a NYC editor. I love when people don’t flinch at me for being an author.

Then Tim Vandesteeg, co-producer, for The Eyes of Thailand slapped down his postcards and said I must see this beautiful movie narrated by Ashley Judd about one woman’s struggle to help two elephant landmine survivors, Motala and Baby Mosha, walk on their own four legs. Turns out I was the usher for the film and also met producer/director Windy Borman, with whom I spoke with about her love for the subject and just plain nervousness an artist feels waiting to see what the audience thinks of her work, which by the way is ah-mazing!!! I felt so inspired by the film that I really hope they win an audience award.

Songs for Amy is the Irish Spotlight. Sigh. Beautiful music. Beautiful men (who can resist the peacoat?) Beautiful accents. Raw, unapologetic, fearless diving into the pain of love for the exquisite joy it brings. The bagpiper who played before the film was the gent who ran the Celtic booth where I did the majority of my book signings and whose tea shoppe I wrote my first book. I found myself wanting to be recognized in this posh crowd.  Yet  instead of going to the post film party at Muldoons and enjoying a Guinness, I came home to look through Jeff’s baby pictures with him for his last yearbook at Waldorf because honestly the film inspired me to truly engage in my life, rather than a life to be seen or envied.

Today I was part of the magic of bringing stories to life. Thankfully there are two more films in queue for this week.

An Aerial View

Whether or not memory is stored in our DNA is up for debate for some. As for me, I decided long ago that just as I have inherited brown eyes and cute toes from my ancestors, these same folk have bequeathed feelings and shared experiences – particularly as it relates to this land we have occupied for 200 plus years.

Sometimes I wish Orange County, California, wasn’t as well known as it is. Then I believe I could more easily separate it’s international fame and reputation from what I must carry on for my ancestors and what I must let go. It’s like trying to figure out a puzzle with a lot of outside commentary. I mean there is enough conversation going on in my head – I don’t need the excess baggage from the peanut gallery.

But maybe, there is something inherently positive or beneficial about this convolution that Spirit has yet to reveal to me. (Unfortunately I’m not always privy to the mysterious workings of the Universe)

This weekend I looked at a rather confusing map of the bike routes to the Great Park where I planned to attend the Artisan Food Festival.  It was easier (and more natural) to visualize the land from a bird’s eye view to understand the safest, shortest way to crisscross 15 miles. When this land was simply rolling hills of coastal sage scrub, my Spanish ancestors rode their horses for days purveying the borders. Before that Native Americans knew the land by traveling on foot. Intimate knowledge of this land has always been a slow and careful process.

On my ride, some areas were covered in native habitat and the softest wind caressed my skin. It was then I felt I could remember, just barely like a dream, a time when my bond to the earth was so close that I truly felt part of the land itself. Then I re-emerged into the traffic and cursed the millions of people who had come to suffocate me with their busy-ness, superficiality, and fierce, ugly competition making me a feel an outcast on my home. It doesn’t help that the story of how the land slipped through our fingers is also laced with deceit, corruption and pain.

At the festival  I stood in wonder at the variety of gardens – from a pizza garden to a butterfly garden to a medicinal garden. A large chicken coop housed feathered friends. There was talks or demonstrations on aqua-ponics, bee keeping, canning, bread and cheese making and all manner of preparing whole foods and healthy gardens and bodies.

As I rode off I pondered how these “transplants” had come to know my land better than I. Perhaps I spent too much time being upset about how “our family used to own all this damn land and it was stolen from us” to remember than no one in fact owns land. Ever. And maybe some people are just more inclined toward this knowledge and I can be grateful for their time and energy to teach me what I have forgotten.

It often seems life is a constant opportunity to become more humble and although always engaged, less attached.

A Return to Festivals with Kobe

My first taste of festival life came during a Grateful Dead concert in Las Vegas. I was 22. I sat on a blanket in the parking lot while a girl a few years older than me wrapped ribbons in my hair. Her diaper clad toddler hobbled around us. Her man strummed a guitar. The mushroom high was coming on, floating down like a soft cloud. Steve Miller, the opening act, had started. People were calling for tickets (miracles) and selling grilled cheese sandwiches. This was the life I had imagined (romanticized) I would have had with my hippie dad if mom had been willing to hit the road with him.

Instead I blazed my own hippie trail, writing Goddess books and selling them at Celtic and Faerie festivals, Scottish Highland Games and Pagan conferences. I brought my boys along to festivals, family pow wows, bear dances and Renaissance Faires.  When I couldn’t take them, I brought them home wooden swords and shields, medicine pouches or ceramic dragons. Eventually they started to resist going and as the eminent divorce loomed closer, these festivals became solo adventures – retreats for my free-spirited self and a reprieve from the pain and sadness.

Then last weekend, Kobe came with me to a festival at The Ecology Center’s Earth Day. I had promised it would only be two hours, expecting him to revolt. The time limit seemed to appease him so off we went.  At first he slouched behind me, as I explained the science at different learning centers about cob building, grey water systems, living roofs, and bioremediation. He perked up when we visited the chickens. He opened a bit more making a seed ball and choosing the sweet peas to go in our planting pots. By the time we got to aquaculture center, he was fully engaged.

Moonsville Collective played bluegrass music, the perfect homegrown vibe for this homegrown celebration about loving Mama Earth. He got a black bean quesadilla from La Sirena and an energy drink from Samzabon. We left after the appointed two hours with huge smiles on our faces. As soon as we got home, Kobe planted our seedlings and completely inspired by the science he learned, he dissected some flowers to show me their reproduction system and started an impromptu experiment, claiming, “I love science!”

I must admit, after he went to bed, I looked up music festivals, art shows –  Newport Beach Film Festival, Mountain Man Music in Silverado Canyon, and the Artisan Food and Art Festival at the Great Park are next on the agenda!  I know, I shouldn’t be greedy, but I can’t help but yearn for more wanderlust adventures!

Chatting with Philippe Gagnon Editor / Founder of www.CraftBeerCulture.com

In the course of my research and flagship article for Edible OC, I spoke with Philippe Gagnon, Editor and Founder of CraftBeerCulture.com. I could only use bits and pieces of his answers in the article and enjoyed them so much, that I wanted to post the interview in its entirety.

What are the current trends in Orange County local breweries?

Craft beer is definitely growing quickly in Orange County. More beer fans means more sales and that’s starting to translate into better and better selections in local bottle shops. Not only are new, smaller breweries popping up in the aisles but their limited selections are as well. The negative side of that is that prices are also increasing due to more interest and hype. Not everywhere but I have seen some outrageous prices lately that are definitely taking advantage of those who are less aware.

I hear the craft beer industry is a friendly bunch that shares equipment and often brew together. What can you tell me about this?

I like to go to Old Orange on Fridays since it’s a stone’s throw from the office where I work but on numerous occasions I’ve seen and talked to Noble Ale Works brewers who were just hanging out and supporting local beer. I spoke with one of them and he talked about how they send everyone over to Old Orange on Sunday nights when they close early and on Fridays the favor is reciprocated for the same reason. There’s a real mutual respect between brewers across the whole industry. At the end of the day they’re all just beer lovers too and that kind of respect turns into everyone helping each other out.

What is someone missing who may not know much about crafted beer or microbreweries?

First and foremost, flavor, but the thing that makes craft beer special is the community. Go to any of the bottle shares that happen every few weekends and you’ll see it in action. The same people who hunt obsessively for these rare and expensive beers are the same people that open a half dozen of them at once so that everyone at the event can experience them too. Sure there’s a touch of ego involved, but this isn’t the wine world (nor do we want it to be).

How would you describe the “beer geek?” (a term I heard in the tasting rooms)

The beer geek in my eyes is someone who actively seeks out new and interesting beers that they haven’t had before for the enjoyment of trying something new and finding a gem. There are many levels of involvement from the person trying Arrogant Bastard for the first time to the people tasting three different years of Black Tuesday. But at it’s all about passion and that comes in many different ways. Also, in my eyes, it’s important to keep the snobbery out of it otherwise you might get labeled something else.

Is there beer tasting etiquette?

There is definitely a “proper” way to drink beer but it doesn’t involve holding out your pinky out or knowing any fancy terms. When I write beer reviews I look at four distinct “experiences” which to me are the beer’s look, smell, taste, and feel. Tasting quality beer should be appreciated and done slowly and if tasting a lot of beers in one session, less is always more. You only make that mistake once (well, maybe more than once).

Please name the breweries that brew in OC and have a tasting room. I’ve got The Bruery, Anaheim Brewery, Bootlegger Brewery.

Newport Beach and Huntington Beach both brew on site and serve their own beer and I came up with a list of a few more. Orange County has a surprising number of breweries and an even more surprising amount of excellent breweries. Aside from the ones you mentioned, you should take a look at these:

Tustin Brewing Company (smog city brewery)
TAPS which win a lot of awards and are always talked about
Old Orange
Noble Ale Works
Pizza Port San Clemente
Cismontane

If you were to choose only 3 breweries to highlight, which would they be and why?

No question, The Bruery has to be on that list. Not only are they one of the best in the area, they are straight up world-class. Their beers are unlike any others that you’ll find and they’re always releasing small batch beers and seasonal variations which makes each trip exciting.

Old Orange is a great one too. They’re the new kid on the block but have been putting out some killer beer and they’re located in a business park warehouse so the vibe is very craft beer. Pair that with cool brewers who pour your beer and it’s a spot that you’ll want to check out. The new smudge pot Imperial Russian Stout is to die for as are both of their IPAs.

In the 3rd spot I’d go with either Bootleggers, TAPS, or Anaheim. I’ve only been to Anaheim of the three but I hear TAPS is amazing and I’m a sucker for Bootleggers Knuckle Sandwich. Anaheim Brewery had some great beer though and it’s in an exciting developing area. Umami burger is opening next door so it’s definitely an up and coming neighborhood.

Notable mention: Newport Beach Brewing Co – this article speaks for itself. I had a great time when I was there last http://www.craftbeerculture.com/my-visit-to-newport-beach-brewing-company-with-head-brewer-derek-bougie/

Thanks, Philippe!! Brost!Cheers! Salud! Bottoms Up!

Beer Fuels Creativity

Though I try to avoid it, I sometimes take broad sweeping glances of my world, rather than maintain a keen attention and awareness. But it’s these small details, the subtleties, the diversity and constant change that will invite an intense feeling of being alive.  Even if all you are doing in drinking beer.

I recently assigned to write an article on our local breweries, so I had to do my research! I was really intrigued with The Bruery because half of their beer production is devoted to making sour beers. Sour beer originated in 1836 at Rodenbach Brewery of Roeselare in Belgium and can be a volatile process that only the brave at heart with willingness for chaos can handle.

It’s not just bedlam that attracted me; there also is an immense amount of creativity involved. The beer ferments for a year (sometimes longer) in oak barrels that once contained wine, bourbon, whiskey or even scotch. Then fruits, herbs, vegetables another other goodies (like chocolate or coconut) are added. The result produces multi-layered several flavors.

In fact, beer tasting is similar to wine tasting, (without the lifted pinky), in that you begin with subtle flavors first then onto more multi-faceted. If you begin with a beer with many flavors then drink something lighter, the chances are you won’t detect the intricacies and the second beer would taste flat and boring.

Their tasting room in Placentia, located in an industrial complex, is entered through a warehouse like door. A chalk board tells you the current list of rotating beers available. Stacked oak barrels and ponykegs line one side of the walls, reminding you the beer is fresh.

Aaron Horwitz, the tasting room manager, took us behind the scene to see a randall, a modified filtration system, that is hooked to a hose running from the keg and another hose running to the tap. This randall is filled with sour cherries allowing the beer to pick up the tart flavor of cherries just before it splashes into your glass.

“Excuse me for partying,” says Brian, the bartender, with a laugh as he squeezes passed Aaron to get to the ten or so beers they have bottled in the refrigerator. The line is out the door even though they only opened half hour ago. Aaron excuses himself to help out.

Aaron returns with samples of Lambic, Simcoe, Columbus hops. I love touching, smelling and looking at this small flower as the essential building block. I love that it comes back to nature and something once alive feeds our diverse creativity, and tastes so damn good!

Hiking in the Forest with Jeff

The two peaks and the sway in the middle,  known as Saddleback Mountain, is my favorite landmark in Orange County.  During my research for my first novel (about my ancestors and the Native people in late 1700s) I met with a spiritual man with native California roots who told me the mountain, known as Kalawpa to the people, was very sacred. Rituals took place along the creek leading to Santiago Peak, at 5,687 feet. That was the first time I realized I could follow a trail to stand atop this mountain that had been my grounding point for so many years.

Years later, I heard people talk about the hike to Holy Jim Falls. (which is kind of a half way point to Santiago Peak).  The name is rather an oxymoron as Jim Smith, for whom the canyon and falls were named after,  was a man given to blasphemous eloquence. They say, “When he started cussing. . . he could peel paint off a stove pipe.” At this time my kids were young and I made excuses for not going. I heard about  the hour of dirt road leading to the trail with a couple of miles of potholes large enough to bury a small child in, which had torn up the undercarriage of a friend’s car. I should have taken the storyteller’s penchant for drama into account.

A couple of days ago, I told Jeff about my desire to walk up the peak and he was nearly packing his backpack before I finished my sentence. Seems he’s been hankering for a good hike since his last outing in Joshua Tree. So though we got a late start this morning and I felt like I had too much on my plate, off we went. Ahhh, nature has a fabulous way of making everything okay.

Born to Run… in the Mud

My entire family loves to run..except for me. Both sisters and my mother have run marathons. My cousins (boys and girls) have competed in races. Not me. When I was 13 my parents made me run a 5k. I barfed. And yelled. And cried. Definitely not one of my better moments.

Then my friend Hillary told me about how much she enjoyed running now that she had her Vibram five fingered shoes..which made for a graceful gait and produced finely shaped legs.. So I bought the shoes and have been a running fool ever since.. just those same 3 miles, except for now I feel strong and svelte after running. So strong I agreed to run in the Warrior Dash with my friend Scott and his team – 7 of us in total.

The race is about fun, rather than beating a time, which meant the ensemble would be part of the equation. I had one outfit for the race and one for afterwards and a new pair of knee high socks that spelled out BEER in large letters.

My cousin Jeff teased me. Which are you more excited about the race or the outfit? I looked at him perplexed. This was not a matter of choosing, I wanted it all.

The morning of the event I braided my hair, adding ribbons and bells. I caked on black eye makeup. later would come the war paint. As we raced to the start line, Sherry and I applied additional eye makeup and lipstick, just cuz we could.

We jogged first half mile splashing through mud puddles. The first obstacle we crawled under barbed wire, then hopped over a hurdle, crawl, hop, crawl, hop. Sherry ran ahead and lay on the ground calling “Warrior Down! Jump Over!” So we did. Another half mile later, we climbed a wall and slid down the fire pole. At the water station, I tossed water at Scott, so the volunteer tossed water at me. We stuck together as a team whether scaling wooden walls, crawling over nets, sliding down verticals walls, and dove head first down a slip n slide into the lake.  We then hauled ourselves onto long buoys, swim then over two more buoys. Due to lack of arm strength I required help, but the team was always there to offer assistance (by shoving my ass over the buoy and into the water).

We jumped over fire and sloshed through the mud toward a large gloppy sandcastle in the shape of a Viking helmet. I scrambled up the mud hat and as I reached the top, Scott grabbed my ankle, pulling me back down. I slopped mud on him and pulled him back.

We scrambled over each other until we crested the hill and arm in arm crossed the finish line. The announcer called, “Now that’s friendship for you. Unless they’re married, then someone is sleeping on the couch tonight.” We all chuckled.

We took a dip in the lake again to rinse off then fill a stein with beer and toast to our victory as the latest Warriors!.

Guess I was born to run.. in the mud.