TOC TEAS UP

Two things are sure indicators of Spring: ‘pits’ and legs need shaving again and Tea Parties dot the landscape. This year I was a guest of a friend at the Daffodil Tea over on Mare Island at the old Navy base. This venerable old base has a number of buildings and a wonderful little church on the premises that are worth preserving. The Daffodil Tea is one of their biggest fundraisers of the year.



http://www.stpeterschapel.org/
















The chapel--which is now the oldest Navy chapel in the country--houses a nice little pipe organ and around two dozen Tiffany stained glass windows. On this day it was filled with tea revelers and the Red Hat Ladies who seem to show up everywhere.



















After the presentation we were subjected to a political commercial that drew my ire. It was only by focusing on the memorial to the brave submariners who perished on the Thresher that I was able to hold my peace.
Some woman actually told the assembly that since the City of Vallejo(which owns Mare Island) is bankrupt and California is nearly bankrupt as well, there are no funds for restoring the stained glass. And what should we do? We should write to our useless California senators et al and try and get more bailout money for that project!! Why in the world should the people of the other 49 states be ponying up their hard-earned bucks for a private project in California? Where did this nanny state of mind come from? Listen up, Lady--raise the money privately! I'll drink your tea--and gladly. But keep your sticky fingers out of my wallet. My poor friend had her hands full keeping me from leaping out of the pew and demanding equal time under the Unfairness Doctrine.


After the chapel tour we rode in a horse-drawn carriage to one of the grand old homes on Captain's Row where we were seated for our tea. The house was filled with daffodils, lace, tea pots and more hats. We consumed pot after pot of tea and good spirits were soon restored.










We were free to explore the wonderful house complete with its set of back stairs, high ceilings, leaded glass and glorious wraparound porch with thick columns. It was fun to pretend to be back in a more elegant era.




Heading back home through the vineyards with our purses stuffed full of extra scones the kitchen staff insisted we take, I reflected on how fortunate I was to be back living in the beauty of Sonoma County with the company of old friends. I gave the afternoon 5 out of 5 raised pinkies.

TOC HEADS TO THE LINKS

I have a confession to make: I have taken up GOLF. Now that I have risen from my sick bed and have started to feel restless, I began looking for an activity commensurate with my new status in life. (That new status has a dual nature—it’s called being ALIVE and realizing I’m living in SeniorLand.)

I had played golf ‘way, ‘way back when I was a teenager and in my twenties. I remember that the golf course was absolutely the best place ever devised to find teenage boys. It’s the same now but the teenagers are retirees—I’ve already had at least 4 free golf lessons by men who “want to help.” I also am offered rides in golf carts, help carrying my bucket of balls—but wait. I’m getting ahead of myself.

I rummaged around in the basement and found my old set of clubs. I dusted them off and drove to the golf course. (SeniorLand has two golf courses) At the pro shop I asked for a bucket of balls. “And do you want large or small balls, ma’am?” And innocent moi replied, “I thought golf balls only came in one size—I’ll take the regular-sized balls.” Well! Several of the pro shop patrons just hooted right out loud. And that, dear readers, was only the beginning. (He had been referring to the SIZE of the BUCKET of balls)

They spotted the clubs I was carrying. These clubs had been custom-made around 1970. The woods are WOOD. The irons are numerous. The head covers are hand-knitted with cute little pompoms on them. I was the object of derision. I was not amused. Without going into detail I will also mention that the spikes on my golf shoes were not even allowed in the club house! These golf shoes were practically new—well, they were new in 1970 and only worn a few times. One would have thought I had appeared at the links via a time machine.

Before I could cause anymore astonishment I fled the clubhouse. I have more to relate but it will have to wait for the next posting.

Death Valley Postscript

We couldn't resist a return to two favorite desert haunts--Darwin Falls and Randsburg ghost town. The last time I was at Darwin Falls was in February, 1971. We had gone to Darwin on the happy occasion of ELECTRICITY finally coming to the small desert town. Darwin Falls was quite a ways from Darwin but still a beautiful oasis of 9 waterfalls in the middle of the desert. When Death Valley was made into a National Park it was also expanded to include Darwin Falls. And now there's a difference--PEOPLE!!! But the beauty and surprise of the falls and pools of cold water are not diminished.

This was a new sign in the rough town of Johanesburg on the way to Randsburg. These are old mining towns and they are not for wimps.

Randsberg had been a fun place in the 70ies. The same woman who tended bar back then still owns the place but she is now in her 90ies and doesn't work the hours she once did. I also remember a refugee from Los Angeles who built harpsichords in the solitude of the desert. He is gone now.

I found the town historian named Charlie in his shop-of-all-trades, aptly named CHARLIE'S. He was very friendly and filled us in on what life in Randsburg had been like since he moved there 26 years ago. By his reckoning, there are about 43 regular residents. There is more cafe and less store these days but a pretty good milkshake can still be had.

What a creative use of an old iron bedstead as a frame for an ocatillo!

A sadder state of affairs was the historic Catholic church. Poor old St. Barbara's has fallen--almost literally--into terrible disrepair. Check out the "flying buttresses" on one wall. Old telephone poles are holding up on side of the church. How much would it take to do the repairs and maintenance of such a simple, historical building? Yet 5 billion dollars can be paid out in sexual abuse lawsuits. One weeps.

We the People.......

http://constitutionus.com/



It's time to take a few minutes and re-read this important document. Then evaluate the direction this country is going in light of what the Constitution intended.

Spoiled brats with no respect for the First Amendment guarantee of free speech break windows at UNC because they disagree with the views of former Colorado Congressman Tancredo;



Citizens who oppose killing unborn children;



Nation-destroying government spending and even returning vets are labeled as 'extremists' in need of watching;



Local police are warned to take notice of bumper stickers on cars.



Dear Readers--we are in big trouble. I can only think of little things that little people can do. The fewer things we use or do that involves a tax sends a message. It seems that Washington will never stop seizing more and more of our money. But we can choose to shop online and avoid state taxes. We can buy at garage sales and bypass state taxes. We can drive less--the states lose far more money when less gas is used than the oil companies do. And as difficult as it is to do, we can make every effort to buy American. And we can put whatever bumper stickers we want on our cars!

Where's That Checkbook?

It's always sad to leave the desert but the beauty of Sonoma County softens the transition. It seems we wracked up a higher than usual number of repairs to both the Jeep and the Minnie. Our first problem was the large windshield crack that appeared in the Minnie almost overnight. The ad on the radio says to get it taken care of before it reaches the size of a dollar bill. Now what does that mean? This crack is just a long line going from the bottom up the middle--it looks nothing like a dollar bill.

Mr. T jacked up the stabilizers so high during the Big Winds that the first step was too high off the ground. Being the enterprizing sort of fellow he is, he put his tool box on the dirt to serve as a "pre-step." Bad idea--going down the steps, the tool box skidded right out from under his dainty boots and KAPOW! he rolled out of the Minnie. Unfortunately, he took the door handle aparatus with him--snapped it right off the door! (Mr. T is tuff and he is fine) A new part has been ordered but right now the RV has no access from the coach section.

Now--faced with a wide dirt road, nay, a very BOULEVARD!--out in the desert what is the natural instinct of one driving a trail-rated, hemi Jeep? FLOOR IT AND DRIVE LIKE A BAT OUT OF HELL!. It is simply what one does. Do you know at a high rate of speed one does not even feel the washboards? I think the dust kicked up might have been visible from space.

After the speedway the next maneuver was to do a few donuts--it's the proper order of things. And here is where I was the victim of some litterbug. Some scofflaw had left a crescent wrench on the desert floor where it got embedded in my poor Jeep's rear tire. All of a sudden, my cousin and I found ourselves a mile from our camp with the Jeep madly notifying me that the tire pressure was evaporating. The lights, the bells, the flashing message--the grim reality that we were dead in the water, uh, sand, with a very flat tire. Sigh and alas....

The Sandster(cousin) was not to be deterred. She FLAGGED DOWN the first pick up that came along. Oh my--pass me mah salts. These men--who were actually very helpful gentlemen--looked like recruits from the neighboring Manson Ranch. It really is amazing how many tattoos the human arms can accommodate. They offered to change our tire but the Sandster just jumped in the back of the pick up and asked them to give us a ride up to our campsite. I had no choice but to follow. I have never hitchhiked and was unfamiliar with the protocol. Not the Sandster! Oh no--we arrived back at the camp with her yelling "Oh boys! hello there!" I felt the husbands gave the strange pick up with woman waving and yelling from the back an entirely too enthusiastic greeting before they recognized their wives. However, we thanked our rescuers and paid them off with bottles of Rattlesnake beer--the typical currency of the desert.

While we recovered with well-deserved gin and tonics, the men headed across the desert to fix the Jeep and bring it back. All of us were amazed that the wrench was embedded so deeply in the tire.

And now we are back in SeniorLand. Easter is over although there are still the oddest decorations on the lawns. Has anyone yet figured out what bunnies have to do with the Feast of the Resurrection?

Back to the Valley of Death

The very high winds and pitting sand emptied the Valley of many of the campers that had begun to fill up the campgrounds for Spring Break. We had one magnificent day when we FINALLY got to return to Titus canyon. It had been ten years since our last trip through it and it was our 5th attempt to find it open.

Howling sand, cracked feet, fingers and lips, hunkering down in the faithful Minnie, coyotes howling and comforting campfires--it is mostly good. Poor Mr. T took a tumble down the RV steps and broke the door handle off--it will hold(we hope) until we get back to Bakersfield for repairs.

The amazing pup fish!

Now how did he do that? This was the brainchild of an inventive Canadian who was camping across from us at Mesquite.