Saturday, July 31, 2010

My Hometown

Santa Barbara, California. The American Riviera.

A narrow strip of land perched along the coast with island views, backed by beautiful mountains, populated by eucalyptus and oak and flowers of virtually every form. The cream color of the Spanish-style buildings contrast with the red of their tile roofs. A jewel amongst cities, streets are windy and picturesque, neighborhoods meander into the foothills.


Old Spanish Days Fiesta, Summer Solstice Parade, County Bowl, Waterfront Arts and Crafts Show under the palms along Cabrillo Boulevard, Downtown Santa Barbara Farmers Market, the Old Mission, Museum of Natural History, the Botanic Gardens, Sambo's, State Street, Andree Clark Bird Refuge, the Child's Estate, Stearn's Wharf, Cold Spring Tavern, El Paseo, El Presidio, Hendry's Beach, East Beach, West Beach, Leadbetter Beach, Butterfly Beach, the Courthouse, the library (and the best parking garage in town, "The Flush"). Museum of Art, Arlington Theater, Moreton Bay Fig Tree, Painted Cave.

Feeling comfortable walking down the street, familiar sights and landscapes, where I grew up, where so many of my memories are from, emotions swelling; I want to take it all in slowly, never wanting to forget this place, wanting to always have it right there in my memory, not letting them fade away.
Driving through certain parts of town bring back vivid memories of when I was young. Learning to ride a bike with no training wheels, learning to drive a car, my first kiss, first love, first heartbreak. It is my own personal scrapbook; anytime I want to relive a part of my life, all I have to do is go home.

Santa Barbara, California. The American Riviera. My hometown.


Saturday, July 24, 2010

Breakfast In America

At the height of the Cold War, Nikita Khrushchev, the head of the Soviet Union, and Richard Nixon, the vice president of the United States, exchanged words at the American National Exhibition at Sokolniki Park in Moscow. Known as the "Kitchen Debate", it took place in the kitchen of a suburban model house, cut in half so it could be easily viewed. An unlikely place to make history, to say the least, but on July 24th 1959 Dick and Nik did just that. The impromptu debate (through interpreters) was the first high-level meeting between Soviet and American leaders in four years. The two political heavy-weights of the century argued for their respective ideologies.

My kitchen experiences never included world leaders, but they were just as historical to me. I have written about gnocchi before. My grandmother's kitchen was the place to be, relatives milling around, eagerly waiting until it was time to sit at the table. Forget restaurants; after all, what restaurant experience can compare with eating something good made by someone you can hug? Cooking delivers its most enduring gifts when it is savored in an intimate, ancient and familiar setting, prepared by a cook and with love.

The kitchens of my grandmothers and my mother were the social center of the house, long before people transformed kitchens into showpieces gleaming with shiny granite counter tops and stainless steel appliances.

The family recipes. Whether they are yellowed with age, stained, marked and remarked, hand-written or typed, newspaper clippings, on cards, in books or on-line, they are a bountiful plethora of memories. I recently made one of my mother's recipes; despite the years and the miles, she was with us while we ate and, just for a moment, I was a child in her kitchen, sitting at the speckled white table under the window, watching her cook up another memory.

Saturday, July 17, 2010

Happy Together

When our daughter Laura was young, it was difficult for her to understand just how far away my sister Julie lived. Then, California was a long, way away. We would visit the Golden State when we could, and Julie (and later her husband Joseph) would visit us in Oregon.

It was a long trip, but length is relative. Our ancestors emigrated from Italy and saw their siblings a scant few times over the course of decades. Technology has helped to fill that gap, with cell phones and computers. Now Laura can see her Zia's pictures in almost real time as my sister uploads them to her Facebook account.

Julie and Joseph have traveled 1200 miles of highways and byways to visit us this summer. We'll share memories, poke fun at our relatives, and have a great few days recharging and reconnecting.

I know my parents wondered how both Julie and I survived each other. It wasn’t for lack
of trying; somehow we managed to co-exist throughout school without much damage and when I went away to college we actually missed one another. I think it was then that I realized she was not only my sister but one of my friends as well.

Saturday, July 10, 2010

Running On Empty

Saturday mornings, as I have previously said, are for writing. Many days I can write with ease, finding that glorious pace where the words seem to come directly from the fingers, completely bypassing the mind. Other days the trance does not come and the reality of day jobs that must be worked, due bills that must be paid and dinner that must be made interfere.

Today is one the non-trance days.


The words refuse to move f
rom that vast warehouse of memory to the half-formed sentences in my brain. It is like trying to recall a dream; they are vivid and make perfect sense at the time, but in retrospect they are cloudy, riddled with inconsistencies and no longer seem logical.

Stephen King, a highly prolific author, refers to the toolbox in his book On Writing, linking writing to physical work. Writers are craftsmen, putting down words one beside another, creating stories with words and grammar instead of bricks and mortar. Without the supplies, without the bricks and mortar, without the words and grammar, walls and stories are not written.


I show up to write, waiting for something to appear, wanting something to appear. My body showed up to the page, but my mind has yet to arrive.

Saturday, July 3, 2010

Rocket Man

I was born on the edge of the space age. The year of the first men in space and President Kennedy's historic speech, challenging the nation to land "a man on the Moon and return him safely to Earth" before the end of the decade.

Space exploration defined my boyhood. Small scale models of various spacecraft filled the shelves in my bedroom, nestled among book titles such as Tom Swift and His Outpost in Space and a double sided Little Golden Book titled "Planet" and "Space Flight". While in grade school, I somehow convinced my parents to allow me to take our television to school on days when Saturn rockets would launch carrying men into space or when capsules carrying those men would plunge through the atmosphere and splash down on the blue waters of the Pacific.

July is a banner month for space enthusiasts. On July 14, 1965, Mariner 4 arrived at Mars and gave scientists their first views of the planet at close range. Apollo 11 made the first successful soft landing on the Moon and Neil Armstrong and Edwin Aldrin, Jr. become the first human beings to set foot on another world on July 20, 1969. July 17, 1975 was the date
an American Apollo and Soviet Soyuz dock in what was the first international spacecraft rendezvous. July 20, 1976 brought us the first pictures of the surface of Mars, sent back to Earth by Viking 1, the first U.S. spacecraft to successfully land a on another planet. On July 9, 1979, Voyager 2 arrived at Jupiter and Voyager 1 arrived at Saturn, both spacecraft sending back extraordinary images of the planets and their moons. The Mars Pathfinder landed on Mars on July 4, 1997. Twenty five years after Voyager, the Cassini Probe arrived at Saturn on July 1, 2004, beginning four years of photographing the ringed planet and its many moons. On July 4, 2005, the Deep Impact space probe fulfills its mission by slamming into a comet known as Tempel 1.

We celebrate Independence Day with good food, friends and fireworks, looking to a sky filled with colorful lights, reminding us of the rocket's red glare that marked the beginning of this great nation. For those of us born to yearn for the stars, we follow the streaks of light into the sky and, as Ptolemy said during the second century AD, our feet no longer touch the earth.