Memorial Day Week

The light during the eclipse was an eerie
mashup of twilight and high noon.

It's been a quiet week in Lake Wobegon; and for me, it's been an eventful two weeks in Palm Springs. For starters there was the annular eclipse, an event we shared with a goodly portion of Asia and the Western US. I watched it from Bob and Doug's back yard. I didn't see the ring of fire but the effect on the land below was note worthy. The quality and angle of light was eerily beautiful – a mashup of high noon and twilight.

I have become very aware of light here. Light and heat are the dominant sensations in these parts. During the day, the intensity of both nearly obliterate the other senses. The beauty of the land, and there is a tremendous amount of beauty here, is best appreciated in the early morning or late in the day when both the light and heat are tempered enough to allow for color, scent, and sound to hold their own. At night, floodlit, the sky a jeweler's drape, the architecture of the city emerges like a still glamorous lady of a certain age who understands the importance of good lighting. So much of the architecture here looks best in soft light.

Archetypal mid-century courtyard apartment complex in the
Warm Springs neighborhood

I have begun to meet people. From the small sample, I am encouraged that the diversity I have been missing is abundant here. I have met two neighbors, which given the summer occupancy of this complex is probably about 40%, is not bad. My neighbor on the left is a retired school teacher. She smokes on her back balcony on late afternoons when the sun has dipped to the other side of the building (morning smokes are on the front balcony. Often I sit out at that time to enjoy the afternoon light. Sometimes we chat. The neighbor across the way is another retiree from Los Angeles. Don't know much about him yet.

Lobby area at The Parker

I met a man, retired AT&T employee, who is half Navajo, half Cherakowa Apache. He has greatly aided a reexamination of many of my cultural assumptions. He is not Indian or Native American as in Amerigo Vespucci. He is half Navajo, half Cherakowa Apache. He is a dessert person. He has spent the bulk of his years in New Mexico, Nevada, and Southern California. He lived on the East Coast for several years and hated it. He was unfamiliar with the land and uncomfortable with the people. When Tony talks about people he is talking about the original inhabitants of the land. His discomfort was with the energies of the native peoples of the Southeast US.

Tony's perspective on the world is as a Navajo/Apache through a libertarian filter.  He is not optimistic about the current state of civilization. He has many observations regarding how out of balance things have gotten. I don't share all his views but I do agree with his assessment of how interesting (as in old Chinese curse) the times are in which we live.

Lemonade garden with bocci court at The Parker

His has conviction that he is a member of a species of humanity on the verge of extinction. It has been predicted by his elders for generations. He is very fatalistic about it all. His plan is to escape to Portugal, where he owns a small apartment, as soon as he reaches retirement age. From his perspective, Portugal is a third world country and knows it. The US has become a third world country and is still oblivious to the fact. As I said, I am beginning to meet people.

My brother and sister-in-law were in town for nine days. They looked at a fair amount of real estate and we checked out several local eateries with mixed results. Lulu, Rick's: good. Wang's: awful.

As a tour guide I blew it, though. Today, thanks to a friend who also moved here from Sarasota, I was introduced to one of the many hidden treasures of Palm Springs.

The Parker Hotel and Resort was once Gene Autry’s Melody Ranch estate. It was, for a time, the Merv Griffin Resort, then the Givenchy Hotel and Spa—and now, it’s part of Parker-Merridien Hotels and known as simply The Parker. The public areas have been restored to their multi-decade splendor. There is a mix of 50s, 60s, and 70s decor including Mr. Parkers a restaurant that looks like it awaiting the momentary arrival of the Rat Pack,

Indoor and outdoor dining is open to the public

Just over the garden walls that ring the property is busy Palm Canyon Drive. Once inside the walls, you are in a secret pleasure garden with fountains, pools, and abundant greenery. It is a place of sybaritic retreat and indulgently clandestine trysts for the wealthy and famous. There are many such places in Palm Springs and I intend to check out as many as possible. If you want to see more photos of The Parker go the link above or check out my Facebook album.

I can see that there is more to this place than meets the eye, especially at mid-day. I look forward to discovering more hidden places for myself — and for the blog.

Settling In

Unconditional Surrender

So far, the move here has been pretty easy. Registering the car, reclaiming my California driver's license, changing addresses, were accomplished without any problems. The biggest adjustment to living here is adjusting to living here. 

Some days I feel like Palm Springs is the Bizarro World version of Sarasota – or vice versa. Sarasota is hot and humid. Palm Springs is hot and dry. Sarasota is on the water. Palm Springs sits on a huge aquifer but is surrounded by dessert and mountains. 

Marilyn Forever

Sarasota has the monumentally kitsch "Unconditional Surrender" by Johnson & Johnson heir Seward Johnson. Palm Springs has the monumentally kitsch "Forever Marilyn" by Johnson & Johnson heir Seward Johnson. Medical marijuana dispensaries in Palm Springs are as common as OxyContin peddlers (often referred to as doctors) are in Sarasota. 

Both cities have a sizable retirement community, but with a population of 55 percent LGBT, the 70 somethings at World Gym or Gold's here are a very different breed from the country club set in Sarasota. 

Welcome to The Hotel California

Palm Springs is a small city two hours from LA, San Diego, and Las Vegas. Within a short drive, you can be in the mountains, the high dessert, or the coast. In many ways it looks and feels like the resort town it was in the mid 60s. Many of the mid-century modern homes and hotels once frequented by Hollywood elite have been lavishly restored. The skyline is still low thanks to strict building codes.

I'm still building a pattern of life here. I suspect it will take some time. Now that I have taken care of the move logistics – except for changing my medical plan – I have to start working on what I'll do here. 

A five-minute walk from my place

One of the biggest problems for me in Sarasota was finding things of interest to do and like-minded people to do things with. It's already clear there is no shortage of like-minded people here, but the real work that lies ahead for me is to see if my idea for an import business is viable. I am encouraged that I have already made a few contacts for my information gathering and I hope to go to LA soon to check out the market there.

In the meantime, there is the area to explore. My brother and his wife are here this week which provides me a good excuse to check out some of the local sights. 

"There's rosemary, that's for remembrance...

Day two in Palm Springs.

With no idea how long it would take, I set out to get the car registered in its new home state and to resurrect my California Driver's License. Not only did I accomplish both of those tasks, I also did a Trader Joe's and Target run. I was on a roll. When I got home, I went to Facebook and saw Gretchen Michelfeld's post.

"This afternoon at approximately 2:30 pm, Beatrice Terry Lopez died peacefully and pain-free. She was home with us. Surrounded by her family. Bathed in love."

I looked up from the computer at the bronze casting of Mercury I brought with me from Florida. The light hit the statue in such a way that the god seemed to manifest from light. I was overcome with a sensation of Beatrice, beloved of Mercury, manifesting into light.

The god of communication showered Beatrice Terry Lopez with all of his gifts. Each muse visited her with astonishing talent.  Mental images of Bea performing, singing, composing, writing, directing, and teaching flood over me.

I met Beatrice when she was a student at ACT in San Francisco. A friend of mine was teaching at the conservatory. Bea was her student and part-time au pere. In performance, it was clear she had a huge talent as an actress, singer, and dancer. Her gifts in composing and writing had yet to show themselves.

Beatrice's heart was even bigger than her talents. She eschewed the fame chase and devoted herself to teaching at a private school where she divinized children's theater with adaptations and original productions exquisitely tailored for young performers. Her gifts as a director brought out performances from her pre-teen ensemble that blew away audiences. The production of "Krishna in Hollywood" – written, composed, and directed by Beatrice Terry is legend. Her musical about Leonardo Da Vinci is Broadway worthy. Bea understood better than anyone I knew the sacred roots of theater. For her, theater was worship.

I know less of her career in New York City.  She was involved with many Broadway productions including "Spring Awakening," "Memphis," and "Gods of Carnage." I saw a studio production of a show she wrote while at Sarah Lawrence that was as good as any of the plays by other artists she nurtured to the stage.

Bea's glorification was her relationships – her family, her students, her friends, her co-workers. Most glorious of all, the off the charts glorification, is her marriage to Gretchen and the product of their collaborations, the inimitable Beckett. My heart goes out to both of you.

Dearest Bea, thank you for being among us and sharing so much with so many of us. I know you are in a better place. As much as I'll miss your physical presence, I'll look forward to meeting again "some time, somewhere, some how." Until then, God's speed and, thanks for the visit.

A Gentle Landing in Palm Springs

Saguaro blossoms courtesy
of the photographer

Once I left San Antonio, my goal was to get to Palm Springs post haste without killing myself. On Saturday, I made it as far as Lordsburg, New Mexico - 764 miles. A long day made easier by 80 mph highway speeds in Texas and 75 mph most of the rest of the way. Sunday I completed the 538 mile drive to Palm Springs. I left Lordsburg at 8 am MDT, and pulled into Bob and Doug's in Palm Springs – to pick up the key to the apartment – at 3 pm PST.

Gas station cat

His pal

I took only a few pictures. I probably should have gotten at least a snapshot of the Saguaro cacti in bloom and the boulder formations at Texas Canyon, but I was in road mode not wander mode. I did get two cats when I stopped for gas that I'll post here and on Facebook. Pure pandering to the cat people there, but they were interesting looking cats.

Bob took me down to the apartment and helped me unload the car. After a brief orientation and the discovery that the router was fried, he left me to move piles of things around for awhile before joining him and Doug for dinner back at their house. Of course, the first thing I did was find a wireless network I could join temporarily and, hallelujah, I succeeded.

The living area with Mercury

Looking into the dining area and
the Chinese vase

I arranged bags and boxes around the apartment placing things in approximate locations and called my friend from Sarasota who had moved here in December. A brief provisioning trip to get breakfast stuff, a delicious home-cooked meal of grilled chicken and tobouleh prepared by Doug, and I crashed at 10 pm, road weary, well-fed, and pleased beyond measure at were I had landed.

 Today, I started unpacking, placing  the Chinese vase I rescued from a dumpster in Washington DC, and a bronze casting of Bologna's "Mercury" gifted to me by a dear friend, to personalize the place. I  continuously marveled at what a lovely environment Bob had created. I am most fortunate to have landed in such a place. Having landed, the next steps are settling in and taking care of move stuff.

My bedroom

I will continue to blog this transition into tabula rasa for my own benefit and for anyone else who is curious. Going through the aisles at Ralph's last evening getting a few things I realized that this move is a big deal for me personally. What that deal is is anybody's guess. I have moved to Lotus Land but I didn't come here to succumb to earthly pleasures. I think there are some valuable opportunities waiting to exercise balance in the near future.

Sarepta

Catalpa blossoms, my first impression of Sarepta

Last summer, on my road trip cross country I took Interstate 10 through Louisiana. West of New Orleans, the highway crosses through bayou country for a long stretch. It is a beautiful journey and at the time I decided I would go back there and do some exploring. Serendipitously, when I started planning my move to Palm Springs, I made contact with Eddie McMurray who lives in Sarepta, Louisiana, about 40 miles from Shreveport. Eddie and I corresponded, talked on the phone and he invited me to stop through Sarepta on my way to California. So, after a short visit with family in Alabama, I drove Interstate 20 across Alabama, Mississippi, and Louisiana and arrived at Sarepta for what was an unexpected adventure that also included some bayou exploration.

St. Peter Mission Baptist Church where Eddie
was interim Minister

As a congenital Southerner (my mother, father, and brother were all born in Alabama) I have always had deep, mixed feelings about my heritage. As a boy I summered in various parts of Alabama. I have already written about how much I love Lake Martin. My memories of staying with aunts and uncles, of food fresh from the garden, of fish fries, barbecue, cornbread, and fried chicken from chickens that were running loose in the back yard earlier in the day they appeared on the dinner table are golden. I relish he time I spent exploring woods and fields, swimming in lakes, creeks, and the Gulf of Mexico. I grew up reading Faulkner, Styron, Harper Lee, Eudora Welty, Joel Chandler Harris. I owe a good deal of my college education to as tory I wrote about my grandmother's funeral that earned me a William Faulkner Scholarship at the University of Virginia. I felt a special connection to Thomas Jefferson. My ancestors included, Sephardic Jews, and French Huguenots who settled in the deep south. I am descended from Creek Indians who were chased from their lands in Alabama during the trail of tears.

The old town has been replaced by strip malls
and fast food restaurants on the main highway

I cringe at the current politics, but then I cringe at the state of politics everywhere. I respect the beliefs of many in my family even if I don't share them. I wonder what became of the great literary tradition. And I miss the home cooking.

The first thing that struck me about the area is how much it like where I had just come from in Alabama. Indeed, the three states have much in common in terms of land and civilization. We may be one nation under God, but we are not one nation demographically. Even in what we call "the south" there are fundamental differences. Alamissiana is not Texas, is not Florida. But I digress.

Me and Eddie at the marker where bank robbers Bonnie Parker
and Clyde Barrow were ambushed an killed.

Sarepta is in northwest Louisiana. It was once the site of one of the largest paper mills in the US. Today most of the people who live here work in local service businesses and restaurants or commute to Shreveport or other nearby towns. Sarepta is home to C&W singer and actor Trace Atkins. My host Eddie grew up in Sarepta. He had a successful career as a concert pianist and lived away from Sarepta for many years. He moved back here to help care for his centenarian mother. Today, he teaches piano  and Bible studies. He has also served as interim minister at one of the many local Baptist churches. He lives with three other men who he has known for years. He is also an unofficial counselor helping many people with their personal problems.

Eddie's father was principal at this Rosenwald School
that is now in ruins.

Eddie is a marvelous host. He took me touring to several of the local bayous and nearby towns. He took me to the Bonnie an Clyde Authentic Ambush Museum where I met L.J. "Boots" Hinton, Museum spokesman and son of Deputy Sheriff Ted Hinton, participant in the actual ambush. According to L.J. and the exhibits in the museum, the movie that was such a formative influence in my developing aesthetic when I was at university, was about 5% true. At least once percent is their sense of style. They were young, and very stylish, and good looking. No wonder they were such popular figures in the depth of the depression.

And as much as I enjoyed seeing the bayous, what I really enjoyed was getting a look into the lives of the people I met. I'd like to thank Eddie, Vila, John, Steve, Vinnie, Michael, Rod, and all the other people who helped me reconnect with my southerness in a positive way. At the risk of sweeping over simplification, I found that one on one southern hospitality is still intact. That one on one people connect with the heart first. If matters of the head – race, or religion, or politics, or social issues – get involved, all bets are off. 

Cypress trees

Non sequitur

The power went off for over two hours while I was working on this blog entry. Two hours of media and technology deprivation  No Internet or no TV news. No electricity. It was a small reminder of how fragile our connection is to the 21st century and how unprepared we are were we to have to do without it for an extended period.

Berm at Bayou Dorcheat

Bayou Bodcau

Bayou Bodcau

Bayou Bodcau

Lake Martin - an Appreciation

Lake Martin, my personal bryarpatch

I have come to this place at every phase of my life. I summered here a a boy. Visited infrequently as a young man. Reconnected when my parents retired here, and continue to come here. For me it is a place of cleansing, of healing, of baptism, of renewal. It is my sacred pool. My safe place. My bryarpatch.

I have roots here – my mother's family – and my access to the lake has always been through them. I would have never known about the lake if they were not here, and I believe they had to settle here three generations ago before the lake even existed, so that I would come here.

In geological time the lake is brand new, created in the late 20s by the TVA as part of its program to electrify rural America. With it 700 mile shoreline it is one of the largest man made lakes in North America. When you are out on the big water, you can't see shoreline in some places, but its thousands of slews feel like large ponds.

The variegated green water has magical properties. You emerge from it cleansed. Your hair is as if conditioned. Your skin softened. I've been told it is because of the high limestone content, but I believe it was kissed by gods.

When I swam here as a boy, the lake was hardly developed. We could drink the water. Today, the lake is developed. Ringed by second homes of the ten percent, if not exclusively the one percent. There are more people and more boats, but the water has lost none of its magic. I probably wouldn't drink it, but swimming in it is still a sacramental act.

Understand, this is no Benares where pilgrims come to bathe. The crowds that come here play on the water. They look out at it, speed across it, dive into it from high rocks, and sun themselves on its banks. They are unwitting communicants.

I've come here today starting out on yet another phase of life's journey. I swam for an hour, at times energetically, at times floating lazily on the surface. Tomorrow the weekenders will arrive and interrupt the solitude. But today, I was the only person on the finger of the lake where my cousin Reggie has his home. And I took its sacrament, cleansing the vessel of my body in preparation for the next phase.

I could never live here, but I could happily die here, taking last rites from the spirits guarding the surrounding forests before slipping beneath the water's surface. But not yet. I have promises to keep, and miles to go before I sleep.

Eight Months Later

The alligator in...

Who knows where the time goes? My last post was October of last year. When last we met I was driving to Highlands, NC serenaded by a high-pitched whine in the engine of my car. That whine turned out to be the planetary gears that failed completely once I got home and required a new transmission to solve the problem. My bargain little old lady driven only on Sundays car has turned out not to be such a bargain after all.

... Alligator Pond

Back in Sarasota, it became apparent that the cross-country trip had unintended consequences. Suddenly my quiet life in The Oaks with all its beauty and comfort seemed unsustainable. My beloved cousin is reinventing her life and I realized I needed to reinvent mine. For three years I had been living a Taoist ideal. The man of a certain age, acquitted of his obligations, retiring to a walled garden for meditation and contemplation – punctuated by dinner parties and black-tie affairs. 

As restorative as that was after my three years abroad (hmm, three years again), I had not succeeded in making a life on my own. My attempts to find work, either volunteer or paid, had not borne fruit. My circle of friends, with a few exceptions, had not expanded beyond my cousins circle of friends. 

The Florida skies

Reviewing my options, I kept being drawn back to Palm Springs, a place I never expected to live, but a place that grew to be more attractive as I reviewed what was important to me. So, in February I flew back to Palm Springs and spent ten days with my friends Bob and Doug to vet the place. I was encouraged by how friendly people are, and the demographic diversity. I loved the mid-century feel, and the reasonable rents.

I never thought of myself as a dessert person, but I felt comforted by the mountain views and sweeping dessert skies. I also saw that there were possibilities to supplement my income, or worst case, live on my retirement. One idea I am researching would involve starting a business that would allow me to travel – the best of all possible worlds, IMHO. Finally, I felt like I would be back among like-minded people. For better or worse, I am a Californian. I love the diversity of land and people, the woo woo, and the tolerance.

Blue heron

So, on May 3, I left Sarasota. I shipped my belongings ahead, said adieu to my few dear friends, my beloved cousin, and drove off. My route this time will be reasonably direct. Last night I arrived in Alexander City, Alabama for a brief visit with maternal cousins. Sunday, I will drive to northern Louisiana to do a mini-exploration of bayou country. I'll stop by San Antonio to visit my brother and his wife. God willing, and if the creek don't rise, I'll be in Palm Springs by May 15. I've taken an apartment month to month to scope out the many possibilities in housing. I'll begin my research in ernest for my business idea. I'll reconnect with friends throughout the state, and hopefully begin making new ones.

 I will miss the beauty of the Sarasota area and especially The Oaks Bayside where I have been living. I'll miss the tropical flora and fauna. I'll miss the beaches that I hardly ever got to except for drive-bys. I'll miss the dear people who have become my friends as well as my cousin's, but we will keep in touch thanks to technology.

Harlrey dude

I'll miss Harley dude, my cousin's cat who, after an extensive trial period, acknowledged my existence and allowed me an occasional pet.

I won't miss my cousin. We are joined at the heart. We have been together for lifetimes and we will continue to be together, just not in the same physical space. For now.

I am reactivating the blog to provide trip reports for anyone interested. Depending on my attention span, I may continue it as I explore possibilities. Unfortunately, or maybe  not, there is no user's manual for single men of a certain age (I just can't bring myself to describe myself as elderly).

Water lilies

My dear friend Nell Martin champions the word Elderhood to describe this period of life and is doing valuable work trying to redefine it. As I embark on this next adventure, I will be doing my own redefinition. Being at the forefront of the tidal wave of baby boomers entering their "golden years" in these uncertain times, I feel like a pioneer. No map. No compass. Following my intuition. Hoping for the best. Expecting nothing. Wish me luck, And good luck to you.