Life in Mammoth - Am I a Local Yet?

Well, I made it through a winter. Does that count? That's my place sometime last December, with the window to my loft studio above the garage on the far left. The views are spectacular.


I’ve been living in Mammoth for more than a year now and wonder if I can call myself a local. Is a year enough? Or must it be a decade? Really, must one have been born here?

I’ve asked some people to weigh in on this and the best answer I’ve received was a question: “Do you have a second job yet?”
Another good answer was: “Do you have a beater car for snow days?” Since I do (and I made it through the winter because of it), then maybe I am a local.

Except, I don’t think so - even though I live and work here full time, have forged some key friendships, and recognize many around town by name and am in turn recognized. There's a part of me that feels it could take as much as a decade to be a local.

In the beginning, I knew no one. I stayed with a friend of my editor for several days, then with the brother of a friend for several more while looking for an affordable place to rent. I even pitched my tent at Lake George for three nights during the limbo period between my former life in L.A. and the nascent one here.

Come to think of it, I did feel like a local when I camped at Lake George. The mountains and the hiking here are what drew me away from my previous home and, as John Muir once wrote, “Going to the mountains is like going home.” I always feel most truly at home on the familiar mountain trails here.

After my camping experience, I checked into Tamarack Lodge for six nights before moving into my first rental. As a result, I got to know most of the staff there, and whenever I return for a meal or libation, they make me very welcome. I definitely feel like a local then - and at Petra’s, my favorite watering hole.

But I would have to say it has been two women – my former colleague Stacey Powells and my neighbor Bea Beyer – who truly taught me what it means to feel a sense of belonging here. If I sometimes feel like a local, it’s because these two women have demonstrated how longtime locals network with each other and make newcomers like myself feel welcome.

From the minute I walked in the door of this newspaper, Stacey made me feel welcome. “Thank God you’re here,” she enthused with a broad smile and a warm handshake. That was before I knew how much her loud voice would annoy me while trying to listen on the phone.

It didn’t take long to discover that we share a similar sense of humor and, better yet, we’re roughly the same age, so we’re on the same life’s page, so to speak. Stacey’s the very definition of a gal with a heart of gold.

I marveled at her fortitude and grace in the face of a half dozen major life challenges in the one year I’ve known her, including cancer. Yet somehow in the middle of all this, she found time to include me in her inner circle of equally cool women friends.
Stacey is one of the most generous women I’ve ever known, not just in that respect, but in respects that would have killed other new, untested friendships – such as how she handled the awkwardness when her hours were reduced during the paper’s downsizing, not mine.

Then there’s Bea, from whom I rent a loft studio with spectacular views that have kept me here when I was tempted to flee. Calling her a landlady, however, would be too prosaic a word for this elegant, sharp, magnanimous woman who reads even more than I do and knows the art of conversation.

Bea is the quintessential example of a good neighbor. That means, among other things, that she shares meals and dinner parties with me (and I endeavor to show up with more than a bottle of Two Buck Chuck). She leaves small tureens of homemade potato soup or baked goodies at my door when I return late from town council meetings.

Most important, she shares her affectionate kitty cat with me, lets me take her adorable border collie for walks, and found me the 1987 Ford Bronco that got me through the winter, thanks to her friend Karl, then repeatedly helped jump-start it on icy winter mornings - almost entirely without complaint.

Lest I sound too treacly, however, the fact is that being a local - working and living here full time - also means dealing with the coarser aspects of community. As a writer, I realize there is no end to learning the big history of this small town.

But it helps me feel like I’ve made something of a meaningful contribution when, for example, Rusty Gregory - top executive dog at the Mammoth Mountain Ski Area - shared unexpected words of praise for what I wrote in my Cat's Clause column about my father last June (see this blog below).

“Courageous,” he called it.

And that’s pretty much how I feel about leaving a whole life behind to embrace my dream of living and writing in the Eastern Sierra. And for that, I primarily have to thank my editor, who made it possible by giving me a chance. Thanks, Diane.


My sister Carolyn, my niece Kate, and me at Minaret Vista during their visit in June.

Suicide - a Father's Legacy

I’ve been told that the majority of suicides in the United States occur in June, and my father’s was no exception.

In a cruel irony, the anniversary of his death falls on Father’s Day every seven years or so, but I don’t think he planned it that way.

The reality is that people who are suffering at that level of despair or clinical depression are not, as my mother was the first to remind me, in their right mind.

And my father’s mind, as evidenced by a track record of sparkling accomplishments, was a brilliant, sensitive one.

Although he was a successful attorney by profession, I’ve often wondered if he should have been a forest ranger as he’d once dreamed, rather than a lawyer trapped in a Los Angeles office and nightmare traffic. Oh, how he loved the outdoors.

I do know that if he had been in his right mind, he would not have made a choice of such radical permanence, and left the life and daughters he loved so much.

On that long-ago June morning in 1976, I frantically attempted to absorb all at once the fresh tragedy in my teenage mind in an immense effort to remain sane, saying to myself over and over: “You can handle this, you can handle this.”

Behind those words I knew that a whole future had been annihilated and that in fact it was going to be very difficult to handle the coming days, weeks, months, and years.

Heartbroken is too small a word to capture the sense of devastation.

I had an intense desire to make it okay somehow, to feel as if my life and my future had not been instantly and irrevocably shattered, that my heart was not broken.

But of course it wasn’t okay, and I had to survive somehow without shutting down. I could not conceive of a future without my dad, yet I had no choice but to begin.

Fortunately, until he became the ultimate absent dad, my dad was the ultimate loving one, so I have no dearth of happy memories to cherish in the wake of this tragedy, and it is those I choose to honor around this time of year.

It was he who introduced me and my sisters to the beautiful high country of the Sierra Nevada - to Tenaya Lake, pictured above, and Tuolumne Meadows in Yosemite National Park - he who took us horsebackriding in the Santa Monica Mountains, he who shared his love of folk and classical music (most especially Bob Dylan, Chopin, Bach).

In short, Jayme was a father who taught me how to live even as he suffered from a complex despair.

And so when people ask why he did what he did, I prefer to stir the dialogue towards the finer points of the man - his humor, his affability, his boundless curiosity. I have tried not to allow my father’s suicide to be the act that defined the whole of his life - either for myself or for others with whom I share his memory.

But it is a complex, challenging legacy.

The reality is that while the immediate emotional impact of my father’s suicide has waned, the devastating loss is one that will forever endure in my heart. One does not “get over” a suicide.

Nonetheless, time is the great healer. As the painful immediacy of grief has moved further and further into my past, I have learned that the heart does mend strongly in the broken places, that there is a corresponding hunger for joy, and that there may be a greater capacity for joy because the sadness and the loss have cut so deep.

I have had the emotional fortitude to wait out the darkest moments that life has thrown my way.

How I wish my father had.

Dead Show, Frost Amphitheatre, Stanford, circa 1987

There was nothing like a Grateful Dead concert.

I was 27 years old.

Pure joy.

Photo by CJ.

No Long Strange Trip for Mammoth

“And when I die, bury me deep,
with a pair of speakers at my head
so that I can listen
to the Grateful Dead.”
– New York City graffiti,
late 20th century

There really was nothing like a Grateful Dead concert, as the saying goes, and my idea of heaven is listening to the best of the bootleg recordings forever.

I’d not want those speakers buried deep, though. I’d want them up by heaven’s version of a Sierra alpine lake, music reverberating from around a glacial cirque and plenty of space for my soul’s dance in the alpenglow.

Would it not have been a version of heaven, then, for some of us Deadheads to hear the band play in Mammoth Lakes in 1990?

Recently, I learned that they were indeed slated to play at Main Lodge then, but town council expressed collective personal opposition because of population and fire concerns, so it was nixed. Religious groups weighed in with drug-related concerns.

Were they nuts?

Unfortunately, there’s some truth in the stereotypes about pot-smoking, drug-taking, urinating Deadheads – although Bill Graham himself appeared at a council meeting to say he had never witnessed drug use at a Dead show, according to one of my sources. For the vast majority, Dead shows were all about the music, the joy, the hippy-happy scene. It was a scene began in the mid -1960s and ended with lead guitarist Jerry Garcia’s death in August, 1995. In that time, the band crossed generational lines to endure for three decades.

I arrived relatively late in the game as a student at Berkeley in 1981. Call it the best part of my education there. Of the 65 shows I attended in 15 years, most were in the Bay Area.

Sadly, a big enough percentage of the badly behaved Deadheads ruined it for the rest of us in many terrific venues. By the end of the 80s, the band had been kicked out of two of my favorites – the Berkeley Greek Theatre and Stanford’s Frost Amphitheater.

The show at the Boreal Ridge Ski Resort near Donner Pass on Aug. 24, 1985 provides a good comparison of what might have been had the band had played in Mammoth. Billed as the “highest” Dead show ever, it was the worst I ever attended. Technical difficulties plagued the band from beginning to end, as I recall. The band members, usually in sync, seemed at odds. And Jerry forgot his lines more than he usually did in the good old bad mid-80s. Was it the altitude? Probably not. He forgot them at sea level, too.

But altitude clearly affected many in the crowd that hot August day. They wilted in the heat, dust and thinner air, which some exacerbated with excess amounts of alcohol. People staggered obnoxiously into each other in a crowd otherwise known for its peaceful coexistence.

“Nothing good about it. Dead in a dust bowl,” wrote one fan on a blog devoted to the Boreal Ridge show. “The altitude, Bobby’s equipment problem, the dust and Jerry’s sour mood lead to a disaster of a show.”

“It was hot and dry, and the elevation – ‘highest Dead show ever’ – took its toll,” wrote another.

Would it have been better, somehow, if the band had played in Mammoth? Just think of the marketing potential among forever-young aging Deadheads. They would make pilgrimages here to recall their fond moments among the Jeffrey pines. After all, Boreal Ridge wasn’t a disaster for all who attended, and the environment survived.
“I was at this show and had a blast,” wrote a positive fan. “The band certainly had an off-day music-wise, but the beautiful Sierra surroundings made for a pleasant experience.”

Well, the beautiful Sierra surroundings part was true for me, at least.

I like to imagine that if the Grateful Dead had played in Mammoth, I’d have been there, too, and it would been one of the best shows I ever saw.

I like to imagine Mammoth Lakes bootlegs as a must for every collection, stamped on the side with dancing bears or red-rose decorated skulls.

And if it had been an exceptional show, I like to imagine it would have made the historic Dick’s Picks CD archival series – the best of the best.

But that’s all over now, baby blue.

Today I’m told that the popular wisdom is that town council canceled the concert. However, they didn’t actually have authority to do that. What they did was express collective personal opinion, which boiled down to concern about the 20,000 to 40,000 folks who would be camping on forest service lands for the Dead show. I’m unclear why it would have to have been 20,000 to 40,000 people.

Despite enormous local support for the Grateful Dead in Mammoth, I’m told council may also have been swayed by community fear-mongers who latched on to the “riding that train, high on cocaine” lyric from “Casey Jones.”

A shame. They likely knew nothing at all about what was once an incredible scene. Their loss.


A version of this piece will appear in the Mammoth Times on May 14, 2009.

Christmas in March!

Sistahs!

What I mean with that title is that in the midst of my ridiculously busy schedule as a staff writer at the Mammoth Times - making a fraction of what I'm worth but nonetheless grateful for the pennies that flow in - I've just now gotten around to downloading the Christmas shots. I thought I'd better get that done before the first of April tomorrow!

So that's me in the bunny hat with my sisters (identical twins, for anyone who hasn't noticed or didn't know) taken during one of many joyful moments last Christmas at my sister Carolyn's home in Astoria, Oregon. Bunny hat comes from Elevation Mountaineering store in Lone Pine and is perfect for really cold winter days. I gave a ladybug one to Cindy for Christmas (she doesn't know I also bought one for myself).

Below is one of the ole yuletide with golden retrievers Friday (left, Cindy's dog) and Maddie (right, Carlo's dog) in front. Cindy's other dog Rufus also joined us, but somehow I don't have any shots of the sweet canine guy.


Often, I spend Christmas on my own, not wanting to travel in the madness and weather, but this year it seemed appropriate with so many changes in the air - my niece about to graduate high school and my nephew in his senior year at UCLA. Many roads were forking into new directions at the end of 2008.

So I drove from Mammoth to Reno and from there flew to Portland. We in the family thought I'd be the one who'd have trouble getting from my outpost home in Mammoth to the Reno Airport 150 miles north because of the major winter storms happening at the time. Instead, I made it up there in my Bronco without any trouble at all, and it was Cindy and my mom who faced a cancelled flight from Portland from Burbank - and virtually no other options because everything was booked solid. They rented a car and drove the 22 hours north - with two dogs in tow. I told Cindy to get chains - which she needed at the Oregon border. I'm turning into a regular winter regular here in Mammoth! "Always carry chains."

It was all worth the effort in the end, though. I'd say it was one of the happiest and loviest Christmases in recent memory.

So here is a photo of my nephew, Erik, as his grandmother takes a photo of his joy at receiving her $100 gift certificate to In-n-Out burger, his favorite place!



A deliciously lazy moment on the couch with Carolyn (left) as I dive into the "Private Diaries of Catherine Deneuve," a very thoughtful and appropriate gift from Cynthia who always gets it right with me and books. She uncovered this gem at Book Soup on Sunset Boulevard - one of the few things I miss terribly about Los Angeles!




Erik has taken over a portion of Grandma's sumptuous spa package gift from Cindy. The robe is on her lap, but Erik has decided to don the hair piece!



That's my beautiful niece Katie showing off the pair of earrings I gave her for Christmas. (I also gave her a Ralph Lauren down jacket with a fur-lined hood, but I'm not sure she liked that as much!).


And here's Katie with a classic comic face as her father, my brother in law Peter, opens the traditional gag gift featuring cats. Peter detests cats. Here, it's a cat calendar. In the past I believe he has also received cat astrology books.



And here's one of Cynthia, exuberant over Katie's charcoal rendering of Hillary Clinton - Cynthia's heroine for all time! Did I say that my niece is as talented as she is beautiful? For my birthday in February, she conjured up a brilliant charcoal of Jerry Garcia.



Now here's an archetypal photo of the twins. I can't believe my mother actually gave them identical sweaters for the first time in probably 30 years! The Santa hat distinguishes Cynthia from Carolyn, but I've always been able to tell the Taurus brats apart!



Much later in the day, or maybe the next day: I am still reading Catherine Deneuve's thoughts on life, characters, and film, this time on the white couch near the window with the great view out over Columbia River and Astoria.

Valentine Birthday in Topanga Canyon

Okay, so I'm over a month late in posting these photos, but I guess it's better late than never. I had a delightful birthday with my immediate family on February 14 at the Inn of the Seventh Ray in Topanga Canyon. We were situated in a really cool gazebo that fit exactly six!

The gentleman poking his head in from the left of the frame is my friend Steve, who fortunately has not mysteriously disappeared like my friend Grant. I'm in the middle and to my right is my niece Katie (who I am proud to say will be entering the Portland Art Institute later this year!) and my nephew Erik is on my left (who I'm proud to say just graduated UCLA!). Rounding it out are my mother and sister. You pick who's who!

And here's my beautiful niece doing what she does very well indeed - posing! In my younger days, that would have been me. But the mantle has passed, as it were!

Cousins

Is that adorable or what? The year is 1971. The place is my Aunt Pholey's house in San Diego. That's my sister Cynthia on the far left, 9 years old. I'm the one in purple, 11 years old, my sister Carolyn (Cynthia's identical twin) is next in line, followed by my first cousin Patricia at 5, and my cousin Matthew at 7. My great grandparents were still alive and living in San Diego, too. Clearly we have all been on an Easter egg hunt! My cousin Lee sent this to me. Thank you, Lee. God does it take me back to the best moments of childhood!

And here we are again, only this time with our very much loved great grandma! She would have been 86 at the time. She lived to be 101 years old.