Ode from a Valentine

Photo - Badlands, South Dakota, June, 2008

Every heart, every heart
to love will come - but like a refugee.
Ring the bells that still can ring
Forget your perfect offering
There is a crack - a crack in everything
That’s how the light gets in.
- Leonard Cohen, "Anthem"

Every time my February 14 birthday rolls around, my mother loves to tell the story of what the nurse said to my dad at the Good Samaritan Hospital in the days when fathers had to pace outside the delivery room - “This is the best Valentine you’ll ever get,” she said.

And for all I know, I was the best Valentine my dad ever got. Sadly, he didn’t live to share as many birthdays as I would have hoped. He died suddenly after my Sweet Sixteen.

They say a girl’s dad is her first true love, so losing mine early on broke this Valentine’s heart in what seemed at the time to be forevermore. And so, there will always be a crack in my heart, as Leonard Cohen sang, but that's where the light gets in.

Early loss has a way of imbuing all future relationships with a keen sense of their intrinsic fragility and inevitable decline.

But it’s melancholy with a bright side - such awareness is all the more reason to get right here in the right now and love whomever or whatever is in front of you, whether it’s your partner or a friend or the majestic mountains we call home.

These are what grow and sustain the heart. Otherwise, the opposite danger is an overly-armored heart.

As for enduring valentines, my dad is the one who introduced me and my sisters to Yosemite National Park and the Eastern Sierra – thus beginning my lifelong love affair with the region where I live today.

My first trip south on Highway 395 from Tioga Pass was in the back of the ’71 VW camper van my dad drove in those days. It later took me through my university years in Berkeley and future Sierra camping trips.

For me, valentines have never been so much the stuff of Hallmark greeting cards or romantic dates, but the enduring memories that enrich the heart, whatever the outcome with the beloved.

As for traditional valentines, yes, there have been the dewy oh-so-pale-pink long-stemmed roses delivered the old-fashioned way in elegant boxes to my job in San Francisco long ago. There have been beaus who romanced me over candlelit meals from the California wine country to the pinon-scented kiva fires of Santa Fe (the most romantic, I would have to say, being the time I was in Mendocino with a college love for my 1986 birthday, and we got rained in with all roads out closed!). And there was the recent love who surprised me with two dozen roses at my doorstep not long after our break-up – a dozen for my birthday and a dozen for Valentine’s Day – a gesture that cemented what has become an enduring friendship.

Because it turns out, according to a birthday card I once got, that one of the legends about St. Valentine is as much about agape (friendship) as it is about eros (romantic love).

Valentine, an early Christian in Rome who is remembered for his kindness, made friends with the jailer’s blind daughter while he was in prison. She in turn brought to him notes and flowers from the children who adored him. Whenever possible Valentine replied to the notes – giving rise centuries later to the tradition we know today. When Valentine prayed for the jailer’s daughter just before his execution on February 14, she regained her sight. He is said to have written a farewell note of friendship to her, signing it “From Your Valentine.”

But my best valentine, of course, is the gift of life that my mother gave to me on that day of hearts. Thanks, Mom.

Thanksgiving, 2008

Before I download any photos from my wonderful Christmas in Astoria, Oregon, with all the immediate family, I thought I'd post this one of Thanksgiving, taken by my dear friend Steve Evans (who has not gone mysteriously missing, thankfully). That's my sister Cynthia on the far left, me in the middle, and my beautiful mother on the right.

Missing in Solana Beach?

After the Thanksgiving holiday, I took the train from Sherman Oaks to Solana Beach and visited my friend Grant in his rented condo, view from the bedroom pictured above. As you can see, the view is amazing. At the time, Venus and Jupiter were brightly conjunct in the nighttime sky - so bright that they cast a beautiful shimmering light on the sea just after sunset, with the moon following close by.

The Venus and Jupiter conjunction should have augured well for us, and indeed we had a lovely two nights together. Grant, true to his inimitable style, cooked me wonderful breakfasts and dinners. We had a good time, but I could also see that he was troubled about his future - what to do next. I listened, as a good friend and sometime-lover will do, but only he could answer the riddle of his future. And it was clear to me that he was indeed troubled. I think we can all understand that career transition at 56 years old carries clear challenges.

I took the train back up to Los Angeles that Sunday, and drove back to my job and home in Mammoth, figuring we'd chat in two weeks as he had suggested as he made up his mind whether to join me for New Year's and his future plans.

But I haven't heard from him since. Subsequent messages have gone unanswered, and it's not like him at all.

Okay, so he's only been an active presence in my life since May, 2008, when I met him again at his father's memorial service (I'd last seen him circa 1974, when I was a teenager and he was a wild young man on his way to hedonism in France). His father, Hank, was one of my father's closest friends, and for a time in the early 1970's, my father shared the Mandeville Canyon home where Hank lived. Grant and his two brothers were older, romantic background figures - dashing young men in their 20's.

But at the memorial service in May, Grant took a real shine to me. He sort of swept me off my feet with a first date at the Malibu Chart House, followed by more dinners and beach time and long distance conversation once I moved up to Mammoth and then his three-week visit in August. We've enjoyed some great times together. We get along. I like the man. Let's say I'm really fond of the man. Let's say I could even love the man, if he chose to open up his heart. It doesn't hurt that he's brilliant, fun, and creative.

On the other hand, he did once describe himself as "an asshole" and if I've learned anything in my forty-plus years on this planet, it's to listen to self-description. It's usually dead-on.

So the obvious answer is that he's found a new girlfriend. But the thing is, we never really had any kind of commitment. We were friends. So if there's a new woman in his life, frankly it wouldn't seem to be his style to drop out if he'd met someone new or rekindled something with an old flame.

No, the next answer - and sadly more serious - is that he's gone into some kind of black depression - so deep, so black, that he doesn't want to talk to anyone except maybe his closest friends and family.

The worst case scenario, and one that haunts me, is that he's dead. But if that were the case, wouldn't one of his brothers have contacted me? Douglas knows where I work, and Bruce has my email. I guess it's only pride that keeps me from emailing them, because let's face it, isn't the likely answer that he IS seeing some other woman and doing what guys do - drop out of sight?

On the other hand, I spoke with a friend we'd met during our hikes this summer - Sally, who lives in Carson City, Nevada. She was saddened to hear that Grant has gone missing, but believes based on her observation of us together that he if were going to chose any woman, it would be me, but that until he solves his career issue, he isn't in any position to do so.

I'd like to think that's the case.

Meanwhile, following are some photos from happier days during the summer, when he visited me in Mammoth for three weeks in August. These are the times I want to remember, especially if Grant indeed never surfaces again. How appropriate in the first one, he's pictured in my old apartment loft bed on Davison Street, reading "Missing in the Minarets", about mountaineer Pete Starr's disappearance.

So maybe I should call this blog "Missing in Solana Beach."



I love this one of Grant - happy on the Mono Pass trail, after the 2000 foot climb. This is at Summit Lake, just over 12,000 feet, in the shadow of Mt. Starr, named after the father of the missing mountaineer. Hey, not bad for a smoker and an ex-smoker (I've been quit nearly five years now!).



Me, happy at Lake George, after Grant served me the steak and potatoes dinner he concocted. Good hair day, too! Never frizzes up in dry Mammoth.



Grant, in serious mode, preparing the food. He set up the whole cooksite while I finished work and then met him there at the shore of Lake George. Note the bottle of Pinot Noir in the background. He remembered to bring my favorite! Excuse me, how sweet is that? Not only did the man prepare dinner for me in one of Mammoth Lakes' most beautiful, accessible spots, but he brought my favorite libation. This is not a friend I wanted to lose.

Grant, wherever you are, I miss you.

Happy New Year!

I have to say, 2008 was one of the best years of my life. That may sound dramatic, but after the harrowing disappointment that was 2005 (a worst year of my life, following the break up with Jan), there were times when I wondered if I'd really be successful in recreating my life in a truly happy way.

Well, 2008 included great travels to the Black Hills and Badlands of South Dakota, two camping trips, and the lifestyle change of living my dream in the Eastern Sierra as a staff writer for the Mammoth Times in June. The first half of the year was a dream come true, being able to work from home as a freelance writer for the Sun Community Newspapers (now sadly folded) without having to answer to a so-called boss or punch a time card!

I've included just a few shots I had time to download that reflect some of my travels. In May, I went on a camping trip in Lone Pine, pitching my tent near Tuttle Creek for magnificent fews over Owens Lake in the distance and, pictured here, sunrise on the Sierra Nevada. Note the beautiful blooming lupin! The second shot was taken up at Lone Pine Lake on the Mt. Whitney Trail. I've also included a view out over Owens Lake from where I pitched my tent. Fantastic!





In May, I went with the Sierra Club on a camping trip to Santa Rosa Island, one of five islands in the Channel Islands National Park off the coast of Santa Barbara. I'd camped there before with Jan in May, 2003. It was great to be back with a Sierra Club group.






These next three shots were taken in the Badlands of South Dakota in June. Memorably, I had at long last made it there as well as to the Black Hills on a fabulous six-day trip (again, with the Sierra Club).





During that same trip to South Dakota, we drove to the southeast corner of Wyoming for a visit to Devil's Tower.



The Crazy Horse Memorial in the Black Hills! An ongoing work in progress.



Here's a shot from my first Sierra Club hike after I'd moved to Mammoth in late June. Seen here is the Hoover Wilderness area near Tioga Pass on June 29, the day before I started work at the Mammoth Times.

Billey Bronco Beast, at Home in the Snow

There she is - the 1987 Bronco (aka "The Beast"), built in the same year my nephew Erik was born and photographed this morning after a storm dropped an additional 5 inches last night. I had brushed most of it off before taking the shot.

I purchased the Beast for snowy days for a mere $1000 from Bea's best friend Karl who owns the Chevron service station in town. That means she comes not just with a mechanic, but with chains, jumper cables, a mini solar panel that plugs into the cigarette lighter to (theoretically) help charge the battery.

Because let's face it: I'm not in Sherman Oaks anymore. Somewhere along the way, I clicked my ruby slippers together and wound up in the most beautiful winter country I've ever seen in my life.

But with that weather and with that country came the need for four-wheel drive! I mean, okay, I could have gotten used to putting chains on the Honda every time I drove up the 203 into town, and taking them off when they were no longer required on the 395, or some version of that on-off pain-in-the-ass scenario in freezing weather, but who wants to deal with that?

Hence: The Beast! It's the first time I've ever held the pink slip to two cars, not to mention being the owner of an American one. Learning to drive the Bronco in severe weather like we've had for about a week now has been quite a change from the little Honda (sidelined to the back driveway).


The Beast gets me through conditions such as the above. That was my morning commute today, in 4 wheel drive, about 8:15 a.m. just coming into the Town of Mammoth Lakes on Highway 203. As I forged ahead slowly but surely, others could be seen at the foot of 203, struggling to put on chains in the high winds or paying Dude in the Big Camper $40 to do so. Scam.

Mammoth Mountain is obscured in the distance by a blizzard, winds reportedly as high as 100 miles per hour. When my editor, Diane Eagle, saw the Beast parked in the lot before she got to work, she announced that I was her hero! Always good to hear words of praise from the Chief. Because it's understood that if the conditions are truly hazardous on the 395 (the wind was fierce this morning, creating potential white-out conditions near the airport), I can choose to stay home.


And that's my new home in the far distance, the area blanketed with last week's snow before last night's storm blew a fresh powdery layer in. Contrast that shot with the first one on the previous blog. At least the temperature is hovering well above zero these days. Last week, it was below 10 degrees at night!

Oh, I'll bet my cousin Patricia is now wondering if I'll ever decide to buy an actual, bona fide, brand new car? You know what, cuz, depending on how things go this winter, that may actually be on the New Year's agenda! Meanwhile, the Honda will take me to my southern California life, and the Bronco will take me through the winter wonderland.

Love to all - and here's to a magical Winter Solstice.

Where I Live Now, Beauty All Around Me

So this is a view of the ranchhouse where I rent a loft studio off Highway 395 in the Eastern Sierra, about ten miles south of Mammoth Lakes. The shot was taken during the summer on one of my many walks out on the ranchlands - miles and miles of walking opportunities with views of the Sierra Nevada and the White Mountains (if you can squeeze under the barbed wire fences!). The ragged peak in the distance is above Convict Lake. Believe it or not, there's also an amazing restaurant out there - so I have the best of all possible worlds.



And this is a view from the window my loft, taken shortly after I moved there in late August. In the far distance are the White Mountains. Boundary Peak in the center was long rumored to be higher than Mt. Whitney.



But ever since a snowstorm on Monday dumped the first serious blanket, this is what the landscape southeast of my home now looks like! Out of view is Crowley Lake. I wake up every morning to a white winter wonderland. In the far distance of the photograph across the snow-covered ranchlands are the White Mountains.


The shot below is taken from the same spot as the one above, only I've turned around to face the house. That's the foothills of the Eastern Sierra in the background. You can see my 1987 Ford Bronco "beater car" parked in the driveway, which I purchased for snowy commute days into Mammoth. My little white Honda is half buried in snow out of view, pretty much useless until I learn how to put the chains on the front tires!



These photos were taken on a mid-September autumn hike in McGee Creek, about a five mile drive from my house to the trailhead. It's a good, steady uphill hike with quick rewards! Unfortunately, fall color was truncated this season by an early frost, so this was really my only fall-color hike. Still, it was glorious enough to create enduring memories.





Here's the view from my loft area over my bedroom to the Christmas tree and out the window that has all those amazing views. Merry Christmas!

In Memoriam

Lawrence Charles "Chuck" Jorgensen
May 17, 1933 - October 10, 2008

"Cattle die, kinsmen die, I myself shall die; but there is one thing which I know never dies: the reputation we leave behind at our death." - The Havamal

Chuck used to include that quote in the materials he handed out for his provocative history & political science classes at Los Angeles Valley College. And now, he himself has gone.

He used to quote Langston Hughes, too. "Hold fast to dreams, for if dreams die, life is a broken-winged bird that cannot fly."

Teacher, lover, lifelong friend. Frankly, it is impossible for me to imagine the silencing of this immense personality. Already I miss knowing that the boom-sound of Chuck's voice is just a phone call away. Already I miss his irony, his brilliance, his wit, his endless curiosity. I will miss his surprise care packages from his final home in Boise, Idaho: CD's (he said I was the only person he knew who should have "Songs of Fashion" from the New York Metropolitan Museum of Art), books (I received Camus' "Myth of Sisyphus" twice), and numerous articles. But I am beyond grateful that we were in close touch for many years and our recent phone calls always ended with an "I love you."

I was 19 when I took one of Chuck's classes at Valley College, three years after my father's death at 47. I suppose he started out as a father figure, but it was a friendship of equals that evolved and lasted for the next 29 years. Through good times and bad, Chuck helped me hold fast to my dreams and cheered me on when they came true. Few others can cheer you on as Chuck did. But he could also be a harsh and at times unfair critic. I learned from that, too.

He told me of his lung cancer several years ago. Although I believed myself prepared, the news of his death came as an immediate choking shock. Our friend John Apgar left a message on my cell phone as I was driving through Independence in the Owens Valley (coincidentally, one of Chuck's favorite places) on my way to the Lone Pine Film Festival on October 10. Choking up, I immediately turned onto a side street to visit the Mary Austin House. Chuck would have appreciated the appropriateness of that place at that moment. As with the many things I owe to his vast reservoir of knowledge, I learned of Austin and her book, "The Land of Little Rain," when I was his student.

It was as if Chuck was right next to me when I got out of my car to read the historical plaque there, and I allowed the tears to fall. "But if ever you come beyond the borders as far as the town that lies in a hill dimple at the foot of Kearsarge, never leave it until you have knocked at the door of the brown house under the willow-tree at the end of the village street, and there you shall have such news of the land, of its trails and what is astir in them, as one lover of it can give to another."

Now Austin is long gone, and Jorgensen too - but their words and their wisdom endure in their writings.

Chuck was thrilled when I moved to the Long Valley, above Owens Valley. My love of this region grew in part because of his teachings about the fascinating history here, the water rights wars, and above all our mutual love of the California high desert. Chuck would say Long Valley isn't exactly a desert, with a clarifying lecture (unintended as such, but delightfully coming across that way) about ecosystems and how the region changed when water was diverted to L.A. Surely he would then also thunder a bit about Mulholland, reserving special scorn for the dastardly Eaton.

I encourage everyone who reads this post to visit the global trends and issues site that Chuck created with colleagues and friends, www.mmmfiles.com ,for a glimpse into his work as a professor of political science and U.S. history, and as an environmental activist. He was absolutely brilliant, if, at times, too edgy in his expression for some. Thought-provoking, necessary, deeply authentic and honest. It was an honor when he bestowed four boxes of books from his library on me in 2004 before his move from West Los Angeles to Boise. This gift included numerous volumes and first editions of California history. Now, of course, I will cherish those volumes more than ever.

Chuck's voice, now silenced, contributed greatly to keeping it real in an age when sound-bite mediocrity has become the norm. But aside from his intellectual achievements, he had an immense capacity for joy and aliveness and hilarity. "If I can't dance at your revolution, I'll pass," he used to quote from Emma Goldman. I will cherish my memories of this very special, generous, brilliant man until I, too, pass from this earth.