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Well, damn, I’m home. I wasn’t going to write today – I was giving myself another day off, but I’m on the couch and I REALLY don’t want to get up and think about touching the dirty clothes, so I might write a bit right now. (Added later: I just wrote a HELL of a lot, so make this one last. I’ll write again on Wednesday, prolly.)

Strawberry Festival, 2004

Leaving:
Friday morning, I have not even started to pack. In fact, I haven’t even thought much about packing, because if I do think about it, Digit will freak out. I like to put off that part as long as possible. So I hang out with the little mama, have some coffee, check email for the last time. Then I go to grab my sleeping bag from the closet where I keep it. Digit has peed on it, and on the CASHMERE sweater that was on the shelf above it. He hit two things: The sweater, and the sleeping bag, and the pee is only minutes old, since I had been in the closet (stop it) fifteen minutes before. The cat is amazing. And horrible.

Camping:
Dad was up there the day before, and had our site all picked out. He had traveled up in his Volvo pick-up truck (he removed the trunk and added a wooden contraption). Isn’t he proud?

We were at the back of beyond, as far as it is humanly possible to camp from the main stage, and even farther from Birch Lake, but because we were on the very edge of camp, there was nothing behind us but a wooded hill. Mom napping:

And because we were on a hill, we slept on a hill. Dude, I can’t WAIT to sleep on the level tonight. Our site was great and large and very, very nice, but I hate waking up in a crumpled, slid-down ball at the end of the tent, y’know? But all things considered, it was lovely. The only things missing were my sisters, neither of whom could attend. It just wasn’t the same without them.

Kids:
Music kids are nice. I forget that. I think I generally consider children as whining loud things that get underfoot and cost the earth, because I pretty much only see them in the grocery store. But these bluegrass kids, they’re all polite. They use Nice Words. They’re quiet at night. I watched three older ones play Yahtzee for about four hours without coming to blows. It’s weird.

Man, there’s been a baby boom in the generation of bluegrass aficionados, because not only were there about a thousand five-year olds running around (I might exaggerate a little), but baby after teeny baby went by. I mean itsy-bitsy! While we were at the revival at the lake on Sunday morning (always one of my favorite parts—music going on, but families playing and laughing, all ages just kind of hanging out and being happy), Mom and I watched a couple of women juggle their wee ones. She guessed the smallest was about six weeks old, and it turned out she was spot on. She said, “You went camping for the first time when you were six weeks old, you know. Dad took a bunch of kids off the reservation up to the mountains to camp and we took you in that basket that’s out in the garage. You traveled in it, and slept in it, and it was so easy.” I do remember seeing an incredible photo of Mom, sitting under a tree in a meadow, the basket at her feet, and I remember hearing that I was IN the basket, but I don’t think I ever knew it was a camping trip. Explains a lot. Here we are the revival:

And kids are nice because people dance with them.

And they get to blow bubbles.

Music:
Where would I start? I can’t tell you about all of ‘em, ‘cause that would take too long, and I’m already long-winded as it is. But I’ll hit my favorite two:

1. Martin Sexton—the man can do things with his voice that I’ve never heard done before. He’s got a three-octave range, and he ain’t even trying. And the lyrics to his songs? This is what happened: I was sitting in the Music Meadow with the little mama, trying to cool off. The sun was full blaze, and we thought we’d just stay for a few songs to see how we liked him. Mom ended up in the back in the shade, but she stayed for the whole thing (hard to do at three in the afternoon). I ended up dancing, not caring about the heat or the dust, just needing to dance. His lyrics made me want to rush home right THEN to write. To finish the novel. To start a new one. To write poetry (god forbid). The necklace I wear heated in the sun and burned my neck just as I felt that I would break into pieces if I didn’t write and keep writing.

That’s some powerful singing, I tell you.

2. The Websters—absolutely my favorite of the festival. If you like traditional music, sung by two sisters whose voices blend better than red wine and candlelight, go buy it right now. Seriously. I haven’t heard anything as wonderful in a long, long time. And I hear lots of wonderful things. Plus, and this is probably not related, but I believe I’m in love with elder sister Chris Webster (on the right).

Any girl in a cowboy hat is a good thing. Period. And her sister Cassie, holding the coffee cup, is wearing an Oakland shirt. I heart them. Go buy it now and then get back to me. Or at least go sample one. (I love “There is a Balm in Gilead”).

Dirt:
If you’re squeamish, you may want to skip this part. Okay. I warned you. When I camp, I have a philosophy (this only applies if you’re sleeping alone—if you have a tent-mate, please discuss prior to implementation). The philosophy goes like this: Skip the shower. C’mon. You’re camping. Showers involve long lines and icky gooey floors and drippy leftover tiny pieces of greenish soap.

Instead, swim once every day. While you’re swimming in the lake, rub legs and arms briskly with hands, and run your hands through your hair while underwater. Then walk back to camp, dive into the tent and use moist towelettes to clean off whatever dirt remains. You’ll be fine, I promise. The hair gets more and more interesting, but you feel clean enough.

Of course, this only works if you go swimming, and if you remember to bring the moist towelettes. I did neither. Whoops. Here are my nails yesterday:

I won’t even show you my feet, just know that they took some SERIOUS scrubbing when I came home. Oatmeal scrub, no less.

I am very dirty by this point:

People:
Music festival people, when not high, are the best. Even when they’re high, they’re just mellow on weed and too much beer in the sun. My favorite exchange of the weekend, bar none, went like this: We passed a tent that was flying the Aussie flag, which is a Union Jack and four stars. The New Zealand flag is identical, but has five stars. My kiwi mother yelled, “Hey! Your flag is missing a star!” From behind the tent we heard a growl, “Er, bugger off!” I laughed for half an hour.

Hot:
The weather was mostly great, not too hot, not too cold at night. Today, though, it heated up, and on the long sweaty drive home, the only thing that kept me going was the thought of lovely cool Oakland. There’s a point in the drive where suddenly the Bay air hits you, and you know you’ll survive. Today, that never happened. It’s still hotter than hell, and Digit peed in the doorway as greeting. Fer eff’s sake. There was also a note on my counter that read, “Ask us about our Great Escape. If we plead the fifth, call our Aunt Jenn for details.”

Yep, when Jenn came over to feed the cats one night, she found one cat in front and one in back, having ripped out the dining room screen. We were lucky—they’ve never been outside here before and neither wears a collar. Oooh, Jenn had a few things to say to them, as did I.

But I’m glad to be home. There. Whew. I need to go clean more things now.

https://rachaelherron.com/well_damn_im_ho/

You know me. I can’t quite stay away. I can almost guarantee there will be no more posts after this one until Tuesday, but then again. Almost. You never know. You DO know about bloglines, right? I could never keep up with all my favorite blogs without them…..

Damn. I’ve been having a good time lately. You know that? There’s this amazing person I’ve been getting to know, and I like her lots. The banjo girl’s got mad skills, yo. And she’s fun as hell. We went last night to a speakeasy at Eli’s Mile High Club in Oakland. She wore an incredible blue wool suit that had an almost silken sheen to it, and I wore a tight black dress with a big white satin bow that formed into sleeves, and my favorite diner-tile shoes. We watched the show, which included a uke act, some burlesque, a mediocre old-time band which probably would have benefited from more jug and less saw, although the saw IS cool, and some really truly awfully bad jokes. Throw in a little jack and Coke and some shameless flirting, and you’ve got yourself a good night.

AND I’ve been knitting. I started yet another simple cardie, this bomber cardigan out of the Rowan Denim People book.

I’m doing it in Paton’s Classic Merino because I can’t get enough of that stuff. I know it pills like crazy, but I don’t care. It just feels good. And it was in my stash. I cast on day before yesterday when Kira was visiting me, and I’m now half-done with the second sleeve (I want to start the Sleeves First! Revolution. Start building the barricades. Join me!).

Anyway. Regrouping. Here’s Kira, with Digit.

I love that shot. Later we met up with her wife Rachel for coffee and talk (more knitting for me, less for Kira who had finished her extremely cute top at my house—she’s so leetle it takes her about seventeen minutes and fifty yards of yarn to make a cap sleeve tee-sweater). We met at Cafe Capoeira, which is an amazing place (even though it’s in the People’s Republic of Berkeley), combining coffee house with the Brazilian martial arts/dance lessons. Bad picture, but here’s what I snapped with the phone:

I gotta tell you. We watched the 6pm class enter and start, and I have never seen a more beautiful group of people. I couldn’t figure it out. Why was every single person on the floor absolutely stunning? Then we worked it out—it was because each and every one of them was smiling. They grinned the whole time. One person focuses on another; they smile and sway around each other, throwing graceful kicks and blows that never connect but turn into dance motions that lead to acrobatic jumps and graceful flips. And smiling! Damn. I loved it.

And even later, I had a wonderful dinner that sister Christy made—roasted chicken and wine and lovely, small potatoes. She made me watch the first two episodes of the Gilmore Girls on DVD. Do you have any idea how much I balked at that? I’d seen a couple of episodes while it aired (does it still?) and had been left cold. That mother bugged the bejeezus out of me. But with Christy’s solid nudging, I liked it. God help me. Yet something else to catch up on. That and Buffy could keep me occupied for a long time.

As well as other things. Have a safe and happy long weekend, all.

Early Saturday morning, when I was at work, I turned the page in my calendar to the first week of September and realized something rather important. I’ve got the week off. I knew with my literal brain that I had the first week of September off. Sure. But my workaday brain had not really processed when that week was going to take place. It takes conscious effort for me sometimes to remember what season I’m in, let alone what month. The day, forget it.

So as of five am, when I got off work, I was off for the next ten days. Postings will be scarce ‘round here during that time. The ‘rents are coming in to town on Wednesday, sending Dad up to secure camping on Thursday, Mom and I are driving up Friday, and we’ll listen to bluegrass all freakin’ weekend in the sun. Oh! Must bring an easy knitting project. I would never subject Cromarty to the dirt and dust. I can’t wait.

I had the most blissfully hedonistic weekend. I didn’t do anything I didn’t want to do, except get out of bed yesterday and go for a quick run. But even that felt good. Quit laughing. I can see you.

Anyway, great weekend. I saw friends, and met new ones, and ate sushi and laughed a hell of a lot. One of those deep-happy weekends. I can barely move now, even today. Soooo lazy.

So, because I’m too lazy to write anymore, here’s a picture of Digit. I’ve got no idea how he got up there, but I had to help him down.

Enjoy your week, all. Mwah!

The car’s repaired, to the tune of $600. Those of you who know me in my natural environment, please know that I’ll be staying in a lot for a while. But as someone recently told me, there’s nothing wrong with drinking cheap beer and thinking cheap thoughts.

I can do that.

I ran Lake Merritt yesterday. I parked, ran around it in 39 minutes, average time for me, and got back in my car. I turned the key. Nothing. Zip. You know that weak growl you get when a battery is close to dying? I didn’t have that. I didn’t even have the click. Just absolutely nothing.

Sigh. I was one of the last hold-outs to get a cell phone, but now I love mine, and thank god for it. Within minutes I had AAA enroute, I had told the garage I’d be on my way, and I had arranged a ride from my generous sister Christy from the garage.

Then I sat. I steamed. Literally. I was all damp and soggy from the run, and it was still warm out, so I felt like a tamale in my car. I could have put the top down, but by that point I was avoiding the sun. I rummaged in the back seat and god bless my packratedness, I found Middlesex by Eugenides, still in its bookstore bag. I had forgotten I had even bought it. I put my aching legs up on the dash and had myself a little read. I watched the people go by. I hung my legs out the window, where they got more breeze, and I watched the people watch my legs. They all looked suspicious of them. What? You never saw legs sticking out? I had a couple of stare-downs with children. I lost.

Then the tow truck arrived, and I fell in love with my driver. Greg. Good old Greg. Here he is:

He made me feel like a million bucks, sweaty and steamy as I was. He tried all sorts of little tricks before he gave up and hooked it up to the truck. When I told him which garage I was taking it to, he called ahead and said we were on our way.

He looked at me when we were on the freeway and said, “You know, men are dumb.”
“What?”
“At least you had your hood up. You had cleaned off the battery connectors. You tried. When a woman gets a flat tire, she gets in the trunk and pulls out the tire iron and the jack and at least gives it a shot. I’ve rolled up on guys who’ve been waiting for three hours for me to get there and see if they have a jack. And me and this buddy of mine, we kept track for like a year. It’s mostly the guys who lock their keys in the car, you know that? And leave their lights on so the battery flats out. It’s ’cause they can’t do two things at once. You know….”
“Multi-tasking?”
“Yeah. They can’t do that. Women can. Men are dumb.” He shook his head and then smiled.
“You’re not dumb.”
“Nah, I mean in general.”

Well, okay then.

When we got to the garage, I was over my five mile tow limit. I asked how I would pay him. He said, “Let me think about that while I unhook.” He dropped the car and then shook my hand. “You take care of yourself. How long is your ride going to be? You okay waiting here?”
“The payment?”
“Take care. I’ll see you down the road.” With a wink, he was gone. I lurve Greg. I’ve already called AAA and sent an electronic commendation, and I’ve written the letter to his boss which I’ll mail today.

I lurve Oakland, too. That kind of thing just happens here. Now, let’s think cheap-fix thoughts. I can’t afford an expensive repair right now…. Oh! And it’s Friday! (Isn’t it? I might have lost track….) Happy weekend, all!

I’ve mentioned my pal Marama before. I adore her. She’s my coworker and running mate in Team 911. I wouldn’t be running this marathon without her. She’s also my shopping coach. I pretty much hate to shop, unless I know exactly what I want and can go in and get it, without passing go, without collecting $200, without dealing with screaming children and/or full-grown men, without having anything to do with a price check of any kind. If it involves a line, I get a little antsy. Like, twitchy. Like, you’d look at me in the Walmart line and worry about my trembling lower lip. You might change check-out lanes. Marama is the person I call when I need something like running shoes or a bookcase or a snowsuit.

She knows where the deals are. On Tuesday, she stopped by Ikea on her way to work. Red flag number one. Can you imagine just popping in to Ikea? Dude, I have to gear myself up for WEEKS to do that. But nope, she drops by and sure enough, she finds something. She finds something good. She’s been needing a bedframe/headboard for her guest bed and finds a simple wooden one marked down to ten dollars. Ten freaking dollars. So she buys it. She takes it outside to her car.

Marama got in a minor fender-bender last week (not her fault) and is driving a rental car considerably smaller than her usual vehicle. She stands outside and tries to put the frame in the trunk. No way is it going to fit. She tries to squeeze it into the back seat. No dice. She puts all the seats down and tries it again. Nope. She takes it out of the box and wrestles with it some more. Still no. She curses and huffs and swears until it’s half-past four. She has to be at work at five. And now it’s too late to stand in line (it’s Ikea, I remind you) to return it or to order home delivery.

Tell me. What does she do?

It was ten dollars. She leans it against a tree and drives away.

She thought about writing something on the box like, “If you can fit it in YOUR damn car, you can have it.” Or just: “I give up.”

We laughed about it at work that night. She made jokes about driving by to see if it was still there at three in the morning when she got off. Yeah, right. Heh, heh. In freakin’ Emeryville. Bordering Oakland. SURE, it’ll be there.

But she drives by. And it’s there, still leaned against the tree, papers and little rig-em-up doojabber tools all still intact. So she starts to wrestle it again. Same box, same car, a more determined person.

There’s a car sitting in the lot, occupied by one guy. He’s backed into the space, and he doesn’t look like security. He’s far enough away that Marama doesn’t pay him much mind. She does notice, however, when another car drives in and backs into a parking place. The second guy sits there and watches her, too.

A third guy in a Lexus pulls in, backs into a space, and stares at her. She begins to wonder if the Ikea parking lot is the new cruising area for gay men. Another car pulls in. Another man just watching her.

One gets out of his car and approaches her. He’s smoking a cigarette and looks tough. “It’s never going to go in there.” She decides that he’s kind of preoccupied with the cigarette in one hand and that she might get a good sucker-punch in if needed. She starts planning her way out. She feels for her cell phone. He takes the box and levers it into the trunk and manages to find things to tie it in place. “That’ll do,” he says. Another car pulls in. “Oh,” he says. “There’s my boss.” And with that, the Ikea work crew goes into the building.

I woulda had a heart attack. I would have. I swear. She was a braver woman than I would have been. She said it did cross her mind that she was risking rape, carjacking, or even just a plain ole mugging for a ten dollar headboard, but damn, that bed is going to have a story.

This is why I don’t shop. (Yarn doesn’t count.)

(Neither do books.)

(They don’t, really.)