Where I live, our new normal seems to include fires that ravage hundreds if not thousands of acres and in the process destroy homes, businesses and many lives. Now don’t get me wrong; I realize this is no way to begin a humor blog but sometimes reality is brutal. We’re now accustomed to planned blackouts during high winds so downed power lines won’t start fires.
My good friends Sharon and Jim recently moved into their beautiful home in the hills of Santa Rosa but had to evacuate last month as fire quickly engulfed the rolling hills leading to their home. They only had time to grab some clothes, important documents and their laptops before fleeing from the approaching flames. (Thankfully, their home was saved.)
This got me thinking of what I’d take if I needed to get out of Dodge, so to speak. That’s a toughie. Naturally, my first grab and go would be my pets. The grabbing part, however, would be a bit difficult with my particular cats. I have 5 of them and just realized I’m short on carriers. Note to self: get more carriers.
Okay, so it’s Saturday night, New Year’s Eve, and yours truly has yet to write her blog post. I have a ton of excuses, most of which are legitimate. Now don’t get me wrong; I won’t burden you with them.
But, realizing time is running short in 2022 (in fact, it’s just 6 hours till 2023), I’m posting a recap of the holiday and its accompanying hustle and bustle. I suppose you know by now I won’t be out celebrating tonight. So here goes:
It always starts (except during the height of Covid) with my tree decorating party/dinner. This year there were 10 of us who gathered at my home to eat, drink and be merry while I had them decorate my tree. Clever, huh? And may I say they did an excellent job, as I only had to hang one ornament.
I still remember that fateful afternoon. I was 8-years-old, walking home from school with my 10-year-old sister, when I learned there was no Easter bunny. She divulged it as if simply commenting on the weather.
In disbelief, I ran crying all the way home, anxious for my mother to dispel that awful lie. She tried, but to no avail. Once I allowed myself to reason, doubt crept in. Continue reading →
Last week I had occasion to visit the neighborhood where I grew up in Santa Venetia, also derogatorily known as Scabo. I’m not sure what that stands for but since it’s an ugly word, I’m guessing it wasn’t known as the most desirable place to live. But I beg to differ.
Kids don’t know they don’t live in a mansion. I certainly didn’t. We had 4 bedrooms that weren’t much bigger than some large walk-in closets and closets not much wider than a refrigerator. Now don’t get me wrong; I didn’t care one bit. I had what I needed and that was enough.
Our little house
To me, our Doughboy Pool was the bomb (better known as groovy back then). Other neighborhood dads helped my dad install it. That’s how it was; neighbors helping neighbors. On summer afternoons, being in that pool or playing ping pong on the patio were my favorite places to be.