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I joined the Tallahassee choir for practice and a pot luck on 2/27. This group is filled with talented singers and songwriters, and, like the Napa Valley Choir, they have recorded a CD with their original songs. The director, Susan Smith, is fun, knowledgeable and generous and her invitation to choir members to choose and lead songs has created a choir of excellent song leaders. Susan invited me to spend a night at her lovely home, with exquisite handcrafted woodwork by her husband and amazing Asian furniture and antiques. The next day, Susan took me to Velma Frye’s community choir where many of the Threshold Choir members have sung together for 20 years. After singing with the masterful Velma Frye, I spent the afternoon in deep discussion with another choir member, Nina, about the vulnerability of being a single woma­­­­­n aging alone. I feel so fortunate to meet kindred spirits like Susan, Nina and Georgine wherever I travel. 

My enchantment with Tallahassee, and the beautiful land co op where I was staying, was tested on March 3^rd. Because my head cold was getting worse, I was attempting to stay away from people, including Georgine, the choir member who invited me to stay on her property. With what little energy I could muster, I busied myself getting my taxes done, putting my van registration in the mail, exploring Tallahassee, drinking tea, eating grapefruit and reading. 

On the 3rd of March, I was feeling well enough to take a sunset walk to the coop’s psychedelic  swamp and enjoy the music of wind stirring in the tree tops. I returned to the van just as a light rain began to fall. The rain fell in earnest as I settled in for my evening meal. Then, thunder began to ring in the distance and move closer and become louder and more frequent as lightening lit the evening sky. The lightning strikes where so frequent that night seemed to vanish behind a curtain of blazing lights. I began to wonder how safe I was in my van should lightning strike, and convinced myself that sitting on rubber tires, not grounded, was a good place to be if lightening found the van. Just about this time an emergency alert on my phone warned to take immediate cover because a tornado was headed this direction. Knowing my van would not be shelter in a tornado, and picturing my little home sucked up into the tornado like Dorothy in the Wizard of Oz, sent me heading to Georgine’s where a basement houses her art studio.

I found myself in a bit of a panic knowing I had to move quickly and that I needed to carefully consider what to bring with me. Since my FEMA days, I have always been prepared for emergencies with a “go bag” that grew to occupy a large suitcase on wheels. I always had important papers, medical supplies, water and a change of clothes on the ready, but somehow that didn’t transfer to the van. I grabbed my computer, put on boots and a rain jacket and struck out into the pouring rain to splash down the little path towards the house, a 10 minute walk. I walked as fast as I could, knowing I didn’t want to be walking in the path of a tornado. I was a wet mess when I arrived at the door asking to shelter in the basement, but my hosts, having been through this drill many times before, were not in a hurry. They were entertaining a dinner guest who was in Florida to support anti-fracking groups in the area and to educate legislators on the dangers of fracking, and I had arrived in time for some interesting conversation, and for chocolate cake. Following desert, Georgine suggested sitting on the porch to listen for the tornado to approach (they says it sounds like a freight train) before heading downstairs. Since it was hard to distinguish the thunder from a train sound, to my relief, the household finally retreated to the basement. 

Once downstairs, I felt secure enough, but could not stop thinking about the van being carried away, with everything I own, including my ID and insurance paperwork. The tornado warning was extended an hour and then another hour, but we were able to follow the path of the tornado on TV and by 9:45 PM, it was clear we were out of danger. The storm had spawned multiple tornados, including one that touched down 33 miles from Tallahassee. The tornados that hit Georgia and Alabama, about 100 miles from us, were deadly, killing 23 people and doing major damage. 

The next day, a bit shaken, and not feeling well, I got my van stuck in the mud where I was parked. With an appointment at the library for assistance with my taxes, I was in a hurry to exit the water saturated low spot where I have been parking, but my determined efforts only made things worse. New to driving a big heavy vehicle, I spent a good 40 minutes fishtailing and wheel spinning in the mud before Georgine’s son rescued me with a wheelbarrow filled with gravel. The next day, I would leave Tallahassee to head south along the west coast and then to the east coast of Florida with plans to visit 2 other choirs, family members and the Everglades. Best made plans…

I crossed the Florida state line after 24 hours on the gulf coast of Mississippi and a quick drive through south Alabama. I am truly in the south now, a WaffleMobile House every few blocks, pickles sold in vending machines, graceful mansions with large expanses of unfenced lawns, lyrical slowed down speech, and unabashed friendliness and good manners (with doors held open for you even when you don’t plan to enter a building). This is also Trump territory, I saw a note scribbled inappropriately at a Nature Center exhibit that read, “Stop the Democrats from ruining our country”. 

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I was surprised by the beautiful stretches of sugar sand beaches along the Mississippi coast and the resort atmosphere of Biloxi. After spending the day exploring the Gulf Islands National Seashore and feasting on a traditional fried chicken dinner with canned green beans, I spent the night in one of the many Casino parking lots on Biloxi Bay where the view of the water and the lighted bay bridge was spectacular and the parking was free.  Lingering on the Mississippi coast left me with one day and many miles to cover, and another state and time line to cross to reach Tallahassee by nightfall.  The tiny stretch of Alabama that reaches the coast would take just over an hour to cross if I did not stop and visit Mobile with its stunning mix of old and new. My visit was just a week before a deadly tornado touched down not far from there. 

Walking into the Florida Welcome Center/Rest Stop just inside the Florida state line was a bit of a shock after the gracious ambience I relished in Louisiana, Mississippi and Alabama. The entry to the Welcome Center made me feel like I had just stepped into that Wizard of Oz scene where the black and white film unexpectedly blooms into technicolor. Beautiful people partaking in endless water activities against a backdrop of stunning beaches flashed across multiple TV screens, with speakers blaring Jimmy Buffett’s Margaritaville. This stop is a well-oiled tourist machine, complete with tanned volunteers offering free orange and grapefruit juice. Glossy pamphlets and visitor magazines offer hundreds of ways to have fun in Florida, if you can afford them. Florida knows how to cater to tourists. 

I arrived in Tallahassee at dusk, followed back roads to the Miccosukee Land Cooperative where Georgine, a Threshold Choir member here, offered a place for me to park. I was delighted to enter a world of piney woods, volunteer citrus trees and unique homes barely visible from one another through the dense growth. Morning coffee with Georgine and her husband, Cliff, on the deck of their expansive 3 story, hand crafted home was a delight. Between shared songs and stories, I asked how long it had taken to build the astounding home, which they started in 1976. Cliff answered that he is still at it, but added that Georgine had nixed the tower he would like to add to the top story. I showed Cliff and Georgine pictures of Hawk tower at Torr house and read Robinson Jeffers poem, Hurt Hawk, for them.  Cliff shared some of his poems. 

It took a few days for me to discover the magic garden on the property. Cliff had suggested the grapefruit growing there would be good medicine for the cold I was nursing. Beyond a small gate, the winter garden, adorned with ancient sea shells and Georgine’s imaginative art, was surrounded by citrus trees with tangerines, oranges and grapefruit ripe for the picking. The grapefruit tasted like paradise, bright, juicy and nourishing.  That night fireflies visited the garden, adding to the magic. 

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Contributions for help with my gas fund can be made at this link: paypal.me/pools/c/86OfWkYwej

I have been so looking forward to Louisiana. My visits to the French Quarter in the 1980s had been memorable, but I really fell in love with Louisiana, the people, food, the music and the culture during my stay while working for FEMA in 2009 (fortunately, I was not there for Katrina). 

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As luck would have it, I arrived during Mardi Gras season this time. Before heading to New Orleans I did some exploring and camped on the north shore of Lake Pontchatrain. In New Orleans, I got to do it all, sing with the New Orleans Threshold Choir and stay with 2 different choir members there, explore the French Quarter, attend Mardi Gras parades and spent a night on Grand Isle in the gulf.  It was glorious, colorful, gracious and exotic. My stays with Hermene, and then with Jeanne and Leigh, were sweet and enlightening. After sharing shrimp po boys sandwiches and hours of story swapping with Hermene, I was pleased to have discovered yet another Threshold Choir kindred spirit.

When I moved uptown to Jeanne and Leigh’s house, they patiently answered my questions about what it means to be a New Orleans native, and schooled me in mardi gras parade protocol, street car navigation and crawfish eating technique. Jeanne and Leigh also invited me to visit their “camp” (beach house in California talk), on a sleepy little island in the gulf. Their vacation house there is in the process of being raised to 16 feet off the ground, a new requirement for homes on Grand Isle. I feel blessed to have had an insider guided experience of Louisiana, many thanks to my gracious hosts.

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Contributions for my gas fund can be made at this link: paypal.me/pools/c/86OfWkYwej

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I made it to the gulf coast yesterday, whizzed through Galveston and grabbed the free ferry to the Bolivar Peninsula where I was lured by the prospect of primitive camping on the beach for $10.  I drove by homes, businesses, towns and schools all raised on supports that lifted them 10 to 15 feet off the ground. Clearly, they have learned the lessons of flooding here. I also passed refineries a big as cities and saw pipelines and valves immerging from the ground everywhere I looked. Steam vents and vent flames gave me the feeling that there is a whole underground world that moves petroleum around this part of the country. 

I drove until I found a suitable beach at Sea Rim State Park, and then drove onto the beach, nervous about the tides and smug about the deal when other RVs had chosen the concrete pads with hook ups for $30 a night. I found myself alone on miles of beach except for one camper that I could barely see from my chosen spot. I backed into the vegetation as far as I could to avoid being carried off with the high tide, which the ranger assured me would be a few inches below the high tide line. With the entire beach wet and strewn with debris, I had a difficult time determining the high tide line and found myself checking the surf several times during the night. 

On this eventful night, I came to the realization that Pacific Grove has ruined me for the south. In PG, there are no screens on windows, and the only insects that invade that west coast paradise are migrating monarch butterflies. In my camping spot on the beach on the Texas Gulf Coast, mosquitos own the night. 

At sunset, I settled in for some writing time in the van and was shocked to see that swarms of hungry mosquitoes were storming the windows desperately trying to get in. Every window was nearly black with the writhing little buggers. I calmed myself with the thought that the water tight van would protect me from the invaders, but I was mistaken. As I write this, the morning after a sleepless night fighting to protect my blood, I am being buzzed by one of the clever ones that found a way inside, with scores of his kin. 

The night took me back to another mosquito war that took place in Key West when I was 8 or 9 years old. After a harrowing drive over endless causeways and bridges with a threateningly empty gas tank, my mom and dad found a motel to spend the night. We kids had our own mosquito lair room where my brother spent the entire night jumping out of bed and turning on the lights to ambush our assailants in repeated attacks. In the morning the walls were spattered with bloody smears where he had smashed the little vampires, and we spent the day cranky with itchy bites and sleep deprivation. That pretty much describes the night I spent last night, except that at around 2:00 AM, I was motivated to dig through my belongings to find the 3 year old herbal mosquito repellent I had purchased in Bali and the spot remover I had packed.  I spent the next hour spraying myself and my bedding with the cinnamon smelling herbal potion and scrubbing blood stains where I had impulsively smashed the pests against the upholstered walls around my bed. By the looks of things, I lost a lot of blood. Pressing on to more mosquito country in New Orleans and then Florida, I will need a better strategy. Mosquito netting perhaps?

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I had made another online booking at a Texas campground in route to New Orleans. Brazos Bend State Park boasted a nature center, bayous and alligators, who could resist? I wasn’t disappointed with the vast lakes, swamps, amazing bird life, 5 varieties of poisonous snakes and 300 adult alligators. On my first day, I spotted an owl, 2 turtles, a snake and 2 alligators. Nights were blessed with gentle owl calls. Arriving at the campsite, I was greeted by friendly Nancy, who I immediately learned was 76 and a full time Roadtreker who  sold her home and has been on the road for more than 2 years. She told me that she doesn’t plan ahead, just follows the road. She stays at campgrounds every night. I could easily see myself living that life, if only I had the finances to pull it off. I loved this campsite, and even though it was $30 per night, I added a third night, did my laundry in their laundromat, made some repairs to the van, reorganized my belongings and threw away some of the tour info I have been accumulating. In the evenings, I walked along the lakes watching birds and watching out for gators. I encountered a 8 foot gator just a few feet away from the lake trail I was walking and was creeped out by its sinister toothy grin. How can you tell what a gator is thinking when they are smiling? On my last night, an accordion player camped nearby and I enjoyed a wonderful concert of tango music.

I arrived in San Antonio at 2:00 PM on 2/10, and settled into my temporary driveway home outside of Cay Crow’s lovely studio not far from Downtown. Spacious yards,  lichen draped oaks and foraging deer give this neighborhood a charming country feel. Cay made me very welcome and drove me to the 4:00 PM Threshold Choir practice led by the led by the talented Deborah Carrithers, a dedicated choir leader who has started two Threshold Choirs in San Antonio and is producing a new choir member training video.  Deborah starts each song by singing the first phase to set pitch and tempo and closes or opens songs with a round without words singing “ooh”. Her advance planning for the practices is evident as she checks off each task completed on a check off sheet. Besides bringing names into the circle to sing to, each practice included a few questions regarding bedside singing how-tos and a closing circle. I arrived the very week the new choirs had started singing at bedsides. I was fortunate to attend practices for both San Antonio choirs and was honored to be asked to share songs and participate in segments of the training video.  

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I was also touched by the generous time Cay took out of her schedule to drive me around and share meals and deep conversation. I was interested in her work as a Sex Therapist and had lots of questions. It was raining a bit on my last night, but we were able to explore San Antonio’s glorious river walk which is flanked by historic buildings and The Alamo. San Antonio has transformed their river flood control into a magical Disneyland complete with boot rides. It makes all the difference to have a local guide. Many thanks, Cay and Deborah for a memorable 3 days. 

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Heading east on 2/5, I had hoped to sing with the Palm Desert Threshold Choir there, but after spending hours exploring the resort like town next door to Palm Springs, I found it locked up tight with gated communities everywhere. I tried connecting with a friend I haven’t seen since our FEMA days, 12 years earlier, but now that we have all dropped our land lines, I could not find her call phone number without subscribing to a service I didn’t trust. I was able to get Mary Ellen’s address online, and was planning to just show up at her door, but the gated community she lived in protected her from such unannounced visitors. I had to give up the plan to stay in Palm Desert and sing with the choir there and continued my journey east. I traveled towards Arizona, where I had a campsite reserved at Picacho Peak on 2/7 that included a cowboy singer performance that night.  Continuing on through the desert, I spent the next 2 nights in Casino Parking lots along the way. 

Just in case you are wondering, Casino parking lots often offer “dry camping” for free. Some casinos have a set up with electric, water and possibly, sewer hook ups, and they charge $30 – $60 a night, the same as an RV park. I carry my own water, have my own battery powered electricity and a flush toilet, so dry camping works for me. I prefer sleeping overnight at rest stops, but the brightly lit casino parking lots will do in a pinch. I was concerned when I saw large trucks parked among the RVs in the Casino lot where I stopped to sleep on 2/5. It has been my experience that trucks keep their engines on all night, something I consider a wasteful practice that makes it difficult to get any sleep if you are parked nearby. In a sea of trucks, I slipped in right next to a big RV, something I usually avoid, hoping the empty space on my other flank would not be filled by a truck. Something like 30 trucks were parked around the 4 RVs in the large lot. As I settled in and committed myself to spending the night, I realized the trucks had their engines turned off. This is something I have not experienced in California, or anywhere I traveled on the west coast. Although several trucks roared in during the night, they weren’t bad neighbors with the engines turned off. My father, who was an airline pilot with a 90 minute commute to the LA airport, always advised me to follow a truck when driving long distances. I have been doing that on this trip, and find it comforting that they keep a steady speed that is closer to the speed I want to drive. I attempt to drive below 65 MPH to save on gas, and in windy weather, as it has been driving through the desert, Wanda handles much better at 60 MPH, than at the speed limit (70 – 80 MPH in Arizona, New Mexico and Texas). I find myself warming to truckers as I am now feeling part of the heard. 

I have also gained a new appreciation of the desert that I passed through on Highway 10. Heading east from Palm Desert, where I found the palm lined streets, clean lined architecture and creative minimalist landscaping stunning, the palm trees disappeared, the gusty winds increased and the sparse growth, where there is growth, is no more than shin high. I passed a sad place identified as  “Desert Center” east of Indio, where a few abandoned buildings stood flanked by headless palms. Even though the windy desert is not hospitable to palms, the wide open expanses, forever vistas and the endless desert sky offer a kind of freedom that sets the mind at ease. It gave me the “ahh” feeling that is not unlike gazing at a wide expanse of ocean. I spent long days driving, all the time scanning the scenery. You may argue that there isn’t much to see, and that may be accurate, except that even the stretches of flat arid spaces are surrounded by remarkable mountains and mesas, each unique in its shape and size. Once I crossed into Arizona, I was wowed me by fabulous rocky pinnacles popping out of the desert floor and the weirdly wonderful saguaro cactus. I also kept busy checking out road kill. I was moving too fast to take in the wildlife, except for one stunning sandy colored coyote that approached the highway in Texas, so the road kill gave me clues to what creatures inhabit these deserts. Sadly, I counted 4 dead coyotes, a number of opossums, some rabbits, a peccary (a 3-4 foot long pig like critter that eats cactus), and one armadillo, that comically landed on its back with stiff little legs and tiny feet standing straight up in the air.  I saw a few oil wells along the way, but was pleased to see that renewable energy as a stronghold in the desert where wind turbines far outnumber oil wells.

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I was moving fast, with a Threshold Choir date in the afternoon of 2/10 in San Antonio, Texas, and almost 1000 miles to cover from my campsite in Arizona that I left on 2/8. I didn’t have as much time as I would have liked to spend in Arizona or New Mexico. My overnight at Picacho Peak in Arizona was spectacular, with a cowboy concert at sunset set against the backdrop of a the mighty Picacho Peak (yes, this is redundant since Picacho means “peak” in Spanish) and  saguaro cactus. It was sunny and clear and I was treated to a dark starry night that was too brilliant to waste sleeping. This campground was occupied by the stylish airstreams and hip new “retro” trailers that were a delight to see. It was good that I made a reservation because this campground was full of in-the-know campers when I arrived, something I haven’t found elsewhere. 

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I stopped at the historic district in Tucson, took in the art museum and had the best chili relleno I have even tasted at a trendy outdoor café near the museum (the chili was fried crispy on the outside and served on a bed of red and green sauces that were so good, I had to devour a basket of chips as not to waste a drop). I did not have time to visit the Phoenix or Tucson  Threshold Choirs, or see many of the sights I wanted to see, including Cochise’s holdout.  I was saddened passing through the territory where so many lives were lost the Indian wars. In New Mexico, I spent a night at a rest stop on a mesa overlooking Las Cruses, a town that got its name from the many graves of the settlers who lost their lives in those wars. The modern overlook was designed in a circle with modern picnic areas constructed of desert stone and parking that looked down on the lights of the city below. I had arrived after dark, and the sparkling view took my breath away. This the kind of romantic view that drew teenagers to park with their sweethearts in my day. What a stroke of luck to happen upon this super rest stop after a long day of driving.  

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I find that 5 to 6 hours a day is about all I can handle driving. Because I drive slowly and stop and stretch at rest stops, 350 to 400 miles is about all I cover in a day. On long stretches, I can go for days without talking to anyone, the engine noise makes it impossible to talk on the phone while driving, and driving demands my full attention (in Texas and Arizona, there are signs saying it is illegal to talk or text while driving). In campsites, there are conversations about where you are from and going, but rarely more than that. I have little in common with the couples I encounter in their big shinny RVs with huge flat screen TVs. At rest stops and casinos, I pull my curtains closed and have  no contact with my neighbors. I have been asked if I get lonely, and I imagine I would if it weren’t for the warm and wonderful connections with choir members along that way, singing along with the music I packed, and listening to the radio when I can find NPR. It is surprising how many Christian radio stations there are. Getting to San Antonio in time for the choir practice was a push, but I’m so glad I made time for that stop. 

On February 4, I headed away from the ocean and began my journey south and then east. I drove through the Southern California valleys where I had lived as a child, and then later as a young mother. I passed Thousand Oaks, where I went to middle school and high school, passed Topanga Canyon, where I lived with my husband, Phil, in a gypsy wagon when Joe was a toddler, Reseda, where we lived when Joe was an infant, and only left the freeway to drive by sprawling subdivision of box like 2 bedroom houses in San Fernando Valley where my grandmother and great aunts, Tillie and Ana Mae, and their husbands, lived within blocks of each other. My grandmother and aunties were the matriarchs of the family, capable women with colorful pasts, who spoke freely about all matters, including sex and ghosts, subjects that were not discussed in my home. I spent summers at Ana Mae’s learning couturier sewing, helping in her massive bird aviaries and sitting in on weekly bingo games in her kitchen where the crones who gathered took whisky in their coffee and cursed like truck drivers. It was grand. Surprisingly, my former homes in Thousand Oaks, Reseda and West Covina had no draw for me. I never connected with the sprawling overbuilt communities where everything was new and malls functioned as town centers. After high school I hightailed it out of Thousand Oaks for Haight Ashbury. 

I drove on to Riverside, where I would meet with RiverSong, the Threshold Choir there, in the evening of 2/4. After leaving the congested LA area, it was a relief to be in this rural town abundant with hiking trails into the boulder covered hills, streets lined with palm trees and miles of orange groves. It reminded me of the California I remembered driving through as a child, when orange groves stood where there are now freeways and shopping malls along the route to Grandma’s house. Permission to sleep overnight in the church parking lot where the choir practiced had been arranged for me, relieving me of the stressful search for a safe place to sleep.

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I learned that the 18 month old Threshold Choir and the Riverside Resistance Choir were both launched by a visit from Meanie DeMore. The founder of the TC choir, Jerri Mendival, reached out to Melanie when her sister was dying and Melanie agreed to sing to her over the phone. This birthed Jerri’s interest in Threshold choir, and within 8 months, the RiverSong Threshold Choir was singing at bedsides. I was touched by the warm welcome I received. Barbara Bown, the co-leader of RiverSong, lived in Pacific Grove before returning to Riverside to care for her mother. She was looking forward to our meeting because we share a love of Pacific Grove and because she is excited about my journey. She and Jerri were very kind and gave me time to lead a couple of songs at the practice. Barbara took me to breakfast the next day, and sent me off with warm wishes, an apple pie and cash for my gas fund. I so enjoyed my short visit.

I left Pacific Grove on 1/29 headed to Santa Barbara. On the way, I stopped in San Luis Obispo to meet with the volunteer coordinator for Hospice and Threshold Choir there. She had many questions and fortunately the Threshold Choir website provides information, resources and contacts for members and for the public. Sadly, my schedule did not allow being around for the Sunday practice. 

My ambitious schedule to drive around the country in a year means that I miss more choirs than I make. I am saddened each time I have to skip a choir because it is not on my route, or, it is on my route, but I’m passing through when there is no practice, or, I can’t stop because I’m rushing through because of reservations for a campsite or a scheduled choir practice elsewhere. I had no idea how complex it is to contact choirs and schedule my route to coincide with practices.  Now I know that a year is not enough time to see the country and meet with all of the choirs I had hoped to join at a practice. I have also felt disappointment having to leave places that deserve more time to explore. Sadly, it all boils down to finances. The sweet connections with choirs along my path make it all worthwhile. 

I arrived in Santa Barbara on 1/31 after a night in the Jamala Beach campground, an hour north of SB. The campground is isolated at the end of a 30 minute drive west from 101 that winds through the softly rolling hills of the coastal range which was carpeted with brilliant green grass coaxed forth by recent rain.  In contrast to most of the country, in California, the hills are green during the winter months and turn to “lion hills” as Kate Wolf called them, when the rain stops. Growing up in the arid inland valleys of Southern California, I have always relished the winter months when the hills vibrate with healing green.  

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I suspect it is the palm tree landscaping at Jamala Beach State Park that gives the campground the 60’s family resort feel it is known for. When I arrived on 1/30, I found a mix of RVers, surfers, surf fisher folk and a couple of families, heavy on the retirees in big RVs. I had to request a campsite outside the RV area to prevent my little buggy (now officially Wonder Driven Wanda, or Wanda for short) from being totally eclipsed by the towering sidewalls of the RVs parked on either side of my assigned parking space. My timing was perfect, had I come 2 days later, there would be no way to escape the big storm that blasted the Santa Barbara and Ventura Coast. On this afternoon, the weather was warm and sunny and a walk on the long beach was rewarded with a spectacular sunset and a wealth of agates and other interesting stones, which I felt obliged to collect, even though it makes no sense to haul rocks around in my van. Three oil rigs offshore looked like tall ships in the day, but after dark they became crystal castles strung with lights. 

The next night, I slept in a residential area in Goleta, just north of Santa Barbara. This kind of stealth camping requires an early morning departure, which landed me at the Santa Barbara pier for a fiery sunrise. I was so stuck by the scene, the calm bay ringed by jagged mountains and an intense crimson rising from the horizon, that I forgot the old sailor’s rhyme, “Red sky at night, sailor delight. Red sky in the morning, sailor take warning”. And warning it was. 

The choir member’s home where I was to stay following Threshold Choir practice on 2/1 was in the evacuated area of Montecito where the forecast for heavy rain (up to 2” per hour and 80 MPH wind gusts in the early morning of Feb 2), and a 2 year old fire scar, were a recipe for flash flooding. I drove up to Carol Sharpe’s stunning Montecito hillside home in the afternoon and was touched by her warm welcome, but it was clear that driving there after the evening Threshold Choir Practice would not be possible. Although the house is on a hillside above the flood path where rebuilding was still underway on homes and businesses swept away in flooding 2 winters ago, the access to her home passes right through the flood zone. I was able to book a hotel room near downtown, where a protected parking lot would shelter my van from the high winds and rain predicted to come from the south. 

I have been looking forward to the Santa Barbara Threshold Choir practice for weeks. Aong the members are the talented singer/songwriters, Marilyn Power Scott and Penelope Salinger,  friends I made when I first joined the choir in 2009.  The choir has adopted a new shared leadership model and Penelope and Wendy were co leaders at this practice. The Santa Barbara Choir practices include traditions such as members singing their names with the circle repeating the name back to them and a check in with each member. They stay busy with many events scheduled during the year which include social events for the members. I learned a new signal for slowing a song down at the end. The leader uses a hand on the chest tapping out the rhythm like a heartbeat. It was a delight to see younger choir members in the mix. I find it such food for the soul to sing beloved songs with my tribe. 

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After the practice the rain was falling hard and I didn’t have far to go to reach my stylish hotel. To my surprise, the Lemon Tree Hotel had large lemon bushes planted around all of the buildings that were splendidly teeming with ripening lemons. It is hard to comprehend why finding edible landscaping in public places is such a rarity. As predicted, powerful wind gusts battered the night with the strongest gusts arriving with the sunrise. Then the sky opened, dumping as much as ½ inch of rain in 3 minutes, which was mesmerizing to watch from the comfort of my hotel room. The threatening weather passed within 60 minutes, and by check out time, only a light rain was falling. The streets were flooded with water and palm fronds, it turns out that palm trees are not your friend in weather. Overflowed creeks closed Hwy 101 in both directions on February 2^nd. I spent the day exploring elegant downtown Santa Barbara, with its harmonious Spanish architecture, glistening restaurants and shops, rainbows and severe homeless problem. Hauther, a member of the Santa Barbara Threshold Choir who is active in the coalition of churches that worked to shelter them from the storm, offered the term, “Our neighbors without homes”, which I find a useful antidote to thinking of the homeless population as “other”. 

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The highway was opened to northbound traffic by dark enabling me to make my way to Carol’s where I accepted her invitation to sleep indoors for 2 nights instead of sleeping in my van in the driveway. Carol is a pianist, as well as a singer, and she and her visiting son, Jeff, an accomplished trumpet player, made sweet music together after breakfast each morning. Jeff said it was bittersweet for them to play without being accompanied by Charlie, Carol’s recently departed husband, who played clarinet in their family trio. I found I had much in common with Carol who retired from teaching many years ago and has been an active volunteer in social programs since. She enjoys hosting guests and Kate Munger had visited a week before I arrived. My heart was full when I left Carol’s after 2 days of deep conversation, delicious meals, family music, spectacular views, warm showers and a night of ruthless Gin Rummy.

Back in Pacific Grove, I have the chance to reunite with friends from Threshold Choir, work, poetry, the Wholehearted Chorus singing tribe, and the wondrous Monterey Bay. In my travels in the Northwest, I found myself missing the wealth of marine life that thrives in this area. In Pacific Grove, I prepare meals, write and nap parked along the rocky shoreline where otters, whales, harbor seals, sea lions, cormorants, egrets, herons, pelicans and a host of shorebirds are visible. Although I saw a few cormorants as I traveled, I missed seeing the Cormorant rookeries of Monterey Harbor and Cannery Row and the morning and evening low flying migrations of great lines of cormorants undulating over the waves of Monterey Bay. 

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I have always admired Cormorants with their Phoenix like feather drying pose. My dad called them “snake birds” because their heavy bodies ride below the surface with only their long necks and heads visible on the surface. The heavy boned diving bird, with the ability to dive  as deep as 150 feet in pursuit of a meal, struggles to lift off of the water to take flight. In the spring, low flying Cormorants whiz by my kayak dragging ropes of seaweed to build their nests. It struck me that the cormorants labored flight requires continual wing flapping, unlike gulls and pelicans, cormorants don’t glide. Not being much of a glider myself, I can relate. 

Besides returning to Threshold Choir, Monterey is home to Lisa Littlebird’s Wholehearted Chorus. Singing with the Wholehearted Chorus is pure joy. Lisa teaches songs orally and is part of a movement birthing community choruses around the country. It feels to me like the best of the 60s has been revived with a resurgence of singers, socially conscious songwriters and community song circles. I was fortunate to participate in Lisa’s online Songleader Flight School and attend two of her song leader retreats, including the retreat that was held in Carmel Valley 1/19 – 1/22. Graduates of her Songleader Flight School have gone on to lead singing circles around the world, including Josh Blaine, who was inspired by flight school to start leading song circles in the rotunda of the Texas State Capitol. Lisa’s skill, generosity and bliss inspire so many. 

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Many thanks to Lisa Littlebird, Suzan Kelly, Liz Viciana, Karen Lehman, Sandor Nagyszalanczy, Pacia Platcek, Ted Hill, Vicki Lein, Susan Moran, and my soul sister, Jill Bernier, for their generosity making time for me when I was in town, hosting me, providing meals, hot showers, and morning coffee.  Know that you have a home in my heart and that wherever I go, you travel with me.