California Fall Color

Moving somewhere new can be difficult. A lot of difficulties are obvious; learning to navigate in a new town; getting used to what times the stores shut in a small town compared to a big city; doing what you can to feel "at home."

Other things creep up on you, and are harder to deal with.

Fall has always been my favorite season. The cooling temperatures, the wind blowing, but above all... changing colors. It's been somewhat difficult to find fall hasn't really started yet here, and it's almost November. Leaves that change aren't indigenous to this state; you have to look in yards and subdivisions. Even so, "fall" is usually confined to a week in December; the briefest glimpse of color, until a gust of wind heralds winter and takes them away. My birthday falls in autumn; and all I wanted this year was those colors to come. Today I took a walk and got treated to some. I hope you enjoy them, too.

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The Story Of Our Miracle Rose

The picture accompanying this blog post shows two new roses with a remarkable tale to tell. At least, it's remarkable for us. It just goes to illustrate the sort of things that happen to us on a regular basis; sometimes, it seems our lives are filled with the most unusual and yes absolutely unlikely events. I'm not sure if there's any explanation for this; the best one that we have come up with is the smaller rose is, quite simply, a miracle. The larger rose, is, in fact, the younger sibling. Here's their story.

One of the first things we did once we started living together was go out and buy some roses. C has always had some impressive roses in her garden; mine, well, less so; but between the two of us, we wanted to have some significant new rose bushes in the back yard. We had a mooch round the nursery, agreeing what we wanted were roses that were fragrant. All too often, particularly with modern hybrid roses, they are grown for looks but it seems they are bland, if they have any fragrance at all. In addition, roses have caught our eye by name. We picked up a "Lasting Love", a fragrant medium-sized red rose; "Midnight Blue", tiny purple blooms that had a spicy scent; and one other. The names certainly were important to us, but something happened with the third one. The name was on a nursery sign which we had to leave there once we checked out, and, by the time we had got home, the name was forgotten. I have a funny feeling it may have been "What a Peach" - that was a name that caught our eye - but that rose never turned out that way. It produces large yellow flowers with a very fruity fragrance, so we've decided to name it "Lemon Pudding".

We cleared spaces in the flowerbed for these three new bushes, and, after some initial shock, they've been doing very well. 'Lasting Love" tends to peek one bloom or two regularly into our bedroom window, while "Midnight Blue" often explodes into dozens of tiny flowers. "Lemon Pudding" often catches us unawares; it seems yellow roses come and go quite quickly. One day, there's not even a bud. The next day, it's in full bloom, and a day later, it's gone. I've been doing my best through the rainless summer season keeping them watered and trimmed, and they're doing well, but we were still missing the rose we wanted; something fragrant, something orange, and something "peachy".

We scanned some online catalogs to see what was available, and one promising location caught our eye; a family-run rose garden, relatively nearby, one that would make a pleasant afternoon drive. We set out to check the roses out, excited at the prospect of a grower who was interested in raising traditional roses rather than more modern hybrids. The route twisted and turned, climbing up into the hills, narrowing, through beautiful redwood scenery, and we found ourselves at the bottom of a steep drive. At the top, it seemed there was nobody to be found. The house was perched on the top of a hill; quiet. It seemed like the home of a recluse. A simple sign posted on the gate told us that the garden worked on an honor system. If you call ahead and ask for what you want, it should be here. Take it, leave your details in a drop box by the picnic table, and leave. We began to feel a little uneasy. As we walked around the garden, it gave us the unnerving feeling that it was abandoned. It did not seem well taken care of. There were roses that needed watering, treating, trimming. Another patron turned up, as mystified by the whole setup as we were. Disappointed, we turned to leave.

We weren't going to be thwarted quite so easily, so we started reading and researching. I found out a lot about yellow and orange roses. Apparently, the first attempts to produce them were not entirely successful. The color was not too difficult to produce, but often, the scents were unappealing, in fact, some early yellow roses were said to have a scent resembling... well, rotting flesh. As I began looking for traditional roses, I was somewhat surprised to find I had a namesake, Mr Nash, which was, indeed, a yellow rose. We've added that to our list of roses to find at some point, but still, the perfect orange rose seemed like it would be quite a search. C began to look for growers further north, Oregon, Washington. Perhaps their cooler summers might yield us a rose that we'd be able to keep going, with a little TLC. Again, it seems, coincidence struck again. A company called Heirloom had a rose that sounded exactly like what we were after, called "Fragrant Cloud", with a color and scent that was described as "apricot". I doubt I'll ever get the name of this thing right. Every time I think of it, I get confused with the heirloom tomatoes and the Apricot Cloud breakfast treats that we've been picking up at the Hollister Farmers' Market all summer. Our order went in, and the nursery told us to wait around three weeks for delivery. We received confirmation it would be dispatched on July 28, and we just needed to wait for the UPS man to deliver it.

A couple of weeks passed, and there was no rose; and, were it not for far too much crazy Real Life Stuff going on, we would have followed up on it sooner. Towards the end of August, it was evident that the rose was not going to arrive. C contacted the nursery again and asked for the status of our order. They confirmed it had indeed been sent, UPS, on July 28, and, seeing as it hadn't arrived, it had evidently been lost or destroyed in transit. After a little bit of back-and-forth it was agreed the only thing they could do was dispatch another, and told us to watch carefully for deliveries. It must have been left out on the doorstep one day when everyone was busy; August was, for one reason or another, a stressful month for us. Almost by accident, we spotted a box about a foot long and a few inches square tucked under the doormat; that wasn't what we expected. The timing was absolutely awful, coinciding with perhaps the most stressful experience of our lives together to date. Opening this box and seeing a tiny seeding rather than the established bush we were expecting did nothing to improve our demeanour. We gave the poor thing a good soak after its obviously tortured journey in the back of a sticky UPS truck, and planned to put it in good soil and a pot the next morning. It would be some months before it would establish, surely? It turned out, though, the plant has been remarkably robust, and indeed is already well over a foot tall and beginning to bush out. Our initial disappointment hasn't held water; it looks like this will be a wonderful rose to add to our garden and will bloom beautifully next season.

That, though, is not the remarkable part of the story...

The end of September saw a significant anniversary for us; one which we were hoping we could celebrate, at least modestly, for we have several things we need to save for. There have been a few other significant life events to mark in September, and, one day, a package appeared on the table by the front door, seemingly from nowhere. We hadn't ordered anything, but there it was, another box, about a foot long and a few inches square. It seemed that the first rose had finally got to its final destination. Tracking had told us that it had made it to the UPS depot in the town twenty minutes away immediately after its dispatch. We could only guess that for the past two months this poor thing had been lost in a sweltering warehouse, or rolling around, unnoticed, in the back of a van or underneath the driver's seat. The mystery was solved. All that remained for us was to unpack it from the box and give it its last rites. As we opened the box, dry soil, desiccated, began to tumble out of the tiny pot. We caught a glimpse of the stalk, wilted, pathetic.

And one, green, leaf. Somehow, incredibly, it was still alive. We hurriedly ran outside and placed it next to its older sibling, and gave it a drink that it had evidently been waiting for two months to get. Over the past two weeks, the new growth on this plant has been nothing short of miraculous, It's been facing a miniature heatwave, an Indian summer on California's Central Coast, but that's OK. Roses love the heat and the sun, provided they can get enough water (but, they don't like their roots constantly soaked, either). There's no smoke and mirrors involved here; the invoice and the packing materials said, sure enough, that the rose had left the nursery on July 28. We're keeping the invoice as a memento, and the rose is growing from strength to strength. It's something of a miracle, along with the events it commemorates.

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Whatever Happened to Mary Jane? All Quiet on California's Proposition 19

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On November 2, 2010, voters in the state of California will decide on Proposition 19, also known as the Regulate, Control and Tax Cannabis Act. The rest of the world is no doubt looking in towards California at this point to see exactly what happens - although, of course, it isn't the first time. A similar proposal in 1972 (coincidentally also called Proposition 19) was substantially defeated, because it asked for no restrictions whatsoever; the 2010 proposition is somewhat more complicated. It is probably very easy at this point for non-Californians to assume the airwaves are loaded with vehement debate about the proposition, both sides trading political blows, surrounded in a cloud of purple haze, but the reality is perhaps more disappointing for external observers. Things are, in fact, almost silent.

Proposition 19 goes to some extent to legalize some activities related to the consumption and production of marijuana. It allows individuals to possess up to one ounce of marijuana for personal use; to use it in private or in a licensed public establishment; and to grow it (for personal use) in a space not exceeding 25 square feet. Meanwhile, local government at the city or county level can impose taxes on these activities, such as through retail sale, transportation, or licensing, and, although the proposition does legalize some use, it still maintains existing restrictions regarding exposure of the drug to minors, keeps some activities unlawful such as driving under the influence, and an employer's right to address issues related to employee performance due to consumption in much the same way as alcohol. Existing legislation, such as that in place for the use of the drug for medical purposes, and interstate or international restrictions, are not impacted by the terms of the proposition. Its scope is the state of California, and any follow-up is at the local government level.

Advocates of the proposition cite the ability to raise tax dollars as a reason for support. The state of California is experiencing serious fiscal issues, and taxation of an activity that is already reasonably common in the state has been estimated to raise as much as $1.4 billion dollars annually, while decriminalization of some activities has been estimated to save a further billion dollars or so in areas such as law enforcement and correctional facilities, allowing such facilities to dedicate their resources to more dangerous crime. Supporters draw many parallels with the experiences of Prohibition of alcohol between 1920 and 1933 - that continued criminalization of the drug does not protect but instead leads to crime and health risks. Regulation on a local basis is claimed to fall in line with the state's Tenth Amendment rights, although there will surely be other conflicts with federal law as yet to be resolved. At the very least, advocates see this as the latest opportunity to encourage debate on the issue of legalization, and a continuation of efforts in California going back to 1972 and that have seen some legislation in both directions at the city and county level before - notably, the decriminalization in Mendocino County in 2000, much of which was repealed in 2008.

Opponents cite issues regarding public and workplace safety, concerns about the lack of restriction or zoning as to where such activities can take place, conflicts of interest with federal funding, and public health concerns, In general, the effects of a yes vote on the proposition are considered as being detrimental to neighborhoods and the community. There are also perhaps some other more curious objections. For example, supporters of the existing legislation legalizing medical use such as the Compassionate Use Act of 1996, and unions of growers and dispensaries supplying such medical marijuana, are perhaps surprisingly against Proposition 19. Most notable is the stance of Dennis Peron, the co-author of Proposition 215, which formerly legalized the use of marijuana for medical reasons. He opposes Proposition 19 on the stance that there is no "recreational" use of the drug in his opinion, only medical; and that any mention of users seeking a "high" is an admission that they are in fact unknowing patients, and they should seek treatment for depression.

It turns out though the main reason things are so quiet about Proposition 19 is that none of the major candidates also going to the vote on November 2 are in support. Claiming yes on such a controversial proposition is very possibly seen as a way to lose votes. Current governor Arnold Schwarzenegger recently signed SB 1449 into law, which decriminalizes possession of amounts of marijuana of less than one ounce, requiring no court appearance and simply punishable by a fine, much like a traffic ticket. In his signing statement, Schwarzenegger stated his opposition for Proposition 19, and that estimates of tax income from it were likely flawed. Both gubernatorial candidates, Meg Whitman and Jerry Brown, are in opposition; both Attorney General candidates, Kamala Harris and Steve Cooley, also oppose. They are joined by many other high-profile incumbent and candidate politicians such as Barbara Boxer, Dianne Feinstein, and Carly Fiorina. A wide variety of political action committees are also against the proposition, which perhaps explains the silence about the proposition. Nobody is using it as fuel for political debate; the big guns have other things to argue about.

As it happens though, current opinion polls on Proposition 19 seem to indicate it may just about get the simple majority it needs to pass, with many polls showing over fifty percent support with a very small number of undecideds as election day approaches. That makes Proposition 19 currently better supported than either candidate for governor, and, while it is likely it may quietly go through, the local legislation that is to follow may be particularly hairy. No matter what happens in California on November 2, the sale of marijuana will still remain illegal under federal law under the Controlled Substances Act, with cannabis still appearing there on Schedule 1.

What's your opinion on the proposition?

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A Blaze In The Fireplace

The flames are roaring in the fireplace, consuming the firewood at a terrific rate. It's necessary, I need to keep warm. I'm shivering this morning. It's about 55 degrees outside; but that's 55 degrees without any blanket of humidity to take the edge of it. It feels more like forty. Or thirty. Or some other meaningless number. It doesn't feel like a number at all. What it feels like is cold. I'm wearing thick socks and house shoes; I'm thinking about putting another pair of socks on. I'm still wearing my flannel pyjamas. On top of those; I'm wearing the most snuggly shirt I've got; one that had served me well protecting me from a howling wind 315 feet off the ground in a theme park in Ohio. In October. I throw on another piece of firewood; I have to keep this going. The laptop is living up to its name, trying to keep my legs warm with it. I shiver again, and put the kettle on for something warm, comforting, some tea with something spicy in it, maybe some ginger. I might even be talked into a cocoa.

Welcome to California's Central Coast. In August. It's been one of the coolest summers on record. And no, Mark Twain never said that.

Antiques Fair In San Juan Bautista

Sunday afternoon, and our regular afternoon trip out to San Juan Bautista beckons; a long-standing date for an ice cream at Margot's ice cream parlor, every other Sunday, since C works one weekend off, one weekend on. We pick a new flavor every time we go; we'll see what we get to pick this week. First, however, it's time for a late lunch at JJ's Homemade Burgers. It's the Dino Burger for me this week; topped with guacamole, mushrooms, and onions; an absolute feast. San Juan Bautista is swarming today, busy with an antiques fair, perhaps all the more startling since pretty much every other store on the main street is an antiques store. Heaven only knows where the bikers will end up parking this week.

San Juan Bautista is curious; curiously recognizable. Pretty much everything lies on the main street; a collection of strange bars in aged buildings and antique stores. Chickens wander up and down the main street; clothing stores don't resist the opportunity to sell T-shirts emblazoned with inevitable cock jokes. The Mission of Saint John The Baptist, after whom the town is named, looks very familiar indeed; it's the scene where James Stewart and Kim Novak proceed towards the finale of Vertigo, possibly my favorite Hitchcock movie, but with one major exception. The bell tower that features so prominently in the movie is not there. It never was. That's a bit of movie magic, constructed on a Paramount studio lot. The mission itself is the largest in California, and, perhaps it's because of the movie connection, walking through the mission courtyard is bewitching. There's a huge cactus leering over the wall of the San Juan Bautista park; a sign announces movies in the part on the last Saturday of every month in summer 2010. I think it is Shane this month; the season finishes in September, almost predictably, with Vertigo.

The buildings along the main street are curious mixes of period wooden and brick buildings, redecorated, reconstructed, and, just as often, thoroughly re-envisioned. La Casa Rosa is painted bright pink; next door, Jardines has an upstairs balcony that would rival a Western saloon; further up the road, Mom and Pop's Saloon outdoes them both, with the strains of Woolly Bully pounding out from the inside, a bar that is already packed and throbbing at four o'clock in the afternoon. The antiques stands are set up in force; everyone today seemingly has everything possible to sell; movie collectibles, metal signs from a bygone era. One gentleman over here is selling a box of piano rolls. $15, he'd rather someone took the box with them than have to return home with it. They might be worth a fortune, or legally embroiled.

We made it to Margot's, and picked our flavors out. Hana Road for her today; rich chocolate ice cream, nuts, marshmallows; Rocky Road by another name, but forget what you have ever tasted at a Baskin Robbins. Mine is a blueberry cheesecake swirl, rich, fruity, tart, sweet, heavenly. Difficult to walk with and eat at the same time, so we continue to merely saunter. There's no hurry today, we don't have much money to spend, it's up to us to make it last. This gentleman here has a bizarre machine; seemingly, it's a John Deere tractor, resplendent in green and yellow. It looks like a sausage grinder. He explains how it's a lawn sprinkler. The little tractor follows the hosepipe round the lawn, while the spray rotates on the top. It's been a long day, apparently; he's unenthusiastic, no doubt because he has to pack all of this stuff into the back of his truck soon. The man in the next stand with the wooden birdhouses has already started packing; almost throwing his wares straight into the back of a Dodge Ram.

We reach the end of the street, marked by a pepper tree, gnarled, seemingly ancient. We could carry on, but from here it is pretty much like falling out of town, our tour ends here. We turn and notice something strange out of the corner of our eyes; the word London, in San Juan Bautista of all places. We take a closer look; a reproduction of a few pages of the Illustrated London News, dated February 5, 1863. Reports from the "war in America" from "our correspondent", accompanied with sketches and a handful of words to convey the story, in a nice but weathered frame, no glass, five bucks. C begins to haggle, and we acquire the item for two bucks plus some change, the lady takes whatever we have, we take the item. "It'll be just the thing to go in the front room, when that becomes your home office, someday".

Someday.

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Pictorial: A date at Rocky Point

It was a lovely evening out, for the best of reasons. C only had Thursday off before having to work this weekend, and it's the fourth of July, and she'd always thought of us going there, and... yes, absolutely plenty of reasons, but none that can contend with the best reason of all. Just because. What other reason does there need to be? On Thursday afternoon, we set off on a relaxing trip along the coast, down California's Highway 1, towards Big Sur to sample the Rocky Point Restaurant, offering a special price for locals; well, we have the right area code. We had called in a 6.30 reservation and had no intention of rushing ourselves; for some reason the GPS in the hovercraft had decided our destination was three hours away and we knew for certain it could be no more than half that, but nevertheless, we were going to take our time. A quick visit to the store in Seaside first; tempted by a gorgeous yellow silk shirt, my Californication continues. More artichokes. A stroll looking out onto Del Monte beach; a few photos taken for the folks; a bit of daydreaming about which beach house we'd like when we're independently wealthy. A drive through the town some more; checking out Laguna Grande Park, where we're planning to go see John Lee Hooker Jr play in three weeks from now for Sunday Blues. We had plenty of time to relax; the restaurant was not much further down the coast, only about fifteen minutes from Carmel.

 

It's a surprising fifteen minutes, with some of the most striking scenery the Pacific Coast Highway has to offer. You know you are in for something spectacular when a road sign tells you to expect hills and curves for the next 63 miles. To call what you'll see "hills" is quite an understatement, as the road takes a tortuous path winding along an impressively contoured coastline. As with much of the scenery in this area, the scale is hard to comprehend or even communicate in a photograph. But first, things begin to get more hilly leaving Carmel, as the road winds its way through the more bohemian outskirts of the town which, believe it or not, still forbids the wearing of heels greater than 2 inches in height or with a base of less than 1 square inch. the law almost appears to make sense on these winding, distorted pavements, which eventually leave the town behind us, but the road continues to wind, following the cliffside, sometimes cutting through them in sheer escarpments, bigger, deeper. The Pacific is on our right, and we snatch glances of it between the trees and rocks, and at scenic overlooks presenting spectacular vistas. "Do you want to stop here to take a picture?" C asks, and is amused as I wrestle with the new-fangled technology and attempt to send a copy of the photograph to my folks. "Keep an eye on the scenery, darling". It's growing in size, bigger, bigger, with each further mile we travel down the road. The Tickle Pink Inn amuses us; we wonder about reservations and rates. The web site doesn't tell you; if you have to ask, then well, you probably can't afford it anyway.

 

And then, on our right - yes, our right - is the restaurant, seemingly dug into the cliff, but precariously balanced there, clinging to the rocks. As if to emphasize the predicament, a sign tells you that yes, right where you're standing isn't necessarily the safest place in the world to be. We wander around outside, trying to get photo opportunities which demonstrate the scale that we're having to deal with here. Rocks jutting out of the ocean seem insignificant, the waves crash around them, but in reality they are huge, quite distant from where we stand. From the gazebo, looking out to the next promontory, there's Bixby Bridge, one of the most memorable images from any Travel Channel documentary that visits this area. It's dwarfed by the scenery around it, yet is a monumental engineering feat, surely? How far away is it? It's hard to tell, so we decide to drive down there after we eat; it's surely a great place to see a sunset from, too. The wind is blowing; no, it's beginning to howl a bit, and we're both starting to shiver - on the first of July, will I ever get used to that? I return to the car and retrieve our overshirt; just one between the two of us. Here's hoping I feel chivalrous.

 

We check in to the restaurant and look up our reservation, and are shown to our table; a tough choice awaits us, either the view down the coast towards Bixby Bridge and the lighthouse, or looking at the sun beginning to set behind us. We take our seats; another photo opportunity; I snicker as I realize the photo I've just taken is pretty much an exact match for the one on the restaurant's web page, We swap seating, trying out each other's views, grinning, pretending not to notice the $95 couple's surf and turf special on the menu. We try to get the waiter's attention, desperately needing to ask him about the local's special; this is rich fare indeed, perhaps a little too rich. Begrudgingly, it seems, he returns with the other menu, and tries to be oblivious to our enjoying ourselves on our evening out. We pick our way through the options so we can sample each other's selections. One of us will get the salad, one the chowder. One will get the strangely-named sour cream fries, one the rice pilaf. And the entrees? Catch of the day is Pacific rockfish. Rock Cod, delicately battered; meanwhile the ribs catch my eye. We place our orders and then onto more serious business, discussing whether we should bring my folks here when they visit, and how we'll manage to make sure they don't try to pick up the tab. It's gorgeous. I take another picture; that'll be Blackberry wallpaper later.

 

Our meals come, and we sample each others', as intended. The chowder and the salad are good, very good, not the best we've ever had, perhaps, but great appetizers, served alongside the restaurant's famous cheese bread, duly sampled and enjoyed. Our main courses come, and the obligatory nibble on the corner of each others' tells us; more excellent food, delicately seasoned. At this point I'm beginning to let the ambience and atmosphere take a hold of me somewhat; it's a highly-recommended place for romantic dining, and I don't take much to get doe-eyed at the best of times. Fortunately, these ribs are done to perfection, falling off the bone. I won't have to ruin the moment by making a mess of myself with finger food here. We enjoy our meals; a dessert seems an absolutely essential way to finish. We're both drawn to the bread pudding; a favorite of both our families, recipes remembered from Mommas and Grandmas. Bring two spoons, and we'll give it a try; it turns out to be decadently smooth and silky, a triumph, and we realize that we've just concluded an excellent meal in a beautiful location that has cost us no more than "ordinary" casual dining.

 

We would have hung around for the sunset, but we had other places to be, and the chill was definitely coming in. C puts on the overshirt; she looks better in it than I do, and we wander around outside the restaurant again; the delightful tables on the deck, ideal for whale-spotting, but not tonight, far too cold and windy. The promised drive down to cross the Bixby Bridge - the furthest south I've been in California to date. It's smaller than it looks. Everything here is small in comparison to the scenery. We turn around and begin the drive back, contented, after a great meal, after an all-too-rare date together which has to fit around our everyday-life schedules as opposed to our fairytale vacations. Back home, we take a late night stroll. The sound of motorcycles seems to be getting a little louder in the evenings; it sounds like the annual revelers are approaching for their good-natured celebrations. A beautiful clear evening, and stars abound, as we walk around the neighborhood and hear strains of mariachi music coming from a neighbor's house. We dance in the middle of the road for a while.

Just because.

 

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Climate Change

Some things about relocating would never spring to mind; but a change in the weather, perhaps, is something quite obvious. I knew I was in for a difference; I've been used to bitter winters and humid summers for a long time, and, after all, Mark Twain allegedly prepared me for what I'd experience only slightly north of here, but I was to be surprised. While friends and family expected I'd be sweltering in some Palm Springs-like artificial oasis in the middle of the desert, I quite literally shivered through my first nights on California's Central Coast. It was, quite simply, just so unexpected. To find myself reaching out for an extra blanket or turning up the heat in the middle of May; looking forward to paddling in the Pacific to find it is utterly freezing, chilling to the bone; or managing to see swimsuits and overcoats within minutes of each other during a visit to the beach. If you're not used to it, well, it defies analysis. Preparing for it means shopping expeditions; flip-flops and overshirts, cotton shorts and flannel jammies in equal quantities.

However, even if the climate doesn't catch you off guard, there's some thoroughly remarkable experiences to be had, every day. I now know what an artichoke is. The little makeshift shacks right on the edge of Highway 101, selling their cherries, are a delight. Enjoy garlic? Well, there's plenty here to be had. And, after several months of being told by fast food restaurants that "tomatoes are available only by request", and, even when requested, a poor harvest had left them bland at best and bitter at worst, I can step out on the back porch now, salt cellar in hand, pluck a beautifully-ripened tomato straight off the miniature vine on the table out there and thoroughly savor it. That's an experience I wasn't prepared for - writing it down here simply can't do it justice.