Vegas Has Me In Its Grip

Its after midnight and I have been up for 21 hours without sleep.  I am sure this is why I lost $6 at the 1c slot machines and I smell like an ashtray.

Seriously, they should stop people smoking in here.  Maybe some people want to smoke and play but other people do NOT want to smoke and the people who don't want to smoke get so they can't breathe.

Its a thick pall out there and I feel like I need to use one of those indian nose teapots to get the smell out of my sinuses.  Even my non-smoking room smells vaguely smoky, probably from the non-smoking refugees being forced to hole up here with their smoke-stenched clothes.

I am going to hang out at the Luxor again tomorrow.  I had the greatest sushi rolls for dinner.  They were from a restaurant called RICE & COMPANY.  The mango and avocado roll was sufficiently good that I want to go back there tomorrow.

Oh, I saw the first burlesque performance tonight.  It was the Legends Night - meaning women who performed burlesque in the 50s, 60s and 70s performed.  Their abilities at this point varied widely but the spirit and the skill they brought entranced the audience and most received standing (and hooting) ovations.

Some are celebrities in alternative culture - one performer *Haji* had been in Faster Pussycat, Kill Kill and other Russ Meyer movies.  All had been fabled performers in the history of burlesque and the world of 'exotic' dance.

106 (Fahrenheit)

This afternoon I went down to the strip.   It was so hot outside that the soles of my shoes became tacky on the asphalt.   When I smiled, my teeth became so dry that my lips stuck to them.

It was so hot outside that my hair, which was wet from the shower, was dry before I had walked 3 blocks.

It was so hot that just one side of me became sunburned waiting for the bus.

It was so hot outside that the plastic frames of my sunglasses burned my face and made a rim of sweat across the bridge of my nose.

It was so hot that I could have burned my finger on the big silver WALK button at the intersection.

It was so hot that the guy a the refreshment stand was selling everyone TWO bottles of water instead of one.

It was great.

The cabbie was Sarajevo said it was the first really hot day of the year.

At the Luxor

That intersection

Its all about the pool

I know we are very Seattle people now, Josh embodies the NW idiom of wearing fleece all year or going out in a t-shirt in winter, but jolly geez, heat is good for the bones.

I think we might have to retire to Florida, or South Africa or Australia.... someplace with a pool and blue skies and helicopters buzzing overhead and slushy margaritas that come in a 24oz cup shaped like a beach babe with a straw out of her head.

I know there's a lot to do in Vegas but I am having trouble leaving the pool.  Seriously, I didn't even NAP despite my early start.  The pool at the Orleans is particularly lovely today, being populated by many burlesque performers and fans.  Tropical tattoos, boys with lovely ginger sideburns, girls with fake flower sin their hair and waists synched into 1940s dresses with thin belts, glossy high heels by the pool (even I!) and a particularly voluptuous girls in a blue sequenced skirt-kini make the pool culture culturally diverse.

I tried one slot machine with one dollar but it whirred and at my money. Natasha and I were a bit disappointed and have vowed to try the 1c machines next.

Kellie has gone out on the Hoover Dam in a boat with alcohol and friends.   If she returns I shall see her tonight.

See if you can make out the lettering on the lifeguard seat

I am now going to catch a city bus to the Luxor to explore and see the Titanic Exhibition.  Apparently, I can touch a piece of the Titanic.

Vegas, Old Lady!

I did a writing course years ago and the only thing I can remember from it is that every good story follows the cycle of conflict, crisis and resolution.  So, here's my crisis:

Its 3.30am and I am heading off to Vegas for the first time.  I don't think I am a Vegas person.  I am sure there will be a chorus of disapproval and I am open to persuasion, but really?   Vegas?  I'm plump, in my 40s, am not a bachelorette or a bridesmaid, don't gamble, don't have a single pair of non-yoga shorts and it cost me about $50 to get a bikini and underarm wax (I know, TMI).

I'm not even convinced I'm really going to get on the plane.  I have a ticket, but its not like the old days when you travelled with a leather folder containing tickets in triplicate.  My ticket is a crummy printout of a confirmation number with color separation from my old printer.  It doesn't feel official.  Even the boarding pass lacks the credibility of cardboard.  Its like an important receipt that I keep misplacing.  I might blow my nose on it by mistake.

I caught the Airporter Express to the aiport.  It wasn't very express.  They picked me up at 3.30am and after collecting Michael and Richard (I know their full names and home addresses since they were illuminated on the dashboard for the whole trip (beneath mine, creepy) we arrived shortly before 4.30am.  Michael and Richard weren't chatty but the driver enjoyed telling me about his lifestyle working the 3am-1pm shift.  He likes gardening.  He naps when he gets home then stays up till 7.30pm.  I imagined stories in which serial killers locate victims by riding the Airporter and remembering...

Michael and Richard huffed quietly in the row behind me.

I spent the trip staring out the window at things, noticing how the darkness makes interiors bright while daylight hides them.  The rental car wash depot looked like a machine with its gizzards torn out, pipes and lines bursting bright in the artificial light and a huge plane drifted silently over the interstate to land at Boeing field.

Now its 5am and the concourse coffee places are opening and the noise levels .  We board in half an hour.  Announcements have started.

"Ladies and gentlemen, welcome to our morning service to Las Vegas.  The flights is completely full so if you do not need your handluggage during the flight, we are offering courtesy consignment. We guarantee it will be at the baggage claim within twenty minutes of arrival.

The lights are coming on in Hudson News.  Out of sight, Bloomberg News is alternating between soothing ads and aggressive market news.

Nobody cares.

I have yet to find a crisis beyond the fact that I am going to bash the guy sitting next to me if he doesn't stop his ipad chiming belligerently with a noise like a metal spoon hitting glass.  CHING!!!  CHING!!!

I am going to consign my bag.

Canoeing in the Family by Granny Anne

Mervyn (Shannon's Grandfather) canoeing in France in 1938

Today, in Seattle, we went canoeing: Shannon steering at the back and Frost and Wren in the middle with Beezle dog wandering around or sleeping in the laundry basket. Our route was down the Sammamish River from McRedmond River Park to Woodenville, a distance of about 10 miles taking us about 2.5 hours. The river drainsLake Sammamish into Lake Washington.

On lake Washington 

Paddling downriver from Redmond (note Beezle in basket)

Snackbreak (canoeing is hungry work) 

 The Sammamish is named after the native people that lived along its shores. It is not a wide river and flows at about 3-4 knots. Shannon's Old Town canoe is very stable and none of the kids’ wriggling around worried us. It was an adventure and Wren commented that it was 'heaven'. Frost helped with paddling but enjoyed relaxing with Beezle snuggled on his lap. The 'padkos'  (food for the journey) was an important feature of the trip and even Beezle had his bag of padkos. There was a lot to see: birds, including some spring goslings, fish, a muskrat swimming, turtles and peoples' backyards. We were the only canoeists on the river.  Josh collected Shannon at the end to ferry her back to the car. It was a most successful expedition and it finished with delicious cookies from the Hillcrest Bakery in Woodenville.

The canoeing reminded me of family stories of canoe trips. Since Shannon and I have been researching family history I shall tell them here.

In 1938 my father, at the age of 27 travelled round the world ending up in Europe. He and a friend decided to canoe down the Rhine. They bought a wood and canvas canoe in London and set off for Kehl in Germany. It was the time of increasing tension between France and Germany and Dad recalled the Heil Hitler salutes that greeted you at every German Pub or wine 'stahl'. Dad would tell stories of that trip with great happiness. It was not without danger as the Rhine was full of boats and his friend could not swim.

“We were not fully aware of the developing conflict. They said that there would never be another war. At one of the places we stopped for the night we went up to a Rhinecastle. We met a lot of Spanish refugees, these were attractive girls. They had to escape from Spain, from Franco’s Civil war where the Nazis were fighting. And the other side was helped by the Soviet Union and the International Brigade. So we spent some time with them. We were like gypsies and we took what came, at that age one does not have the same fear of what tomorrow brings.

We should have been drowned a hundred times. On one occasion we were going like anything on the river and there was a great big bridge ahead with pillars down into the water. I was in the front and Fergie was in the back. I noticed that we are going to hit one of these pillars sideways.

I shouted at him, ‘Steer it round, steer it round!!’ expecting him to use the rudder.

He says, ‘No! No! I threw it away!’

We are going down the Rhine without a rudder! Imagine it! I paddled like hell on the one side to get it round. We just got it round past the pillars.”

I remember our canoe and kayak journeys in the wilds of Africa: down the Zambezi and Orange Rivers. In the 1980s Mervyn and I loved to do these trips. Now I look back on them with more sense of the dangers that surrounded us. The Zambezi is a kilometre wide. The birdlife, animals on the shores and in the river were a stunning spectacle. At night we camped on the shores and told stories of Africa round the campfire. Some days we lunched on a shallow sandbank in the middle of theZambezi. The Camp chairs were in the clear water and we could watch hippo pods in the river and elephants coming down to drink.  

Mervyn and Freddie beside the Rhine

Canoeing the Zambezi, note the hippos in the background

Canoeing in the Okavango Delta in a wooden "makoro"

Okavango crocodile

Notes from my visit

What struck me when I arrived in Seattle was how much Wren and Frost have grown. Several times during the first day Wren held up his five fingers and said, 'I am FIVE'. frost at ten is on the cusp of being a young man. Very determined, very literate. 

Frost tries out the keyboard on a visit to Google

Sizing up the snow on Hurricane Ridge (see below)

The spring in Seattle is glorious. Gardens don't typically have a front fence so generally much effort goes into the presentation of these areas. Azeleas, bluebells, daffodils, magnolias, rhododendrons, lavenders are in full bloom. I love the architecture of the homes here. Wren is very happy to come on a walk, actually he scoots and I walk with the reluctant Beezle dog.

I have been here for two weeks and Shannon has been diverted from her normal busy routine.

Shannon has not been diverted from her vegetarianism despite
repeated servings of salmon

We started with three days on the Olympic Peninsula which is a story in itself. I love the way Seattle is surrounded by mountains. They are still snow covered and one stream running into the sea that we had to cross was bitterly cold. Birds are everywhere at the moment and Wren is becoming a spotter. In his new diary I had to write, 'i saw a hawk' and while reading to him he spotted a yellow warbler out the window. He notes the Stellar's Jay as we walk our road. From little interests like this kids can build a life long interest. wren is a highly imaginative child. He loves the backyard basketball court and plays imaginative battles there quite on his own. On the wild Olympic beaches, the driftwood took on many shapes to him, mostly of them forms of battle weapons.

Wren tries out a driftwood "rhino gun" on a long beach walk 

I have started reading to him from Geraldine Elliots books of African stories, The Long Grass Whispers and the Singing Chameleon. The former was my childhood book of 1952 and I remembered them all my life. Fisi, the hyaena is the villain and Kalulu, the rabbit is the clever survivor. At first Wren complained about the lack of pictures, but that did not last long.

Fisi the Hyena who is always causing trouble

My (Anne's) original copy of the Singing Chameleon from 1952 (she was 5 years old too!)

Each day has new excitement. Yesterday Shannon and I took out their new Indian style canoe on lake Washington. Wren came, sitting in the middle. It was a perfect warm calm day and all the birds were busy. Wren spent his time catching water lilies, counting the great blue herons we paddled past and enjoying his 'padkos'. He even tried to help paddle but was confused as to how to actually help without depositing scoopfuls of water on my lap.

Wren on Lake Washington in the canoe

Wren called the trip "the 13 great blue herons" because we saw so many

Wren Likes Minecraft

I like Minecraft because you can build really cool things.  You can build iron swords, axes and stuff and also you can do this.  You might not like this.

Granny:  What did you do?

Wren:  I killed a sheep.  You have to kill sheep and cows and stuff to survive.

Granny: You have a sword.  Do you always have a sword?

Wren:  No, not always.

Granny:  How do you make music?

Wren:  To make music you right click on one of these music boxes and then they go like that.
Music comes out.

Wren:  If you double click space it makes you fly and if you double click space again it makes you drop down.    To go slowly down you press SHIFT click.

Granny:  Is this a frightening world?

Wren:  There can be endermen and zombies and skeletons and lightening.  If I was on survival the guys would try and come up to me and damage me but I can hit them with a sword.  There are experience swords "GET OUT OF MY WAY SHEEP".  that help you get experience.

This screen shows a nether portal [the purple thing with black things around it] if you go into it again it will take you back to REAL LIFE but if you go into it again you get back here in THE NETHER.    The fires are lava things and if you go near them its fine but if you go in them on survival its not fine.    Right now in the nether I am just going to show you want the nether is like.    The nether is like REAL WORLD but its HELL.

About TNT.
The TNT is for blowing stuff up.  I fill up this hole with TNT and then I go up to the surface adn so I get flint and steel and right click it on a piece of TNT and it gots off and it sets of the other ones all the way down.    Its a mine so its called MINE craft.

Frost:  Wren is very good at building castles and fortresses and he also likes to get wolves and things as pets.

Wren's pack of "puppies"

Wren:  and CATS!

Frost:  Technically they are called ocelots, but whatever.  Wren usually plays on creative mode and he is very good at using TNT and he likes mining very deep and in general, fighting things.

Wren:  I like Minecraft because it is cool and I love it.  Actually, that's a whatev.  No, not a whatev... its a "Just 'cos"

Granny:  Do they give you new things as time goes on?

Frost:  They do updates from time to time.  Wren, show granny an Iron Golem.

Granny:  An Iron God?

Frost:  GO-LEM.  When you fight an NPC Village (non player character village) NPCs will spawn.  Any mob or creature that is not a player is an NPC.  The villagers at night go into their house and zombies attack them.  Zombies can break down their doors but Iron Golems attack zombies to protect the villagers.

Wren:  Minecraft is a game you build things and its really fun and also you can blow stuff up.

Granny:  How long have you been playing minecraft?  How old were you?

Wren:  Either 2 years or one year.

A Visitor but not spring

I have been trying to write a blog while Mum and I slouch on the couch watching an old version of Jane Austen's "Emma".

"The birds will all be going north, now."  Says Mum.  "We should go out at do some birdwatching!"

Mum is only half joking.  She is very intent on seeing migratory birds which have shown up on radar in vast numbers, flying at night.  Tonight, it is clear and there is a huge moon so she no doubt imagines the flocks of warblers, sandpipers and plovers outlined like a handfull of rice thrown up against the moonbright sky.

My mother is visiting us from Australia.    Its a season of contrasts:  freezing winds and spring flowers, sudden breaks of warm sun and blustery squalls that fill the upright wheelbarrow with water in a matter of days.

Today, in faith, we planted potatoes and some hardy vegetables like chard and lettuce.

Despite the wintry spring, we have been getting out a bit:  to the Museum of Glass in Tacoma, walking the neighborhood, watching birds and have been on a trip to the coast.    Mum has a mission to stop Beezle using piddle pads and takes him out many times a day, wind, rain and shine.  Beezle pulls at the leash, digging in his feet to avoid going outside in the rain to pee.

Mum in the kitchen

Spring flowers from Magnuson Park

Frost at Hurricane Ridge 

Spring tulips in a neighborhood garden

I shall post again soon.  Must get mind in blog mode.  Blog.  Mode.

My first attempt at writing this blog was simply this:

MY MOTHER IS VISITING.  SHE HAS COME.

Well, now she (and I) are gone to bed and only Josh and Beezle remain in the warm spot on the couch.

Your childhood home

I wonder how many of our children are going to have the memory of a childhood home like I do?  I lived in the same house from when I was 5 until I left home.  My father lived there for many years afterwards.   I knew everything about that house - I can still do a virtual walk-though of the place, right down to the squeaky floorboards and the place we blocked the corridor to train our fox terrier to jump on command.

Thing is, a house you grow up in is more than a place.  Its a scaffold for memory, a way to recall parts of your past that are otherwise inaccessible.  Doing those 'walk throughs' in my mind is like running my finger down an index card of memories.

Front door --->  Huge orb weaver spiders, setting up the tea table on the red-washed front porch when Granny shah came for tea, the spiders hanging, fat, in their webs.  The window that you could jiggle over the front door to break in if you lost your key.

Living Room -->  It was a small house but we still had a formal sitting room we seldom used.  The hallway with its low sideboard from which I still bear dents in my shins and rose patterned sofas my granny upholstered herself, in the days one still did such things without it being a hobby you bragged about on pinterest or marketed on etsy.

Back yard --> cowboys and indians, the frangipani tree we climbed while breaking fragile branches (the skin, dry like paper but oozing milky sap) and the castles we built from wooden crates our parents scavenged from somewhere.  David and I captured an Indian Mynah in one, once... waiting with a long string looped over the crate and through his bedroom window.

And I could continue in a way that doesn't make a good story but is, still, infinitely interesting to me like unexpectedly meeting someone kind who has shared a significant moment in your life and reminiscing.

"Do you remember when we....?"
"And wasn't that... "

Like the memory I have of finding snail eggs in Lauren Muller's hot brick wall.  Remembering when we buried the ancient egyptian artifact in her yard because we thought it might channel the devil.  To have been there gives the mundane meaning.

I've been pondering this since Wren asked me "where did I live before this house?"  He was 4 when we moved and I thought he would remember but I had to tell him stories about his old house to remind him.  I told him about the tree swing and the chickens.. then he remembered.  I was considering making a little scrapbook for him so he could see his first house.

Then I received an email from my best friend until 4th Grade.  Tamsyn's home was a lovely place in Durban.  I remember the house through a child's eyes - never growing up beyond 11 - so I recall  moments rather than places, the interior always dark and woody because the light outside was so bright.  I just learned from her that her childhood home has been demolished for redevelopment.

Tamsyn's home on Marriot Road

In my childhood home on the Berea I planted a tree.  I still remember the latin name - Erythrina Crista-galli - I grew if from a seed and planted it outside my bedroom window.  It grew huge and I hung a bird table in it and watched birds.  That was my hobby.  One day a burchell's coucal came to my bird-feeder!  It was thrilling.   The tree had a ridged thorny trunk that was impossible to climb but it made splendid red trumpet flowers every year and I was proud of it.  I was really sad to hear it had been cut down a few years ago.  I was quite angry about my tree.

And I wondered... are the places of childhood more significant to immigrants?  Is it an anchor to a place we recall fondly or is it this way for everyone who has a happy childhood?  Will Frost look back on this house and feel it is always his, in some unique and significant way?  Will he drive by and scold the new owners if they build a fence, if they remodel the exterior, or - god forbid - tear it down to build a town home?

Does everyone have a family home that is The One Place they remember best?  Perhaps a grandparents home or a place they visited every summer?  I really am curious.  Please tell me about yours...

OH MY GOD, its going to MAKE SQUIRT!!!

When did life get so busy that we don't have time to peel an orange?

This morning, while catching up on the overnight developments in genealogy (we have a ketubah translated by an Italian rabbi, I have discovered that my grandmother had brothers and sisters and we now have family in New Zealand!) Wren came up to me with an orange.  It was one of those thin skinned ones that are hard to get your fingernails under and leave thick rind of pith under the orange zest.  Someone left it at our house after a party.

I normally buy the genetically modified tangerine oranges that sit in thick folds of skin like a loose envelope.  They have a brand name even... SUMO's or else I buy florida navel oranges that also have a peel like a thick pulp.  This orange is an older style - thin skinned and taut without dimples and folds.  It's an old fashioned girl who will not slip out of her petticoat quickly.

Wren said "I can't peel it."

My first reaction was to say "Oh, we don't eat those oranges.  Those are JUICE oranges."

Wren:  What are juice oranges?  Are they yucky?

Me:  [backpeddling]  No, they are fine to eat but this kind of orange is hard to peel..."

Wren:  You can't peel it?

Me:  [reluctantly removing hands from keyboard] I can peel it...but

I pause.  Both boys are watching me and the orange and I sense some kind of test, a life lesson, a moment.  If I was a good mother I would peel the damn orange instead of checking ancestry data on people who lived when an orange was a treat on a Sunday.

Both boys watch as I start to peel the orange.  I get pith under my nails and the orange comes out white, not orange, but its done.

"There!" I say.
"How do I eat it?" asks Wren.
Me: You have to break it up into segments.  Frost, would get get a plate for me.
Frost:  Why do you need a plate.
Me:  Because, I am going to stick my thumb in it and it might squirt.
Wren: OH MY GOD ITS GOING TO MAKE SQUIRT!
Frost returns with a plate and both boys wait as I try and segment the orange.  As I poke it, juice drips on the plate in a satisfying example of making plans for all eventualities.  For ever after, my boys will use a plate with their oranges.

Wren looks at the segmented orange.

Wren is surprised that the "juice orange" is tasty.  PS.  Its so wet
that we are wearing our raincoats inside these days.

Wren:  "It looks weird."
Me:  No, its fine.
Wren:  Its going to be sour.
Me:  No, its sweet.  See.

I eat some.  I knew it would come to this.  I have to eat the orange too... even though it doesn't go well with coffee.

Wren is shocked.  "ITS GOOD!  THE JUICE ORANGE IS TASTY!"

Indeed.  The juice orange is good.

Later in the day, Wren notices the orange has become slightly parchment-like and again resists it.  I have to do more eating demonstrations.  I explain about stringy bits.

When did peeling an orange become part of our curriculum?  When did life get so easy that its too much work to peel an orange, that a Youtube Video titled "How to Peel an Orange" has 20,000 views.