WEEK 7 - Flog is Golf Spelled Backwards

Mark Twain remarked, "Golf is a good walk spoiled" and many a time I have agreed with him! Before taking my current hiatus from the game of golf, I have toiled many an hour on the links. Toiled, I say, because the Golf Gods love to sit, unheard and unseen from their vantage point and direct that little dimpled ball to do the cruelest things to the one wielding the club. The Golf Gods love to snicker at you after you've hit what you think is a solid shot over a water hazard, only to discover the drive is too short and the ball dives straight into the water. The Golf Gods think it's pretty funny too when you hit a "worm burner" and wind up in an adjacent fairway, or better yet, when your drive off the tee hits a tree or some other solid object and you wind up with NEGATIVE YARDAGE! This game coulda' made Carrie Nation drink!

Sometimes the Golf Gods are benevolent deities. They allow you to hear that wonderful plastic-on-plastic sound that's made when your putt makes one full revolution around the rim before coming to rest triumphantly at the bottom of the cup. There's those times too that the Golf Gods see to it your feet and body are in perfect alignment with your target and your swing is as sweet and smooth as The Big Easy, Ernie Els. You hit a perfect drive and feel like Tiger Woods--you hear the imaginary spectators yell out, "you're the man!" The Golf Gods bestow just enough pleasure to lure you back so they can screw with you again!

Even though I haven't played golf in several years, I have tremendous respect for the game. It's one of the few sports wherein professional players mostly earn their pay from how well they play in a particular tournament, not from how well their manager can negotiate some obscene, multi-million dollar contract. Golf is a game where a professional or regular Joe can demonstrate his ethic (or lack thereof). When nobody's looking, a player can use a "Texas toe wedge" to kick the ball to a place of advantage, or "play the ball where it lies" and take a double-bogey, if necessary, but play the shot according to the rules. A player can call a penalty on himself and show his integrity. In golf, I think honesty is the best policy 'cause the Golf Gods don't like cheaters.

EXTRA CREDIT - Momma Spider

Momma spider took up residence in my Double-Delight tree rose two summers ago. I went out to my garden one dewy morning and discovered her sitting on a sack of eggs that she'd securely fastened to a blossom with her silky thread. Since I'm not afraid of spiders, I didn't have an irresistible urge to squish her or run screaming into the house. Instead, I visited my local library and searched through books about arachnids until I found a photo of a spider that looked like her. The caption read, Green Lynx Spider, Peucetia Viridans. Momma spider (as she was affectionately known by my husband and me) was a non-venomous green lynx spider, a variety found widely throughout North America.

Lynx spiders got their name from the fact they appear to pounce on their prey. They don't build a web in which to snare their next meal but instead rely on their speed and agility to capture a bee, grasshopper, or whoever else flies or jumps through their resident bush or shrub. Momma spider's eggs hatched and she remained in my tree rose until I put her in a special bug container. During the cold, rainy, winter months, she lived in her little bug house in my kitchen. She seemed happy as I had made a nice habitat for her with leaves and sticks and fresh foliage placed weekly inside her plastic aquarium. She ate crickets that I purchased at my local pet shop and an occasional fly or bee.

In the Spring, I released her onto my tree rose but soon thereafter, I didn't see her again. Later that Summer, a smaller green lynx spider took up temporary residence on the same tree rose and I surmised this was one of her children. This year, I hope I'll have the enjoyment of another another visiting lynx spider in my garden.

Green Lynx Spider - Peucetia Viridans

WEEK 6 - April 29, 1996

Monday, April 29, 1996 was the worst day I have lived. It was the day my father took his life. A single round from a .38 forever closed his handsome blue eyes and silenced the gentle voice that had always encouraged me. With that muzzle flash, he broke my heart, betrayed my love and all that I had done for him. He left my family shipwrecked, like so much flotsam on a sea of pain.

His passing was unexpected and unbelievable. Eleven years have come and gone and I still have difficulty comprehending what happened. Sometimes, I think I'm having a nightmare that I'll wake from but unfortunately, his death is a reality. About the only solace I've experienced has come from the passage of time. Time does round the sharp corners and dull the vivid images of grief.

My father was a highly intelligent, principled, ethical, unselfish, and gifted person. I loved him so much and have had to cope with the incredible anger I've had toward him for leaving us. Even more than the anger, it's the unending sadness that grips me--the sadness for all that was, and all that could have been. It's the sadness and regret for the stories we won't share, the trips we won't take, for the grandchildren he won't hold, for the unshared love from his family and the unpaid respect from his colleagues and friends. This sadness holds me like a vice and I don't think the passage of time will force it to slacken its grip.

WEEK 5 - The Electrified Fountain

Every morning, he's there - kneeling in the same pose as the day before. He hasn't moved in the 24 years I've passed by him. In fact, he hasn't moved since he was placed atop his perch in 1931. Who is he? He's the Gabrielino Indian guide who sits, cupping his hands together, catching precious drops of water from the overspray of the electrified fountain in Beverly Hills, California.

The Indian Rain Prayer fountain, located at the intersection of Santa Monica and Wilshire Boulevards was the first electrically lit fountain constructed in Beverly Hills. Its $22,000 cost was funded by wealthy Beverly Hills citizens who wanted a focal point along the beautiful Beverly Gardens parkway that stretches from the East to West City limits. Today, the fountain provides something beautiful to watch while inching through the interminable gridlock of one of the Westside's busiest intersections. The fountain is lit with colored lights, and if you get caught at red light, you'll fortunately have enough time to watch the fountain cycle through most all of its different spray and illumination patterns.

Wilshire Boulevard was laid down over the path worn into the earth by the Gabrielino Indians as they passed to and from the coast to trade with other Indian tribes. I guess that's why he was chosen to sit high above the place where his people had moved along quietly, carrying baskets of fish and acorns through stands of oak and willow trees. These days, this Indian guide witnesses the incessant honking of horns, people waving with one finger, and the terrible wreckage that's created when man or cyclist and machine collide. I'm sure he has seen it all.

I'm always happy to see him presiding over the intersection. I like to think he's a guardian angel of sorts, who cups the precious life's blood of this great city in his hands and perhaps, bestows a little blessing on those of us who don't honk too much and who wave with all five fingers.

WEEK 4 - "La cuisine est la coeur de la maison"

This French quotation, "la cuisine est la coeur de la maison" translates in English to "the kitchen is the heart of the home." While not true for everyone, my kitchen is indeed the heart of my home. I also consider it my realm. When my husband and I moved into our house four years ago, he was given reign over the three-car garage. In return, he recently gave me a beautiful, newly-remodeled kitchen of Canadian maple cabinetry, Caesar-stone countertops, and stainless steel appliances.

I finally have the perfect place to practice my kitchen "alchemy" and the home canning of orange marmalade is my favorite culinary challenge. Sugar, pectin, and orange segments, along with hand cut slivers of orange peel that have just enough pith to give the finished product some bite, are the basic orange marmalade ingredients. Add to those basics a quantity of water, a fair amount of luck, a great deal of patience and the end result is the satisfaction of lining up a dozen or so jars of sweet, lovely marmalade that shine like citrine jewels.

My kitchen is the physical "heart" of my home, but more importantly, it's the place where I put a bit of my heart into everything special I prepare. Cooking can be more than just making something to fill the void in one's stomach and to me, cooking is a way show and share love.