​I’m a dog person. But seeing a mama-cat with 3 kittens (about three months old) crossing the hill behind us, wondering what would become of them pushed me into trapper territory. I couldn’t stop thinking of them, worrying about them. Coyotes are here. Food is not. At least, not in any kind of abundance. Just to keep living, is a hard life. As it is for most ferals.

Feral cats, I learned to trap feral cats. In hopes of saving at least the smallest kitten, I got a trap and cans of sardines, and newspaper, paper plates, towels to make a “cave”, picked a spot and hoped. I couldn’t have taken those steps without the relentless encouragement and safe destination two cat loving rescue friends gave.

My dog rescue karma paid off. I’m certain that’s why the first trapping event was seamless. Two kittens together triggered one trap. I was elated and scared at the same time. Terrified yellow-eyed wild lives depending on me. 

Now, I look out to the hill and feel slightly anxious. Will there be another kitty in peril? When will it happen again? At least I have back up now, options for the next time and confidence in knowing what to do. I was completely new to trapping ferals. If I can do it, others can too. It just takes caring enough to take action. 

If you see a stray cat please choose kindness. A little food, clean water, shelter or simply leaving them unharmed can mean more than we realize.​​

I can remember being 6 years old, sitting outside on the porch on a summer night having a high old time with my coloring book. The light wasn't right, there was a yellow cast to it and it bothered me that the colors looked off. But I wanted to color. I didn't want to go inside. I wanted to keep coloring. 

The drive inside the soul of the architects, puppet makers and visual artists who dreamed up the creatures on Noah's Arc at the Skirball Museum had to be unrelenting. Unwavering actually, considering it's not easy to live as an artist and what it takes to realize a vision. The creative spirit takes hold of you and doesn't care about day to day life necessities. How many years did they work at their craft, navigate life driven by a gift? How many struggles did they overcome? Noah's Arc is a one-of-a-kind triumph. Telling an old story using repurposed old stuff to put 386 animals aboard the skirball.org arc is the stuff of dreams. Bravo.

Creativity, either you've got it or you don't. A blessing? A curse? It just is. Some of us just have to keep coloring. As the New Radicals put it, You've Got The Music In You (https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=DL7-CKirWZE&list=RDDL7-CKirWZE&start_radio=1). 

Every morning, with rare exception, starts with an early walk.
A trail, an orchard, the park, gravel roads, the small quiet-on-weekends industrial park....

To find me, look here. To remember me, look out there.
All who wander are not lost.

This move, like others, was so much work. Part of that work is deciding what to take along/leave behind. Winnowing away to make the move lighter, paring down to the essentials is hard. Boxes that have made several moves become a difficult challenge with their contents calling up memories instantly; the smallest of things, the oldest, faded, the barely readable, the broken. There were lots of Goodwill bound bags and bags heaped up high curbside for garbage pick up, but even so there are memory boxes that will always travel with me.

With all the 'shedding skin', my true nature's revealed itself over time. Truths about myself that stay the same no matter where I am or how many years have gone by.

Rosie rests at my feet, content. I've fallen in love with her just as I did with Bo, Pi, Misty, Knox & Jimmie.
​So much is new. So much is the same. Always will be.

Last May, after 10 years on Gilmore Street, we had to move. The owner wanted to sell the house. Leaving Los Angeles wasn't the plan but our best choice was out in the fields of a small town a short distance from the reach of L.A., Moorpark. Fields of nursery farms and lemon trees was never a destination but the moment we stood looking around at nothing but space and green, hearing nothing but birds and wind in the trees, we knew - good bye city life.

About that apricot tree... Year after year after year Pierce College was a favorite for dog walks. So many, so many weekend mornings, walking through the tall trees, past plants with unpronounceable latin names.
​Pilot, then Jimmie and now Rosie, all shared long walks there with me. Past the soccer fields, past the huge parking lot that hosted weekend car shows packed with the pride and joy of dozens who popped the hoods, revved motors and circled around at 5mph showing off chrome and metal magnificence, across a large lumpy patch of green, on to the building that could be walked though and water fountains to sip from.

The botanical garden is a jewel still shining. Tucked into a far corner, it sits while time has its way with her.
​Strolling in the quiet, watching the light, drinking in the colors. I always felt a mix of hurt that no one takes care of this rare find and gratitude that rarely is anyone there to interrupt my musing. 

What hurt most was seeing a locked ​wire hutch, seedlings left untended, plantings in their black plastic containers neglected, parched, trees outgrowing their buckets, leaning or toppled over with no one to push back upright, all left to slowly die. The beginnings of gardens, gone to waste, left to wither away. Fighting my sadness I took as many as I could find a place for at Gilmore Street.

 And that apricot tree, and destiny. I don't like apricots but there it was, trapped in a bucket, every branch all dressed up in pink blossoms, calling out "take me too". She's in Moorpark with her friends now. I harbor a hope that one day not too long from now, there might be a place for me at Apricot Lane Farms. 'The Biggest Little Farm' isn't far from here.
​www.apricotlanefarms.com/biggest-little-farm/?v=84de8e2b14bb
Who's to say the universe wasn't guiding me when my pretty in pink tree caught my eye, 'apricot is in your future'. Stranger things have happened.

It's the merry month of May. Spring is well underway.

It was one of three major blazes in the L.A. area with the Palisades and Eton fires being first and bigger. Kenneth turned out to be a 1,000 acre fire but at the time there was no way to know how far the flames would reach so the threat was real, evacuation suggested. That very morning Rosie and I went walking at the top of Victory, in the Upper Las Virgenes Canyon Open Space Preserve. The trailhead is what you see in these screenshots from television local news. I grabbed them just 6 hours after we'd been there and a few hours before the Victory Trailhead area became a crime scene; arson suspected. That morning from the upper trail, as far as my eye could see, the only smoke plumes in the sky were leftovers from the Palisades. 

No words have the impact that photos do. BEFORE and AFTER says it all, 2019 vs. 2025.

The rainy time of year is here now and spring will come. Green will cover the ash and the black.
But the oaks, ravaged and wounded, survivors of drought after drought, some will not make it back.
​Time will heal as best it can.
To the way it was. Close, but not the same.

​Apart from Rosie, she was my pride and joy. Last January I planted Little Green. The beginning of a new year, she put her roots down bound up in my hopes that she might make it through the summer and keep going on and on. In August, to my amazement, she sported super green new sprouts up top. I took to Instagram (www.instagram.com/p/C-WcK6YvDIs/?img_index=1) bragging "Dang Nab It, She Might Just Make It" a la Walter Brennan of The Real McCoys. 

​Now in the Los Angeles area post wildfires, like so much that was treasured, she is gone.

​For several weeks I tried to drive up Old Topanga Canyon Road to bring Little Green water. No rain, I worried. But the canyon was closed down and there was no alternate, no sneaky way to get to Little Green. Summit to Summit could be seen at a distance from another trail that wasn’t shut off, Henry Ridge, so I had a preview of the massive change. Both had been scraped, bulldozed, widened for emergency vehicles and easier access for firefighters. I understand the need to clear brush and make way for firefighting equipment but it does something to my spirit to see what heavy machinery has done. Hard to explain the shock of seeing narrow one and two-person paths now two and three cars wide. Hillsides scooped, punched and rolled over into naked mounds of dirt, ridges flattened, green scrub and small trees laid waste to stop demon embers from igniting another hellscape. 

This morning old canyon was open for the first time in three or four weeks. Hold on Little Green, Rosie and I are coming! Getting out of the car, a woman across the road hollered over "she isn't there anymore". My jaw dropped. My heart dropped. I knew I’d cry. Seeing what was left of Little Green brought tears and pain. I cry again now as I type. I ached seeing someone had pulled her out of the ground, her roots were showing. As I reached down to touch her dry, browning needles to say goodbye, I saw a speck of shiney red and two tiny, silver metal pieces that attached two red Christmas balls when she was still standing.    

In the beginning, for a couple months, I loaded a backpack with water bottles and trudged down the trail. My back began saying please no. A dainty, slightly antique handcart that my dad may have used wayyyy back in the day became my back saver. With cardboard covering its bottom, my backpack sat for the bumpy ride ferrying water up every other day over the summer and every three days in the hot spells. Up the hill, over gravel stretches, rough spots, smooth spots, ruts in the dirt, week after week, month after month. I couldn’t have managed without that little handcart from the Steele Street garage. And Rosie’s part of the routine was slurping water from a bottle as soon as I got the backpack situated. We stood right next to the tree so no drop was wasted. Patient, she waited while I emptied six of them.

My heart hurts. I had the idea that if she could make it through that first summer, there would be other summers and winters. I was excited to think she might become a tall, beautiful tree. There were no other pines near, only a few off in the distance at the tail entrance. She got all the way to the next Christmas. Someone adorned her with small red ornaments and I dressed her up with a big, shiney red ribbon, like a crown, for my Christmas e-card.    

I hate saying goodbye. So much time, hopes and hard work, looking forward, a bright outlook, which is not easy for me, all laid to waste by big machines and men working to keep fires away. She could have been a beauty. Now, she will become dust and blend with the ashes of Bo, Misty, Pilot, Knox and Jimmie. She is part of Pilot’s Place of Peace.
​Part of everything.  ​

We are living through history. There's no mistaking that this week the greater Los Angeles area made history - for all the wrong reasons. Malevolent Santa Ana winds brought fire of historic dimensions. Winds unlike any other time, exceeding 80 - 100mph. Flames ignited and obliterated the Pacific Palisades, decimated Altadena and fueled other fires named Woodley and Hurst. 

By the time I got home, I only had enough energy to plop down and watch local news. And there it was, a reporter pointing out flames at the Victory Trailhead. The trail Rosie and I took that morning, just two miles up the road, was a possible crime scene, arson! At 8:00 a.m. I had a 360 degree view and the only plume of smoke in the sky was a Palisades fire tower of brown stacked on brown, too many miles away for shifting winds to have blown embers to the Victory trails.

Next morning's hike had its own small moment of drama. It was quiet, no one in sight, a soft breeze and then, an unmistakable flap-flap-flap preceded the dip and slow arc of a helicopter coming in to suck up fire fighting water. The whirlybird descended, hovered and lifted back into the blue. With the last flap-flap-flap, it was silent again. 

We are so fortunate to have not ​suffered destruction and the loss of treasures, keepsakes, all gone up in smoke purely as a consequence of whichever way the wind blows and whether helicopters or water dropping fixed-wing planes can fly and put out flare ups. ​Hurricane force winds and trees dripping fire have killed 11 people. So many have lost and are lost in this moment. ​And red flag warnings are not done. Hot winds will swoop through the Cajon and San Gorgonio Passes again this coming week. Wildfires, familiar history, just as Joan Didion wrote:
Los Angeles weather is the weather of catastrophe, of apocalypse, and, just as the reliably long and bitter winters of New England determine the way life is lived there, so the violence and the unpredictability of the Santa Ana affect the entire quality of life in Los Angeles, accentuate its impermanence, its unreliability. The winds shows us how close to the edge we are. ​-- Slouching Towards Bethlehem, 1968