The Turtle Life

What makes me so fond of turtles? Not their witty conversation. Not their glamour. Not their speed or elegant lifestyle or great works of art.

They like to lie in the sun. Loll in the water. Hang out in cool spots by lakes.

They seem to get along with each other. And with ducks.

Most of life's problems just roll off their backs.

They find their own food. They don't bother anybody.

To spend all day hanging out on a log, telling stories, cracking jokes, maybe nuzzling a bit, or cuddling with somebody cute.

You could do worse with your life.

Reading tonight

We've switched our readings to the last Wednesday of the month, so this coming Wednesday, April 29, come down and hear La Honda's literary best - and maybe some of its worst. So far, the quality's been pretty high. Last time we had readers from age 14 to 74 and subjects from the sublime to the bawdy. This time, who knows? I've been in touch with an award-winning popular writer who wants to take part. Let's hope he can join us.

As for myself, I'm about to embark on a book tour of Italy to promote a new edition of an old novel called Famous Potatoes. In Italian, it's called Famose Patate. To get myself in shape, I'll be reading from it (in English) and - fair warning - I may even sing a few words from the song that's interwoven into the story. For some reason little Joe Cottonwood is still remembered in Italy. Come down to Sullivan's and see if you can figure out what they see in him. And then please tell me, because I really can't figure it out, either.

Sullivan's Pub. Doors open at 5. Readings start at 6:30 more or less. Good food, friendly folks.

Poem: Revenge of Oak

Revenge of Oak

Saw blade
with the strength of three
electric horses
kicks back the piece of wood
like a hoof to my groin.
The first sound
as I fold
comes not from the brain
but directly from pain
to throat
to the indifferent air:
a guttural crack
like the cry
of a falling tree.




(Slightly revised from the book.)

Reading at Sullivan's Pub

At the April 1 reading at Sullivan's Pub in La Honda, Miss Caroline Graham demonstrated why I chose her to help with my upcoming podcast. Here we're reading Chapter One of my novel Babcock. Caroline, in this reading, plays the part of Kirsten, a 13-year-old white girl who has blond hair, freckles, big ears - and spunk. I, meanwhile, play the part of Babcock, a 13-year-old black boy who has, uh, fatness - and also a lot of spunk. Chapter One describes Kirsten and Babcock's first meeting and first fight - a physical fight between a white girl and a black boy which ends up embarrassing them both. And intriguing them both. Kirsten says the worst thing she can think of, the meanest insult, and she calls him ... fat. That's all. Just fat.

Though written in 1992, I call Babcock a post-Obama novel because it's about the somewhat rocky relationship of a white girl and a black boy - and race isn't the problem. I was about 16 years early. At that time, Barack Obama was an unknown young attorney in Chicago. Reviewers didn't know what to make of the lack of racial conflict - not that it doesn't exist, but that it isn't the central problem. Now maybe people can accept the story as a clash of characters.

Caroline's reading makes it a lot more acceptable. Her rendition of Kirsten is lively, nuanced, and strong. Caroline is a sophomore at Pescadero High School. She lives in La Honda.

I uploaded an mp3 of that reading at this web address. The web host doesn't quite have its act together yet, and I was unable to play it or download it. Maybe if you try, you'll have better luck - or more technical smarts - and be able to listen to it. If not, the podcast will be out soon.

Meanwhile, the next reading at Sullivan's is coming up on Wednesday, April 29. I'll be there. Come on down. Try the fish and chips with Newcastle Ale. See what people are reading.

La Honda: Literary Hub of the Santa Cruz Mountains.

Remembering Charlie Cutten

A few years ago I spent a day helping a neighbor build a recording studio. Though I'd done a lot of paid carpentry work for him, this day was spent as volunteer labor, sort of in the spirit of a barn-raising for music. One other man showed up to help, a gentle cherub of a guy with a twinkly grin and a white beard. This man was Charlie Cutten.

Charlie was recording, or had just completed, his first CD. On this day he cheerfully wielded a hammer and staple gun. I don't know if he regularly worked as a carpenter - in La Honda, carpenter/musician is a common occupation. Most days, Charlie wielded a Martin D-35 guitar. He drove an old baby blue VW bug. I liked him on first sight. I can't imagine anybody who wouldn't.

Five years ago in April I was hiking in the hills overlooking La Honda when I heard sirens on the highway in the valley. From the distance, the sirens had a soft, almost musical sound. A few minutes later a medical evacuation helicopter flew over the mountain and slowly, carefully, dropped into the valley. A while later, the helicopter lifted upward, over the trees, as I watched from the hills above. A chill ran through me. From nowhere a thought flashed into my head: There rises a soul on its way to Heaven.

I found out later. It was Charlie. A car had crossed the center line and crushed his little blue bug.

Charlie Cutten's CD is, quite simply, the most wondrous collection of original guitar pieces I've ever heard. Lovely, inspirational, disciplined yet exuberant, he blends folk, jazz, classical, and I believe a bit of church music into his melodies. You can still buy it on CD Baby, and for fifteen bucks, that's a deal.

Charlie, you touched a lot of lives, and we're the better for it. Thanks for being here.

Living With Wood

Turtles, hot day in my little town. The tree is lying over the pond, but still... how do they climb up a tree trunk?

I took the photo today. A year ago, about 20 feet from this scene, I took the Turtle Crossing photo (the sign has since disappeared, though the turtles are still crossing...)

Crime Scene

As I was walking my dogs, I happened to glance down the fence line at the far end of my property... And something didn't look right. See those 3 fence posts? Well, beyond them, there should be about 5 or 6 more.
Somebody had stolen my fence.

I don't know how long it had been missing. I don't go out checking my fences every day, and it never occurred to me that somebody might just take them.

I had a pretty strong suspicion about what happened. So I knocked on my neighbor's door, and when he opened it I said, "Where's my fence?"

"Oh." He smiled. "I tore it down." It bothered him to look at it, so without even telling me that he had a problem with it, he tore it down.

I built that fence with my own hands: dug the holes, set the posts, nailed the green wire. And paid for all the materials. It wasn't handsome, but it wasn't ugly, either. It was just a fence. And, by the way, it was entirely on my side of the property line. It was in place before my neighbor bought his house. Before he ever saw the place.

He says he just grabbed the 4x4 posts and pulled on them. If that's true, he broke this 4x4 with his bare hands:

It takes a lot of anger to break a 4x4. He must have really hated that fence. And yet he'd never said a word about it.

He said he'd build a new fence, a better fence, when he had the time and the money. But he'd like to build it about 5 feet back in one corner so he'd have more room to turn his car around. And also he'd like to cut down one of my trees.

I didn't get angry, not at first. I was simply flabbergasted. In my town, La Honda, we do things our own way. We have a long history of outlaw culture here. But this is ridiculous.

It's probably a good thing that I wasn't angry right away. Things can get out of hand quickly around here.

Monday I'm talking to a lawyer.

What would you do?