A Lovely Day in Lompoc

Sometimes I have these "I love my life" days. They happen when I focus on my tiny corner of the world and manage to tune out the barrage of bigger badder news, which, let's face it, has been pretty disturbing and overwhelming lately. But I've decided that accepting grace is a graceful thing to do, and I'm pleased to use this blog to share some of the kinds of things that irrationally delight me.

Monday, for example, was filled with fine moments.

I had to go to Lompoc for a meeting with Kam.  I parked beneath the stately Italian stone pine trees that line H Street by the old white church, built in 1908 as the Methodist Episcopal Church, and the grand Carnegie library building that now houses a museum.  The streets were damp from an unexpected bit of rain that passed through very quickly, like a fleeting mirage or wish just barely granted.

We worked in the coffee shop for a while and then wandered around the corner with our friend Cornelia, who'd happened by, to peek into New Lows, an art space and store on Ocean. I'm not even sure how to describe it, but it's a source for hand-screened t-shirts, designer street wear, skate boards, sunglasses, and art supplies, as well as a gallery and setting for arty events like a recent día de los muertos themed happening that was still being talked about.

We met Ben, the sweet hipster guy at the helm, and Cornelia and I each bought a t-shirt emblazoned with the word Edify...along with improve and instruct mentally and morally. I don't know about "morally", but in a tongue-in-cheek way these seemed like perfect apparel for a couple of retired teachers who still have very instructive tendencies. I knew mine would prompt a wry comment from Monte when I got home, but I still think it's cool and shall wear it proudly.

Meanwhile, the oral history project I mentioned in a previous post has proven to be a good invention, and I had an interview scheduled with a wonderful lady in Lompoc named Jean. I'll save the real content for The Living Stories Collective website that will hopefully soon exist. But sitting with Jean in her timeless old house was like sipping lemonade by a river of memories.

I saw her as a child sledding down the snowy nighttime of Jamestown, New York during the Depression. I saw her traveling with her friend Nancy in Europe not long after the War, just two college girls and a suitcase. I pictured her as a bride, working in offices, raising children, hoping to do it right.

And I saw her arriving in Lompoc in 1965, in March, when the hills were green, and discovering that it was a perfect place for getting around by bicycle, still her main form of transportation. Jean and her husband have lived in the same house for nearly fifty years now, and sometimes she catches a glimpse of it and sees it as though for the first time. It surprises her how happy that makes her feel.

"I've had a very fortunate life," she said, more than once. "And I'm grateful."

Jean's advice is simple:  Be honest..be honest with yourself and others. And be kind.

Then, on my way home, I stopped at a certain farm, which was maybe my favorite part of all. That aforementioned friend Cornelia, you see, happens to be The Farmer's Wife (among other things) and although the weather was hot and muggy by now, we decided to go for a wander.

We walked through dusty fields, gathering tomatoes, cucumbers, corn, melons, and squash...oh, such a bounty! I looked up at the tall stalks of corn and imagined myself in Iowa, and I sniffed cantaloupes in the sun, hoping for that sugary scent of ripeness.

We laughed and knew we'd wistfully remember this someday. (Remember the way we were able to bend to the ground and get up again? And how we could still stride up those steep hills in the heat, even carrying bags of tomatoes?)

By the house there was a plum tree with the most delicious yellow plums I've ever eaten in my life. Nectar-of-the-gods plums, plums that leave you happy and sated and desiring nothing more, juice dripping down your chin and on your hands.

"Take them, eat them now," said Cornelia. "They don't keep well."

I needed no convincing.

The yard was sun-dappled, pink ladies swayed in the breeze, an old gray cat wandered by, and we were sweaty and sixty-something and feeling pretty good.

Let's leave us there for now, eating plums, laughing, thankful and aware.