VINE CHAT

Green, brown, clear.  Those are the colors of the remnants I found today.

I was at the beach, a cove to be particular, and as my feet sunk into the sand, as my older kids ran into the waves and my baby scurried behind them, I noticed the sand had remnants of lives. Remnants of beach activities. Remnants of families, of indulgence, of excess, of beauty. Remnants in the form of sea glass, one of my favorite things in this world, as fun to look for as sea shells.

There are beaches all around the world where people flock to find sea glass. It's not sharp, rather, it's smooth, dusky, the edges rounded and beaten by erosion, pounding waves, storms, cliffs, ancient rocks and witnessing cliffs. Fish swim over it, unaware that people cherish it. Surfers glide over it, concentrating on the ultimate ride, unable to see little pieces of treasure beneath them.

And do you know why those beaches have so much sea glass? Places like Avila Beach, CA, or Glass Beach, Hawai'i? From what I have read, these beaches were dump sites. The glass which was discarded washed into the sea, got tossed around, beaten up, refined into something beautiful, now people carry it away in buckets and use it to theme "nautical" rooms in their homes. I keep my sea glass in a large clam shell in my kitchen that holds my sage and ocean scented candles, or next to my steering wheel on the dashboard of my car. I rub it in betwen my fingers when I'm stopped, envisioning the day we found it, how pleased my kids were to present one of Mommy's favorite things to her. Remnants in my mind (and heart).

The sea glass I found today, though, I knew exactly where it came from. The green sea glass? Heineken bottles. The brown sea glass? Budweiser bottles (in fact, I think I saw the Anheuser-Busch "A" on one piece), the clear sea glass, hm, I don't know. Maybe Martinelli's sparkling cider bottles.  And why am I so sure I knew where that sea glass came from...well, I maybe drank a few beers at that very same cove when I was younger. I maybe sat on that very same beach sipping cool, hoppy beer with my honey dreaming of the family we'd have one day, raising a toast to the freedom we had then, while we we had it. Freedom, like happiness over finding a piece of glass, is fleeting. Fleeting, but it comes in many forms. Rough at first, waiting to be refined. In one piece, then broken apart into many little ones, taking their own shape, begging to be analyzed. Discarded maybe, it happens sometimes, but then the real beauty coming through.

Remnants, little pieces, that really make you look at the big picture.

I'm going to collect as many remnants as I can.

Before school starts in September, we decided we're takingthe kids to Disneyland. We made reservations at the Disneyland Resort, specifically, the Paradise Pier hotel. It's the hotel with the waterslide at the pool, and in the opinion of a parent who's done some traveling with children, a slide at the pool should be as standard as ice machines or room service.

After the reservation was made, I sat at the kitchen table smiling - not because I get to see CAPTAIN Jack Sparrow on Pirates of the Caribbean again, but because I was remembering what my now five year old daughter Zoe did four years ago, on the verge of two years old, at that same waterslide.

Here is how it went...

Standing at the foot of the tri-level wooden steps that lead to the slide, a college student with spiky hair and Oakleys sits under a pool lifeguard umbrella and tells me "I'm sorry, ma'am, your daughter is too young to go on the slide."  I've got to break it to her gently. She has seen her big brother ride the slide already twice and Zoe is determined she will go down the slide, twisting, turning, sitting with a straight back or lying down like a bullet through a pipe, and empty into the pool with a splash like a toddler exclamation point. Maybe I'll get lucky and she'll understand.  Maybe she'll be content to float around in the pool and play Marco Polo.

I kneel down to speak to my tenacious toddler. "Zoe, honey, you'll have to wait until you're bigger to ride the slide. I promise we'll come back, baby."  She stands and looks at me, no show of emotion, her wheels turning, though, in a scary kind of way. She doesn't speak.

I stand up and look at the lifeguard, thinking I've got to give it one more try - I've got to do that for my kid. "I saw kids on there smaller than her..." But as I speak, Zoe crawls between the lifeguard's legs and bolts up the stairs. Before I can say "ZOE! STOP WHATAREYOUDOINGGETBACKHERE!" She's up the second set of steps. My mother, sitting on a chaise lounge with a Diet Coke, laughs with abandon. The lifeguard is deciding whether to use his handheld radio to warn the lifeguard at the top of the slide or shout to him, and decides to use his best young male authoritarian voice to take charge of the situation from bottom to top. The lifeguard at the top of the stairs leans over the stairs to see what his fellow lifeguard at the bottom of the stairs is yelling about - and as he takes his attention of the waterslide launch pad - Zoe cuts to the front of the line, hops on the slide, and started her descent into a blissful rebuke of oppressive rules.

That's my girl.

Don't get me wrong here, I adhere to cautionary measures, and pools are no place to be fooling around with safety. But this was more than a simple rule infraction, this was a precursor of a character trait, a hint of the independence and self-assurance yet to come. Was I embarrassed? No. Was I apologetic? A little. Was I afraid? More like proud.

"That's fine. She can ride." I noticed surprise behind the Oakleys of Mr. Lifeguard. He gave us a wry smile. He looks at Zoe and shakes his head, laughing. "Thanks," I said, not making a big deal out of it.

Zoe waited in line without cutting the rest of the day. Hands folded, dripping wet, she was the picture of obedience as she awaited her turn to ride the slide thereafter. She made her point, she moved on, she just wanted to have fun and proved that she could even do it gracefully, after she is satisfied with her entrance. That little girl made a big statement.

That little girl is mine.

When we go back to the Paradise Pier pool and waterslide this year, Zoe probably won't remember her checkered waterslide past, but I'll be grinning, as she goes all the way up, all the way down and rides the afternoon away twisting and twirling, hands cupped to her side, picking up speed ascent and descent. I'm sure the lifeguards will be different (they probably graduated UCLA with degrees in Child Psychology by now) but I picture Zoe walking by the lifeguards of summer 2007 and nodding her wet head, saying, "How ya doin?"

That's my girl.

So, recently I went to Chino Farms...Chino Farms of epicurean fame and gourmet notoriety. And it being summer time, I brought my kids along.

They were the only kids there. And Chino Farms, I discovered, is not a large, open air market I had imagined it to be.  The plot of land Chino's occupies is immense, where they grow their fruits and vegetables. But their shop is rather small compared to the farmers markets my children are used to.

Since my kids couldn't run from vendor to vendor sampling berries and plums, they burned their excess, boredom-driven energy bothering me. That's what moms are for.

"I want those raspberries!"  "Can I try that strawberry?" "Why is that cucumber so small?"

The raspberries were $6/pint (but hey, they were white raspberries, and delicious ones at that). The strawberries are not sampled. The small cucumbers were cornichons.  These are not things well-versed patrons of Chino's needed to hear explained as they select and pay big for the best produce southern California has to offer. But I exposed these patrons to the dilemmas of childhood nonetheless.  My kids gotta eat organic, too!

I quickly pointed to, and sheepishly asked how much money was required for, the produce I wanted to take home. The baby sat in her stroller pointing at butteflies hopping across they sky and flying low, but my five year old, Zoe and eight year old, Alex, whined and expressed their dissatisfaction with the farmers market that wasn't.

However, soon as I opened the stapled brown paper bags to reveal the strawberries and raspberries, white corn and tomatoes (did I mention these are all grown on Chino's land right behind the shop?), soon as I doled out the little green plastic pints filled with sugary summer fruit and delicate, yellow tomatoes, the kids were silenced. Muted. Happy. Phfew.

The drive to Chino Farms from where I live is about 30 minutes, without traffic. Those were 30 very peaceful 30 minutes driving home for me, as the kids traded artful raspberries for bon-bon tasting strawberries (seriously, the strawberries taste like that strawberry hard candy with the liquid center). The kids negotiated fairly and quietly for once. They let me listen to my own music on the radio without request or complaint. They asked each other "have you had one of these?", giving a rather mature looking nod of approval...elementary food critics in the back of my SUV. Most amusing part of my summer so far, definitely an unexpected gift; my kids taking simple pleasures in the flavor of something.

The strawberries left a mark on my kids - no bling, no sugar coating, just delicious berries enjoyed at their peak of freshness - that stained the faces of my babies bright red. As I turned on my right blinker and veered off the freeway, I glanced in the rearview at my still silent children. They were all fast asleep, their tan little bodies limp in the car seats, their smallish hands still holding stems of berries now in their bellies. They reminded me of little Native American Indians decorated with strawberry war paint, little Indians who were exhausted from battling a Mommy who had dragged them to a vegetable shop.

Kids in summer want to be entertained, want to be in the sun, need to play, and like to feel impressed by what they've done at the end of the day. Tucking my little war party into bed that night, I reminded them that we had done something worthwhile that day...and it was visible on their juiced up cheeks and chin. Those little things in life are what we remember, try to recapture as we get older.

Betcha they love berries their whole life through.

Kim, bff #1 (I assure you I used that term twenty plus years ago before text messaging and the popularity of acronyms to replace the proper use of the English language) lives in Texas. She has lived all over the place, Colorado, California, Missouri, now big, hot, southern Texas. We became friends 21 years ago in high school, our sophomore year. I noticed her unshakeable self-confidence in Art and English class...I admired it, I wanted it. I went to her volleyball games. She played on the school's soccer and volleyball team, and pulled stratight A's. What did I do sophomore year? Oh yeah, I brooded over this one guy, wrote, and listened to Prince and Stevie Nicks. However, radiating ability and embracing every opportunity, and slam dunking it with charisma, Kim-style is what I coveted. We became buddies. Then Kim moved to Colorado, where she lived until she came out to college here in San Diego. She didn't leave until the man she married got a job in St. Louis. That was 1992 or 1993...and from St. Louis, she followed her husband to Texas. But the re-locating isn't the heart of this (sorry), what I mean to say is - Kim is still my best friend. She followed her now ex-husband, and my phone bill, letters, cards and unwillingness to relinquish a good thing followed her. I'm still not as tough as nails or resilient as she is...but the person I am, she's accepted, loved, and stood by.  I haven't always made that easy.

Amy, bff #2. Amy showed up in 1987, bright, genuine, unassuming and vulnerable...she's little more than a year younger than me but took on the role of my little sister. Both Amy and Kim lived with my parents and I at different times in our friendship. Sharing a room will make you sisters.

But she disappeared for a while.  I didn't know where she was, beginning with the year I met my husband Pete, back in 1991. I don't think when we were falling in love we were aware that anyone else existed. So Amy slipped away, moved to the midwest to take care of her Grandmother, and apparently decided what she wanted to do with her life. Lucky for me, she decided to include me in it again when she called my parents in the summer of 1999. Since then, gosh, can't say I've gone a week without talking to my sis. She missed my wedding in '96, but I made it into hers in 2004. My son was her ring bearer. We'd stayed up late talking about how our kids would be friends. When she called me 2005 to tell me she was pregnant, I reminded her of our plan, but how unfortunately, I was done having children...I'd had two, and they were enough. Amy roared with laughter when I told her how ironic it was that when I said that, I was unknowingly knocked up myself. Our kids (her first, my third - Brody and Melia, accordingly) are exactly three weeks apart.

I love it when things come full circle. 

But Amy lives In Iowa. Kim lives in Texas. My bff's #1 and #2 are inconveniently (and quite expensively) far away. Yet there are other important numbers, a sequence of 3's that has recently revealed more circles. Happy, surprising circles. 

That brings up Carolyn, return friend #1. She was with me when I met hubby. She was with me when I took dangerous, albeit fun, detours. She also disappeared when Pete and I devoted every waking second to each other - she was a realist, and found other avenues than tolerating with me, in love.  I was a tiresome bore with my head in the clouds, this is true.  I heard about Carolyn through her parents throuygh the years, because she was gone almost overnight back in '91. Over the years I had dreams about her. I Googled her and came up with nothing. "I just hope she's okay..." I told Pete, who never got tired of Carolyn. Other nameless, temporary friends of mine wore on hubby over the years, but not Carolyn. Not Amy. Not Kim. 

Two months back, a Sunday receiving the 78th call from my mother that day, she said "Guess who I ran into?  Carolyn!  Car-o-lyn!  We gave her your number.  She's gonna call you!"

She called.  We spent a better part of that phone conversation just crying. "Are you okay?" "I'm fine, I'm better than ever!  Are YOU okay?" "I'm fine, are you sure you're okay?" "I'm so happy, I'm really happy...how's Pete?" Saps. Tough chicks in our teens.  Saps now.

Next up, Michelle, return friend #2. Why is it that they all disappeared on me? What did I do? Michelle loved baseball.  Michelle quoted movies and songs and kept up with me on every level. Michelle quickly began to finish my sentences and adapt to my ego(s) in the office we shared. That was 1996. By '98, she had moved to Laguna Beach (ego-capital). She found a different boyfriend. Went to a place I couldn't follow her. I missed her, she totally got me.

Last month Michelle got married, and I got an e-mail. Apparently, she Googled me and found this. Found my site. Didn't take long to catch up, re-connect...and appropriately, our Padres give us much to discuss, or mind-read. Again. Hey Michelle - you voted for Chris Young, right?

And finally, my Krissy, return friend #3. Who is probably pissed she had to read this far to get to the part about her that she knew would inevitably be included. I was her assistant twelve years ago when we both worked for Sea World. Grounded and pure - she was just easy to be around, easy to like. It was mostly through e-mail we stayed in touch as she followed her husband to Texas and then Virginia, but here's a fact, the real ones either stick around or come back.

I'm drawn to people who have strength. Strength in mind, in heart, in spirit...and in body, Krissy has quite a story. Krissy was driving with one of her young sons when she was broad-sided in a rental compact car. They flipped, ended upside down, her son's door wedged into the street curb. She did what any mother would do, but had years of All-Star athleticism for her clutch situation. She turned the car over with her bare hands and got her son out. They were okay.  By the grace of God, they were okay. But Krissy has survived much more than that. And overcoming her adversities, emerging with a "What? It'll be fine..." attitude, brings her back to Cali with her two sons, on her own. She leaves behind part of her old life in Virginia, where she was determined to stay the course, until the course changed.  We'll be taking our kids to Padres games together. She'll probbaly catch a foul ball with her eyes closed, if not, she can uproot ten bolted down seats to get to one...if she chooses.

That's 5. Five friends who've hung with me, returned, or both. According to my hubby, 5 is a magical number, but this is for Jeff Bagwell reasons. I think things happen in 3's, I believe 2 bff's + me = 3. What I like best about this equation is this, they all know I love them as much, the same, equally. None of these friends need any reassurance, none of these friends need what I can't give them, none of these friends of double digit years compete for priority in my life or my heart, or with the kids and husband I have. We're all on the same journey, and in roundabout ways, in the same boat.

Sharing the same boat will make you sisters.