Just makin’ pies and rolls and all manner of good things . . . counting our blessings that are more plentiful than we deserve.

Merry Christmas from the ol’ Okie!

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“And, lo, the angel of the Lord came upon them,
and the glory of the Lord shone round about them: and they were sore afraid.

And the angel said unto them, Fear not: for, behold,
I bring you good tidings of great joy, which shall be to all people.

For unto you is born this day in the city of David a Saviour, which is Christ the Lord.

And this shall be a sign unto you; Ye shall find the babe
wrapped in swaddling clothes, lying in a manger.

And suddenly there was with the angel a multitude
of the heavenly host praising God, and saying,

Glory to God in the highest, and on earth peace, good will toward men.”

Merry Christmas

Should have known it wasn’t going to be just another dog walk. As we came up on Saint Monica the little white paper bags with lighted tea candles places out on the sidewalk and a much larger-than-normal crowd going to Mass was a first clue. The general peace and quiet, after the wailing Gerber ambulance had passed of course, was another. After having bee very cold here for days, today it was sunny, relatively warm and the winds were dead still — clue three.

I sometimes dread this early-AM Sunday walk, as there is no throw-away paper to pick up for the wife so I don’t trod up to tony Montana Avenue where those paper-boxes are, instead we, Missy da Schnoodle and I, walk a few extra blocks longer on California, past St. Monica and down to Wilshire Boulevard. The dread comes from all the usual derelicts and other homeless that hang out there, the scariest being the psychotics. Not unusual to meet several of them within a couple of blocks. For some reason today, there were none of those, and few of the others.

As I walked by I looked into the papered-up-from-the-inside windows of vacant stores, and saw what for all intent and purposes was a homeless guy with a little gray dog with a Christmas bandanna looking back at me. I really gotta do somethin’ about my before-coffee dog-walk wardrobe — Oh, ya betcha!

As I came upon the local Coffee Bean & Tea Leaf I saw this little guy walking out of their patio and down the small flight of steps nursing his coffee and then turning in my direction. He was short, couldn’t tell if he was Hispanic, but was of some kind of nationality. The oddest thing was that he was wearing what looked like plaid pajamas all wrapped up on his head like an odd, turban-shaped hat. I was expecting a plea for money and was dreading that as I had nothing on me but ID and a phone.

As I walked by I glanced at him with my peripheral vision and heard him softly say, “Pray for me . . .”

Not missing a beat or a step I simply said, “OK, I will.”

“Thank you,” was the reply, now coming from behind me.

Immediately I bowed my head slightly and asked the Lord for intervention for this poor fellow, to provide for him what he is needing, to take away his pain, to be there for him in whatever sorrow he is feeling. And, I kept walking . . .

My eyes were welling up with tears to go along with the constant juicing of my recently acquired allergies. I realized that for the first time since the passing of my wife’s mother over two years ago I was beginning to feel some Christmas spirit again.

Guess it’s me that should be thanking him . . .

The other day on Facebook one of my cousins asked, “What are you thankful for?” My comment to his post was:

A recent study, sorry for no link, indicates that those who are “grateful” are happier than those who have no gratitude for anything. How very true that seems to be in my own life.

Happy Thanksgiving everybody!

‘Okie’

As you can see from today’s U.S. flag image, it’s a gray, kinda dreary am here at Casa Okie. We’re only 11 blocks away from the Palisades bluff overlooking Santa Monica Beach and there one has an unfettered WSW panoramic view of the Pacific. This morning on the dog walk, the water was as gray and angry looking as the sky, with smallish swells breaking finally into tiny waves only a few yards away from the sand. The paper says that south facing beaches will see surf with 8-ft. faces sometime today, and the infamous “Wedge” should have some 15-footers! Ambulances and neck-stabilizers for everybody!!!!

Probably not many of you readers left — haven’t written in I can’t remember how long now. A stream of mostly steady work will do that to someone like me . . . after 8 hours or so looking at this monitor, doing another couple to blog is something these old eyes aren’t liking. Will try to be more consistent though, as I do miss it.

Another big part of it is that I feel that every time I hit Drudge, or Ace, or Google News — the hits they just keep on a comin’! Is Glenn Beck right . . . that we should be preparing for the financial apocalypse? Is Obama going to pack the SCOTUS with hard-lefties that will over time finish the dismantling of the Constitution that he seems so bent to accomplish? Can we take back the House and maybe even the Senate in Nov.? Will the BP oil well ever stop vomiting oil into the gulf? Are we as a society going to let this one disaster force us to abandon the use of fossil fuels and suffer the higher cost of alternate energy sources? Will the Taliban win in Afghanistan and then take over a nuclear-armed Pakistan? Will India nuke Pakistan if that happens? Will Iran finally get nukes, and use them on Israel, or will the Israelis take out the Iranian facilities? Will that begin Armageddon?

Criminy!!! I actually think about these things — worry about these things? Usually about the time I get this worked up I turn to The Anchoress for some comforting words about everything is going to God’s plan, but today she has some thoughts on the past, current and future states of our educational system and a great list of July 4th linkage.

Crazy! Obama’s approval and disapproval numbers are now statistically the same. He started his term with about 63% approval and only 20% disapproval, and in less than 18 months has lost half the country. Maybe we will take the House and Senate this fall after all.

Over at The Kitchen Cabinet, my home-away-from-home, Sonja Eddings Brown presents a detailed look at the original July 4, 1776. And I know we’ve showcased this video before, but today it’s totally relevant . . . and still totally awesome! Enjoy.

Hey, stay safe out there — don’t be this idiot!

Have yourselves a great Independence Day!!!!!

Both my mom and my wife’s mom are gone, so this Mother’s Day is tinged with a bit o’ sadness to go along with the cherished memories of those that had been so very dear to our lives. In honor of them I’m re-posting one of my fondest remembrances of my third to last trip back to see Mom, and also the post that I did to commemorate my mother-in-law upon her passing.

The likes of these two grand ladies don’t come around all that often . . .

The Low Sound of Rolling Thunder

I’m really too tired to write this, but I don’t want it to disappear in the ether of my forgetfulness. I awoke this AM to the low sonic vibrations of distant thunder, a rare occurance in southern California in the month of September. Intrigued, I listened for a bit and came to realize that whatever storm cell was causing this was headed my way, as the thunder came more often, and was louder each time. Oh great! The dog’s gonna go ballistic! Fireworks and thunder cause her to hyperventilate, like she’s about to have a stroke or something! She did, so I didn’t sleep much, if at all, after that. Then I had a powerful incidence of memory . . .

Three years ago last month, just after August 22nd, my mother’s birthday, was the last time that I can remember listening and waiting with much anticipation for a lightening storm. We had gone to Drumright, OK to have some Bar-B-Que and had returned just in time to see the threatening clouds building in the north-west sky. As often happens in Oklahoma in August, the super-heated air of summer was being overrun by a cold front off the Rockies, and thunderhead cloud tops rising up to 60,000 ft. were being flat topped by the upper atmosphere hyper-winds. They were also causing a lot of up and down air flow inside the behemoths, which was causing the buildup of a tremendous amount of static electricity just waiting for some way to come to ground. Hey, I’m not Mr. Wizard, but I do remember some of this cloud stuff.

The sky had taken on a rather sickly-greenish hue, and the bottoms of the clouds looked quilted, cottage cheese like — not a good sign. But my Aunt Juanita and Uncle Daniel had a below-ground storm shelter just a couple of blocks away, so it didn’t seem too threatening.

I could smell the ozone in the air from all the lightening.

There it was — the low rolling sound of distant thunder! I poured myself a soda in a plastic tumbler and went outside to the tiny front porch, sat in the porch swing and watched the storm roll in.

It got louder — a lot quicker than I thought it would. I could see the lightening now as it streaked across the sky. It was as if God himself was creating a most unbelievable mixed media experience — I guess he was at that. Intense white-hot flashes of bolt lightening shot from the heavens to penetrate the earth leaving gray artifacts on my retinas. I blinked to clear my vision with only a small amount of success. CRAAAAAAAAASSSSSHHHHHHHHHH! BOOOOOOM! Man, that was close! More sky-to-sky spider webbing of flashes, followed by sharp cracks and sizzles. My God, the colors! Even stronger smell of ozone. This was getting close!

Time to turn on the TV and see just what we were dealing with. Mom had watched her show and gotten herself ready for bed. It’s only 9pm, but she’s 81 and doesn’t stay up late, actually she never did. Early to bed and all that. The Doppler radar reports showed that this storm was huge, and was going to not only last for quite a while, but that the most intense cells were going to pass right over us there in Oilton. Great . . . I do like a bit of storm, but this didn’t look so good. And there was rotation showing up in some spots and that was coming our way too.

I guess you can figure out that a tornado didn’t spirit us away to the land of Oz. Heck, I already live there! So I watched a bit of tube, had some ice cream, called the wife, then retired to bed with a book. I’m lying in the little bed in the little second bed room of my Mom’s little house, the only light on in the house. I could hear the gentle sound of a light snore in Mom’s room.

BLAAAAAAAAMMMMM! The loudest thunderclap of the entire evening followed an incredibly bright flash, then the light went out. No sound at all — everything was out. I heard her get up and saw the beam of a small flashlight. I got up and went into her room. We sat on the edge of her bed and looked out the window into the seriously black night.

It began to hail — a lot! Marble sized chunks of ice were hammering against the metal roof of her car port, which I had helped her pick out the birthday before, so that the new paint job on her little 80′s something Ford wouldn’t be destroyed by sun and such — like this hail!

We talked a bit, about what I can’t remember now, but it was good. Finally the hail stopped, the rain let up, and the electrical storm moved on toward Tulsa, where it did a good bit of damage. Tiredness overcame us and we both went back to bed. When I woke up, the electrical crews were already out and fixing the transformer on the pole next to Mom’s little house. It hadn’t been hit directly by the lightening, but the strike was close enough to trip the transformer’s breaker or something. We had power early that AM.

When I packed and left that morning I didn’t know that it would be the last time I would see her when she wasn’t near death in a hospital bed. As always, she stood on that little porch, with a tear in her eye, waving goodbye to her son who was headed back to California. Why, she could never understand. It’s good that we don’t know what is going to happen, otherwise I could never have left her that day.

A funny thing about that night. When I was sitting up with her — looking out at the hail, the rain, the flashes of lightening — it was as if 45 years had never happened. I was 5 years old again.

I awoke this AM to the low sonic vibrations of distant thunder — and to memories . . . I sure do miss her.

Carolyn Young — 10/23/1921–4/16/2008

Eighty-six and 1/2 years ago . . .

Carolyn Young was born the fifth child to John and Carrie Barteaux, immigrants from Nova Scotia, who had made their fortune in Boston and migrated west to Santa Monica, CA. In fact, they were only three blocks away from being as west as possible in this little community with their home on the 1/4 block plot at 3rd and Washington. Carolyn was the late child, the whoops, not exactly “planned” bundle of joy as her brother and three sisters were all much older than her. Her life started out as one of great privilege, but it didn’t stay that way.

Her father was one of the early movers and shakers of the Los Angeles business community, with factories in the city, mines in the high desert and Mexico and other homes in Big Bear, Palm Springs and on Catalina Island. He was part of the great LA water-wars, buying up land from farmers and creating one of the outer valley sub-divisions. Think Chinatown’s Noah Cross, without the “weirdness”. The boxer Jack Dempsey was a family friend, and Barteaux was a member of all the clubs one just had to be associated with to be a successful man of business. In this world, there was not much use for a late child day-to-day, so Carolyn was sent off to boarding school, which she absolutely hated!

Her older siblings had grown up at the beach. In fact, the beach seems to be a part of the DNA of this family. In the old photo albums there are scores of shots of that great stretch of sand & surf that I’ve come to know so well in the 20 years I’ve know Carolyn’s daughter, the Amazing SoCal wife, whom I write about from time to time. Being sent packing and away from that life for much of the year didn’t sit well with young Carolyn, however she made up for it later in life by following in her mother’s footsteps, and raising her own children “at the beach”.

About the time Carolyn was finishing high school, the Barteauxs divorced, with her mother getting a very short end of the family financial stick, maybe a splinter, probably less than that. No community property laws back then you know, and the family attorney decided to side with the one that signed the checks, so Mrs. Barteaux found herself no longer living near the beach, no longer living a life of privilege, watching her former husband continue the high life with his new trophy wife, until his untimely death just a few short years later.

Two of Carolyn’s three sisters were movie star glamorous, and hobnobbed with the Hollywood elite of that time, dating actors, with Gigi getting a proposal from Glenn Ford, which for some reason she refused. Margaret married Walter, a test pilot, who flew Clark Gable and Carol Lombard to their wedding tryst, and later he died in the crash of one of his planes. There was further tragedy in this clan, as both Gigi and Margaret died in their twenties, Gigi from complications after an appendectomy and Margie from Hotchkin’s disease. The third sister, Gertie, lived on until the late 70s but also came to a tragic end. Brother Morton, ‘Bart’, served in WWII and wound up living in Hawaii plying the tiki trade into old age.

During the war, Carolyn became one of the Rosie Riveters working for Douglas Aircraft and near the war’s end she met Allan Young, home on leave from the Navy. After the war, they got married in Vegas and after a short span of living in Alaska while Allan worked as a deep sea fisherman, they came back to Santa Monica and established their family. She gave him two sons and a daughter, who produced among them six grandchildren. As a life-long homemaker, one of her greatest joys were the grandchildren, especially the oldest, who took on the daunting task of her caretaker during the last four years of her life.

I met this amazing lady just under 20 years ago when I started dating her daughter. She wasn’t much impressed with this at-the-time not-so-old an Okie. In fact, for those that were native Californians living during the time of the Dust Bowl days, the term “Okie” was about as reviled as “illegal immigrant” is today, for basically the same reason. It took a long time to win her over, but the last fifteen years or so we developed a strong respect for each other and after the death of my mom five years ago, she became “mom” to me.

I spent most of the day before she passed in the hospital, watching her struggle valiantly to stay with us just one more day. There was little to be done, except for giving her ice chips and water, and helping her sit up to breathe, clear her lungs as much as possible. You see, her daughter is a tax accountant with her own agency, and that next to last day was April 15th, her tax deadline. After literally seven-days and seven-nights working for two and 1/2 months, the thought of adding the death of her mom before that deadline was over to her daughter’s life was out of the question — she waited until 7:48 the next morning and passed peacefully, and in dignity, in the presence of her youngest son. We missed being there by ten minutes . . .

At the hospital, the floor nurse on duty came up to me and said, “It’s not scientific, but I do believe that this is not an end, but only a beginning. I feel her still here, watching all of you, and she is proud of what she sees.” I assured her that we were also believers and felt the same way. The next hours were amazing in their own right, with her main doctor coming in and spending a few minutes with us in the room. This is rare, as many doctors can’t face the death of their patients, some even going to far as putting off as long as possible signing of the death certificates, according to our funeral director. As we were leaving the ward, we came across her surgeon from last summer, who had successfully performed colon cancer surgery on her at age 85. He was very gracious as well. Amazing couple of docs, and the oncology ward at Saint John’s gave outstanding care and support.

After a beautiful ceremony in celebration of her life, we laid Carolyn to rest this last Thursday at Woodlawn Cemetery here in Santa Monica, just a couple of plots over from Allen, her long estranged, but never divorced husband. It’s close enough . . . to give him an earful for eternity. We drove by yesterday, the enormous mound of flowers covering the grave still fresh and vibrant — as if not yet wanting to let her go.

I promised See Dubya over a week ago that I would try to put into words what I’ve learned from all this, so here goes. Death is sad, unavoidable and natural — nothing to be afraid of, if you are ready for the afterlife. Sometimes, it’s a blessing. The hole that’s left in your psyche and your emotions will take much time to fill. Sometimes, like the line in the movie Lars and the Real Girl, it’s important that you just come and “sit”, and do nothing — just “sit” and “be there”. We don’t allow ourselves nearly enough time just to “be there” with those we love and care about.

Maybe the most important thing learned was the incredible strength of the human spirit. That even though you are so weak that you can’t hold a tissue up to your face, you can be strong enough to hold off the angel of death for another 24 hours. I’ve seen a lot of things in my 56 years on planet Earth, but I’ve never before been witness to anything like that.

Godspeed Carolyn Young — your spirit is free at last . . .

Happy Mother’s Day!

And one thought that Monty Python was merely “comedy” — one would have thought wrong.

Gotta remember that these guys really HATE each other, both side have nukes, and would just love to fry the other into glass.

Still, good handshake at the end. As Ace remarked, “Indian and Pakistani Border Guards Take Turns Trying to Out-Lunatic Each Other” — ain’t that the truth!