A Wonderland Pastiche and Judith's Words

     We all need a little Christmas this year. To massage your mind with nothing but child like wonder, it is time for our annual trip to fantasyland, away from the world of adults and all that stuff.

    Be dazzled by the color and richness of mirth and cheer.

    Spend a few minutes, looking closely at the frames and I suspect a few smiles and a wow will take you to the land of sugar plums.

The scenes are from the Cambria Garden Center sparkle shop and are the product of hundreds of hours of design and set up.

Share this with anyone who could use a lift and would enjoy such eye candy.

Now, a note about changes.

    Another LightBreeze tradition for the last 10 years has been to post in early to mid December about the Candlelight Christmas Concert at the Santa Rosa Chapel, high on a hill overlooking East Village in Cambria. That has changed.

   The Bishop of the Diocese of Monterey in a surprise move took control of the Chapel from the local Catholic church and then gave the bums rush to some pleasant and happy Cambria traditions including the Candlelight Christmas concert and all such concerts and community gatherings. Yes it stunned the locals.

    But as I note, things change.

    

        Violin virtuoso Brynn Albanese, who has been the concert master the past few seasons, found a new home for the series, St Paul's Episcopal Church, also home to Safe Harbor Presbyterian.

         In the frame above Brynn is joined by Eric Williams, a master musician in O' Holy Night.

        It doesn't have a 150 year history, but it does have electricity, indoor plumbing, heat and sits on ridge overlooking a valley and the Santa Lucia range, has a labyrinth and a meditation garden. It is a tranquil hill.

        The historic setting was charming and nostalgic but it's about the quality of the performance and the beauty of the music. And about Judith's words. Judith Larmore had been the in-residence caretaker of the Chapel and her seasonal meditations made it even more special. There is a back story.

    When we were still newbies and attended our first Candlelight I was blown away and driven to tears when Judith began a story about her childhood in Bluffton Indiana, my dear mother's beloved hometown. I had spent holidays in Bluffton, in the snow belt of northern Indiana, and Judith's meditation opened a portal of memories. 

    Each year, I looked forward to hearing Judith's creative take on the human condition and particularly appreciated any reference to Bluffton. She is a marvelous writer.

    This year Judith reported the changes, loosing her home and job of the last couple of decades, and the loss of the activities at the Chapel she tended so well, drove her to a low point, even questioning the value of life. But then this special village tucked between the Santa Lucia Mountains, the Monterey Pine Forest and the Pacific pulled it's own version of a Seneca Falls revival of George Bailey (See It's a Wonderful Life).

    This village provided love and support, to her and to all the others who were knocked off kilter by the Bishop's move. Judith has a new cottage home and was able to lift our spirits with reflections on human kindness. Judith said this was the last year she would be offering words at the concert. I hope that is not so. Some changes are very hard to abide. 

    Wishing you all Peace and Goodwill.

    See you down the trail.

Candlelight Christmas Came Back

         The glow of the Santa Rosa Chapel from its east village hill top drew us into a resumption of a Cambria tradition.

        For almost 150 years Christmas magic happens here. After two years, delayed by Covid, the wondrous sounds, friendly warmth and joy was back.

            Friends and neighbors from the village crowd in to hear other friends and neighbors treat us to music, voice and word that soothes the soul.

        Soprano Molly Pasutti, backed by Jill Poulos on Irish harp and button accordion, Bob Liepman on cello, Eric Williams' guitar and violin virtuoso Brynn Albanese performed; Let Us The Infant Greet, I Saw 3 Ships, Good Christian Men Rejoice, Kesh Jig, and a stunning Mary Did you Know?

        Brynn's Handel Violin Sonata in D Major and Winter from Vivaldi's Four Seasons dazzled and melted us.

        Jody Mulgrew, vocalist, guitarist and songwriter added mirth and richness with The First Noel, a couple of his own creations- I Guess I'll Have to Spend Christmas Here, Christmas on the Island, and classics Jingle Bell Rock, White Christmas and the soaring Angels We Have Heard On High.

        A special joy was seeing Judith Larmore with her annual reflections message. Judith grew up in my mother's little north eastern Indiana hometown and her rich memories and stories kindle a special place in my heart. This year, after two years of loss and hurt, Judith reminded us of the value and peace of "saying their name" as we recall those special to us. Her message in this year of resumption sparkled as a homily of recovery and making right. It is a gift.

       Bruce Black was not available to share his telling of Twas the Night Before Christmas, so story teller Amber Atkinson wove the tail with panache and drama and musical emphasis from her partner Brynn. 

        Molly Pasutti and Eric Williams on Guitar teamed for a dramatic and spiraling O' Holy Night. 

        The ensemble led all of us in Silent Night and Joy to the World. 

        As we filed out, filled with joy and ambled down the hill into a gaily light village, the Christmas spirit and good cheer seemed to have settled over the village, again. It came back.

       See you down the trail.  

        

Respite

    Gentle ripples on a little pond in the flow of San Simeon Creek offer a respite from the madness and sickness of  2020.
     Remember the kind of world you imagined for 2020, back when we were filled with dreams and when most of life, including the distant 21st century was far in the future.
     For health and for a kind detox I've been visiting the past. 

   Farmers and ranchers on the California central coast have been "putting up hay."
   That leads me back to the early 1960s in central Indiana.
    US Highway 40 east of Indianapolis was dotted with villages and crossroads that were once part of the National Road. Places like Cumberland, Gem, Philadelphia, and Charlotte were little clusters of a life that passed by when the Interstate system was built. A few still had grain elevators and the expanse between was farmland.
    My father rented an historic and drafty large farmhouse in Cumberland, as we awaited the construction of new home near a golf course. I got to know the local lads, the Hills, and their cousins the Hilkene's and Sharpe's. They were farm kids and their families "put up hay" every summer and needed manpower.

      We'd start early in the morning, as soon as the field was dry. There were usually two of us on a wagon, pulled by tractor hooked up to a baler. 
      Blades would gather the cut hay and it was fed into a kind of conveyor.

         The baler shaped the hay and then wrapped it with a line or wire to keep it in a block. My job was to stand on the front of the wagon with a hook

  and grab the wrapped bale off the conveyor, turn and hoist it to Bobby, Chip, Jack, or who ever was on that wagon. He'd then stack it on the growing pile. We rarely had three on our wagons, so the "boy-power" could be spread to another wagon working the same field.
        The farms were large, the fields were massive, and the bales kept coming at you without stop.

           Hay is "put up" in the summer. The sun is scorching,  the hay or straw is scratchy and there were days when I thought the field was an ocean. But we'd always stop at noon. If there was a tree line with shade we'd settle there or get a ride to an area that was out of the sun. The farmer's wife would bring us picnic baskets full of relief. There were gallons of lemonade, iced tea, either a mountain of sandwiches or fried chicken. And usually there was a pie or fresh baked cookies.  15 and 16 year olds can devour more food than you can imagine.

          After lunch, and a moment to answer "nature's call," it was back to the wagon, field and hay. After a field had been cleared, or when the stacks were at a proper height, we'd jostle along to the barn, where the bales had to be off loaded and stored.

         I got stuck in the loft one day and thought I'd die from not being able to breath. A barn hayloft in the heat of summer is a miserable place. After that I was the guy who hauled the hay off the wagon and threw it on to a conveyor where the rest of the guys would go about filling the loft. They'd handle only every third for fourth bale, but tossing each one was worth not being in the loft.

   When ever I see hay in a field, I go back to those couple of years of learning to work. 

    Back then the future was unlimited. I want it to be that way for my grandchildren as well.

       We've got to get better at solving problems and working around or through differences.

      Lana took these shots the other day. She said it looked like I was talking to the cow. I was. 
       We'd been hiking for a while in the sun and I needed a moment in the shade, a shade being shared. I told the cow she didn't need to bolt, or charge me, that there was plenty of shade for the two of us. We made peace.

     There's been a lot of recent attention to the fact so many are depressed, or ill, full of the toxic nature of the news.   
      There is the unrelenting worry about Covid and this nation's failure to handle it as well as most of the world.    
      Then this age of reckoning brings us to painful truths and difficult decisions. I hope they are growing pains, but pains none-the-less.
      Remember when we used to say, as mad and as incompetent as Trump is, at least there is no crisis. Almost seems like the good old days doesn't it. Another mile marker on the descent of this nation.

             If I may suggest, a great antidote is to spend a few minutes viewing Lincoln Project videos and/or the videos  of Republican's Against Trump. They are short and cathartic. The truth is always alternative to the sick fantasy world the sick man weaves. Seeing it all told so well may help this nation with it's first political exorcism.
         I've been gratified by the early response of college leaders who say the administration's recent ICE crackdown on foreign students is just more evil and meanness. I hope they fight it. 

           We are fortunate to have the timeless shore, help with our emotional respite. We enjoy being able to share a few moments.

       Another respite moment came the other day when friends Jacque and Griff arranged for this. The talented Brynn Albanese and Eric Williams entertained a socially distanced block gathering within view of the Pacific.

  They are renowned and have superb credits and resumes, but like all musicians, have been sidelined. It was pure pleasure to see and hear them back in action.

   Everyone seemed to enjoy the respite. 

   I apologize to my friends abroad. This is not the America that nations could once trust. This is not the America that was recognized as a leader on important issues, as a beacon of light. We did it to ourselves, but I'm gaining a sense we will fix this. I suspect there is a hard rain coming, and it will be a time of rumble. 
    We seem on a path to address our racist and genocidal proclivities. Honest acknowledgement is forthcoming, even now. Fixing it will take time, but it will be good work for a nation.
     I think most have been shaken into a state of awareness. The prevailing cultural attitudes of celebrity, wealth and entertainment are not lodestones for a serious nation, nor the values by which to measure women and men for the fitness of work on the public's behalf. 
     These are hard truths. We ate the poison. It made us sick. It is killing us, but we know the cure, and the power resides within.

          Stay safe and well. Take care of each other. That is our destiny.

    See you down the trail.