California Dreamin' by Betsy Ashton

Last weekend I spent a couple of days with my cousin Aleta and her friend Duane. Like me, Aleta is an ex-patriot Californian. She grew up in the high desert near Victorville; I grew up in the Los Angeles area. She's younger than I am, so I remember things she doesn't from when she was a child and before she was born.

We had a terrific time reminiscing about what it was like to be free-range kids in the desert. By age four, we'd both learned to avoid scorpions and tarantulas. We knew cholla or jumping cactus could bite you badly. We knew not to go barefoot where bull weed grew because the thorns were dreadful. We learned to play outdoors, to ride our bikes in sand without helmets and to be back indoors when the heat of the day reached 95 degrees.

Aleta left about 25 years ago to move to Anchorage. That was abrupt, from the high desert to Alaska. She loved it. A few years later, she moved to Burlington, VT to be closer to her boyfriend's family. Grandkids are so important.

I left first in 1969 to go to grad school in Tokyo for two years and returned to finish my degrees in Southern California. I had no intention of leaving until I met my future husband in a bar in Tokyo. We were both there on business, the only two non-Japanese in the bar. He's the only man I met in a bar and kept. That's a story for a different post.

The more we talked, the more we realized how much we missed the California of our youth. Not the California of today, but the one that has become bigger than life in our memories. I took her to the beach for the first time and tried to throw her into the surf. It never dawned on me that this desert girl might be afraid of the ocean. I'd grown up in it, so I had a healthy respect for its power but no fear. She freaked out. We backed away, pulled our blankets way up on the sand and watched the waves from a safe difference. To this day, she remembers how I tried to drown her. NOT. SO.

I took her to see the Beatles. I don't know what was more exciting, the group itself or the silly girls screaming and tearing their hair out. It was her first visit to the Hollywood Bowl.

We had a host of dogs when we were little. She had a little brown brindle mutt named Chipper. She hadn't been born when her brother had a German shepherd named Duke. Great dog for a boy and a desert. I had a red mutt named Rusty. So I wasn't as creative in naming pets back in those days. Heck, I was only nine when we got Rusty. We had more dogs over the years, but both are pup-less now. I don't think either of us will get another dog. The last ones we each had were so special that no other dog can replace their memories.

Our lives took us all over the world. Odd that we ended up so close to each other. We meet twice a year in August for the races in Saratoga and in December for a friends and family 'Tween the Holidays party in Hyde Park, NY. One of these days I'll get her and Duane down to the lake. I won't threaten to throw her in this time. She's a sailor and has lost her fear of large bodies of water.

When we are California Dreamin' it's because we have great memories of where we grew up. I've put several into short stories. One of these days, maybe I'll share "Toad" with you all.

Where did you grow up? Do you have fond memories or could you barely wait to escape?

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Betsy Ashton is the author of Mad Max, Unintended Consequences, and Uncharted Territory, A Mad Max Mystery, now available at Amazon and Barnes and Noble. I'm really excited that the trade paper edition of Uncharted Territory was released this week. Please follow me on my website, on Twitter, Facebook and Goodreads.

Nostalgia by Betsy Ashton

A few days ago I sat talking with a friend about raising kids today. We reminisced over lattes about how wonderful it was go be a kid when we were, well, kids. Imagine this setting.

Six kids ranging in age from three to seven lay in the grass on a hill and stared at puffy white clouds floating in a deep blue sky. Four bicycles and one tricycle lay scattered on the grass, along with a pair of clip-on skates. The girls wore shorts and cotton blouses with buttons, the boys tee-shirts and shorts. Each had ridden a bike or tricycle or skated over two miles from their neighborhood to hang out at a local park. They played a game of guessing what the clouds looked like.

Flash forward to today. Parents drive their kids to the park, bicycles and tricycles in the back of their mini-vans. Kids ride only on the path that weaves through the park, never out of sight of their helicopter parents. No child skates unless in a rink wearing the latest in shoe skates.

Kids no longer lie in the grass. "You might get bitten by a tick and get Lime disease." "You might get dirty." "All sorts of bad things live in the grass." "You might get bitten by a snake."

Don't even think about picking a blade, putting it in just the right place between your thumbs and blowing through the gap to make a whistle. "You don't know what pesticides the park groundskeepers used on the grass."

Kids wear hats and sunscreen to the point where little of the sun's beneficial rays ever strike skin. Heaven forbid a kid today gets a slightly crisped nose. No longer do peeling noses teach lessons about being careful.

Even at parks, the older kids don't look at the sky. They look at images of clouds on their smart phones rather that look up and imagine.

Kids used to be able to slide down metal slides and singe the backs of their thighs. They played on swings, trying to go high enough to feel like they were flying. Old metal merry-go-rounds spun kids until they were dizzy.

I don't know about you, but I grew up as a free-range kid. I skinned knees, got sunburned, fell off my bike and lost clip-on skates when I bumped along rough sidewalks. And I loved lying in the grass watching the clouds float by. They took me away from reality on magic carpet rides of my imagination.

Do you miss being a free-range kid? I do.

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Betsy Ashton is the author of Mad Max, Unintended Consequences, and Uncharted Territory, A Mad Max Mystery, which is now available in e-book at Amazon and Barnes and Noble.

Scents of Fall

By Betsy Ashton

One of my favorite fall memories is of scents. Smells. Burning leaves. Burning hillsides. Hot soups and stews. Roasts and turkeys and hams and chickens.

Wait a minute. Did she say "burning hillsides." Yes. I grew up in Southern California where the hills are designed by nature to burn. No one should be surprised with the grease-brush covered desert hills burst into flames somewhere every year. Happens. Can't stop it by building in those same hills.

But, this post isn't about burning hillsides. It's about the homey smells that came from my grandmother's and mother's kitchens. As soon as the fall vegetables hit the farm stores and grocery shelves, my grandmother was there, buying every root vegetable in sight. Our counter tops would be laden with potatoes and onions and yams, carrots and celery (alright, celery technically isn't a root vegetable, but it's a soup vegetable), turnips and parsnips and rutabagas. Yellow and green and patty pan squash. Fresh tomatoes for color. Chicken or turkey stock when we had it. Otherwise, just the vegetable stock that came from cooking.

My mother and I peeled and chopped. My grandmother stirred the huge soup pot. Late in the process my grandmother would throw in a handful of barley and rice. No measurements. Just a pinch of this, a dash of that. She didn't know much about seasonings other than salt and pepper, so the flavors of the veggies were the stars of the soup.

When my grandmother passed, my mother took up the knife. And when my mother passed, it was my turn. I start with the same basic vegetables, but I differ in the seasonings. I know from garlic. I know from fresh herbs. Sage. Oregano. Dill. Rosemary. Thyme. No salt. Plenty of fresh pepper. Like a two-finger wide swath that goes from pot edge to pot edge to add a smoky flavor. Chicken stock from an early dinner that's been in the freezer for a few months. Shredded chicken to add substance, fresh cooked. Maybe some kidney beans. Definitely tomato paste and sauce. Maybe some spinach or kale or shredded cabbage. Maybe a handful of pasta.

This weekend is veggie soup weekend. I'll make several gallons, both to eat and to freeze. We'll eat it with crusty bread dipped in the broth. And we'll remember my mother and grandmother with every bite.

Visit Betsy's website at www.betsy-ashton.com 

Relaxing, No Stress Vacations? NOT!

Jena with Jenevie 2008

by Jena Galifany

The family vacation is not something that I've taken many of. We took one when I was eleven or twelve years old. We drove four hours to Las Vegas and spent a day there. My sister and I spent all day in the pool. By that evening, I was so burned I couldn't wear anything except the bathing suit. OUCH! The next morning, I developed tonsillitis. Oh, joy.

We moved on, taking the next couple of days to roll through Reno and Carson City. Nothing spectacular to report there. We cruised through Lake Tahoe and ended up visiting friends in Sacramento. This was nice. They had a pool. My burn and tonsils had both mellowed. We went to a zoo. Now, I'm like totally terrified of snakes. I don't even like pictures of them. Guess where my dad made me go with my sister? You got it, the reptile house. Joy of joys. I was so thrilled to get home and prayed we'd never take another vacation. Fortunately, we camped instead.

Fast forward, I was now 50 years old and my youngest daughter is the only kid at home. She has never been to Disneyland. I decided it would make a nice Sweet Sixteen/First Family Vacation gift to her before she grew up and left home. I planned it all out in secret. We'd stay at the Disneyland Hotel for two nights and have access to Disneyland and California Adventure. This was going to be awesome.

I didn't want her to know where we were going, other than spending the night at her grandmother's home in Huntington Beach, a two and a half hour drive from home. That way we could see my in-laws and be within thirty minutes of Disneyland instead of driving the couple of hours to get there. I decided to tell her that we were going to Los Angeles to get her braces. The dentist had mentioned that she could use them to straighten one tooth that is a quarter of a turn around so I thought I'd use that idea to cover our true destination.

Jena, Steve, & Jenevie @Disneyland 2008

Mr. Mechanic Husband (no sarcasm here. He's the best mechanic in the valley) checked the car over the day before, and made sure everything was ready for the trip. Tune up, doughnut size spare tire, clean windows and all. The next day, we were ready to roll at 1pm. Moping all the way, Jen climbed into the back of the car and we were on our way. Being a nervous passenger, I drove. We made it ten miles and blew a tire. I pulled over on the side of the freeway and Steve jumped out to take care of the problem. He had the tire changed in no time but when he let the car down, the spare went flat. (really?)

An officer pulled up and called roadside assistance for us. We waited fifteen minutes for the man to come air up the spare. Husband apologized profusely for the flat spare. I knew he had checked it. I'd seen him do it. No problem. We could stop in the next town, about nineteen miles down the road.

A forty-five minute wait gave us two new tires and a one hundred twenty dollar expense I hadn't planned on. I decided to let Steve drive. I'd had my fun already. (not!) So back on the road. Twenty miles later, the car died. It just died. Now, this isn't usually a problem. It does it all the time. I simply have to drop it into neutral, hit the key, it fires up, pull it back into gear, and on we go. It's been doing this for years. It's such an intermittent problem, no one can find out what it is. It's why we got the car cheap. Only, this time, it decided not to start again. Luckily we were traveling down hill and were able to coast the last couple of miles to the off-ramp and into a Denney's parking lot. So far, it took us an hour and a half to travel forty miles.

We sat in the parking lot until the car cooled down. Steve looked it over and couldn't find any problem. After careful consideration, we decided not to go on into the heavy traffic on the 5 freeway. We decided to roll down the windows, turn off the air conditioner, and take the car back home. We'd rent a car and start over. After twenty minutes, Steve tried the key and she started up. Praying, we had no problems all the way back home.

We headed to the first car rental place we found. They wanted a credit card. I didn't have one. I'd paid them all off. They wanted a utility bill to prove where I lived. I get all my bills via email (going green has its drawbacks, I've found). They wanted a $300.00 money order. Hmm. Off to the house to dive into the shred bag for an old utility bill. Found one! Off to the bank for the money order. Back to the rental office. They decided since the utility bill was from three months previous, it wasn't good enough. I offered to pull up my account on their computer to show them, but they didn't want me to touch their computer. (sheesh)

Before I totally lost my cool, my husband pulled me gently out of their office and we headed for another rental company.

It was after 5:30pm by now, with all of the running around. I was afraid everything would be closed and we'd not get a car that evening. Our reservations at Disneyland were for the next morning. I didn't want to be driving instead of checking in. Jen still didn't know. She was sitting in the waiting area when we got to the counter at Car Rental Office #2. I made sure she was not in ear shot and prepared for battle. I had to have a car.

"We have reservations for Disneyland and need a car. I don't have a credit card and I don't have a current utility bill. What can we do about this?" I was firm. I wasn't going to take no for an answer. I needed to give Jen a nice vacation and so far it wasn't working out so well.

The tall gentleman behind the counter smiled at me and said, "No problem." It took the wind right out of my sails. He continued, "Let's see what we can do. And if I can't get you a car, I'll drive you down when I get off work at 6." WOW! I like this guy! He tried to run every VISA debit card  I had but none were accepted because they were not "credit" cards. I was losing hope. He was positive. "Do you know anyone that would lend you a card since it's only to get it, not to pay for it? You can pay with the debit but I need a credit card to let you have a car."

"My mother, but she's twenty miles away."

He handed me the phone. "What's the number?"

"She couldn't get here before you close."

"What's the number?"

We got my mother on the phone. I explained the problem to her. She agreed that she wouldn't be able to get there before closing. It was already 5:45. I relayed the information to Mr. Gentleman. He held out his hand for the phone. He spoke to my mother for a moment, pleasantries and such. He shocked me by asking for my mother's permission to use her card. He assured her no charges would go on it. I don't know what Mom said but he started writing. He filled out the information, told my mother what a wonderful person she was, and gave me back to phone. My mother said, "Sign my name," and she hung up.

I stared at the man as he turned the papers to me and handed me a pen. He smiled. I smiled, signed and gave him back his pen. "We didn't do this," he said. "Now, let's get you on the road." He lead us out to a nice economical, clean, wonderful car. Again, WOW! We shook his hand and thanked him over and over. (Sidenote: I've rented all needed cars from this man for the past five years, with my own credit card I might add.)  We dashed back to the house to drop off my car, switch the luggage and were back on the road by 6:30pm. We arrived at my in-law's home a little after 9pm. It took us eight hours to make a two and a half hour trip. Gratefully, my mother-in-law had prepared a nice meal for us.

Jena with Jenevie California Adventure 2008

Jen was still grousing the next day when we got into the car to go to the "dentist". She was sulking in the back seat right up until we stopped in front of the Disneyland Hotel. Her eyes popped and she got a Minnie Mouse voice for a few moments, squealing her excitement. We spent the first day exploring Disneyland. She and her dad rode the rides and I found near-by shade to sit and read. I have MS and can't ride the rides but they love rides and I love reading, so it all works out. Steve developed a migraine halfway through the day but he rode all of the rides with her anyway... except Small World. He didn't think he could handle that one with a migraine.

Day two, we explored California Adventure. Day three, we shopped Downtown Disney and then drove to Huntington Beach for dinner and swimming with my in-laws. After the terrible beginning, our first family
vacation turned out to be a batch of wonderful memories. We went again the next year, but Jen keeps asking when she's getting those "braces" again.

Sidenote: Steve hates to go to the dentist so Jen suggested that I tell him he's going to Disneyland!

I hope all of your vacation adventures are filled with wonderful memories, relaxation and no stress.

For your reading pleasure, please hop on the bus and travel with ShadowsForge, the 80s British rock band as they travel the U.S. and the U.K. finding love and adventure in the series by Jena Galifany available at Whiskey Creek Press.  Three Times a Hero, Trials on Tour, and Retaking America are currently available for $2.99 each.

Cheers!
Jena

Remember when Halloween was all about the kids?

Remember before Halloween was an opportunity for grown-ups to act bad and dress in very inappropriate outfits?

I do. I remember Halloween when the big event was to wander the streets of our small town, bag out for treats. I remember huddling with other kids on the corner to compare treats. "Old man Swanson is giving popcorn balls again. Yish." "Go to the schoolteacher's house. They've got good stuff."

I remember one year, when I was about 8 or 9. The house down the street from us was always rented out. It was a 2-story Victorian, and the top story had access to the cupola, where we would occasionally see lights on at night. Cool.

So my sisters and I go up to the top-floor apartment. Kids in those days had no fear (at least, growing up in a small town, we had none). We tromped on up the stairs and knocked on the door. "Trick or treat!"

Two schoolteachers lived there. (In hindsight: were they gay? I have no idea. They were young and pretty, that's all I remember).

"Okay," one of the ladies said. "Before you get a treat, you have to do a trick."

This totally flummoxed us. We had never been asked to do a trick before. After much stammering and prompting, it was discovered that my elder sister could perform a cartwheel, which she did to much applause. My middle sister did a tap dance--to much applause.

Now it was my turn. What could I do? I had a dreadful stammering problem, so recitation was out of the question ... or was it? We had been given an assignment in school to memorize a poem. Some people tackled The Highwayman, or Paul Revere's Ride. Not me. I found one I really liked...a lot. To this day, I remember that poem.

I stepped up, clasped my hands in front of me, and said:

They walked down the lane together
The sky was studded with stars.
They reached the gate in silence.
And he lifted down the bars.
She neither smiled nor thanked him
Because she knew not how.
For he was just a farmer's boy
And she was a Jersey cow.


Then I curtsied and held out my bag.

We got a lot of loot from those schoolteachers, once they got done laughing and clapping ...

Now that's what Halloween is all about!