Category Archives: Bodfish

French Gulch

French Gulch 3

French Gulch 3

Desert art

Desert art

Bodfish Creek

Bodfish Creek

I’ve been walking late afternoons around French Gulch, a section of Lake Isabella easily accessible from the road. The water is so low that sometimes I’m directly on the lake bed. A brisk wind causes small waves to lap at the new shoreline that is littered with small clam shells the size of dimes and quarters.

Even with minimum water the lake is beautiful. Here and there a few fishermen stand patiently with their fishing rods, ready to catch large mouth bass, and renegade catfish. An occasional boat can be seen on a far away shore, and yesterday a family was camped a few feet above the water line.

I walk briskly, up and down the sandy, dirt roads that criss-cross the gaunt  terrain, thinking about the critters that might join me at any moment-might come down f

French Gulch

French Gulch

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rom the hills for a drink and some leftovers, or minnows.In my childhood hometown, Foxburg, PA, the black bears still saunter across the defunct railroad tracks, now a bike path, to the Allegheny River.

I imagine

coyotes, or bobcats, even bandit raccoons, bewildered by the dry creeks, having to travel farther, even across the busy highway for life sustaining water. Taking a photo of a cluster of large, smooth boulders,  I halfway expect a Western rattler to emerge, yawning from its nap, from between the cracks.

I think about what I’ll say to them. The first thing I’ll do is apologize for my race -all of us homo sapiens because we have fucked the earth up and are not capable of getting along with other enough to make amends. I’ll tell them I hope I have another chance, in another life, even if it’s on a different planet, to make amends.

“Still, I will say, I am ever so grateful to have had the pleasure to see you all  alive and free in spite of sharp-shooters and greedy cattlemen, and the dumbasses who think snakes are out to get us;  that all in all its been a pretty sweet ride on the big blue ball.”

Home.

Home is where you hang your hat. Home is where they have to take you in, if you have to go there. It’s in your heart. It’s with your family….

As I type, I am in the kitchen of the Backpackers Hostel in Ensenada, Mexico. I’m drinking tea, munching on a dark chocolate Milky Way.  It occurs to me that I am capable of making myself ‘at home’ just about anywhere in the world. But, I’ve  been seven years on the road. Seven years!

A year or so ago I began to long for my own home, to make a place for me again. I want my art on the walls, mementos of my trips, photos of my family and friends, a pot of tomatoes, some herbs, a bunch of red geraniums trailing over a wall, or porch railing, the smell of laven

 Lake Isabella

Lake Isabella

Entrance to Kern Preserve

Entrance to Kern Preserve

Kern Preserve

Kern Preserve

Cabin interior

Cabin interior

Moving crew

Moving crew

Mis Amigas

Mis Amigas

The Cabin

The Cabin

Wildflowers in the front yard

Wildflowers in the front yard

der, a hammock, a clothes line, the freedom to be naked if the mood strikes, if it’s sufficiently warm out.

It never occurred to me when I sold my house that I would miss it. Then again, maybe it’s not the house I miss. I began to travel a couple of years after my son died. Maybe its him I miss. Perhaps it’s my friends: belonging, the comfort of being accepted-warts and all. It’s being around like-minded,  folks who care about each other-who care about me.

A couple of months ago I packed Margaret, my Mini, and headed across the US back to California. At present I am at Brandon’s in Venice where I lived over a decade-longer than anywhere I’ve ever lived. But, Venice is congested, and expensive, and the mountains are calling me. The music my talented friends play, beckons. The warmth of affection, solitude to write, hiking trails, laughter.

A couple of weeks ago, I was back in Tehachapi and Kernville.  Being there was easy. Being with friends is that: easy. Uncomplicated.  I’m ready for easy; knowing the language, where the post office is, biking to the bank. I’m ready to resume my soirées, St. Patrick’s day parties; ready to write more, maybe finally get the one woman show underway, the books published, to hang out with old friends, make a few new ones, to make a home for me again.