Life

We've had about a week of rain here in Southern California, by which I mean, not that there's been a solid deluge for a week, but that rain has occured on seven consecutive days. The former would be possibly something of interest for most other parts of the country; the latter is something to talk about in California. I think we've gotten more rain in the last week than we did in all of last year, which is a sad commentary on the drought of last year (remember those fires on the news? There was a reason for that). As a result of the recent perceptitation the air is remarkably fresh and clear, and there is snow covering the local mountains. The ocean has also grown calm but complex in the wake of the rains. The mix of blues and greens in the water is especially vivid in the after storm air. The most magical thing about Southern California in the rain, though, is that the normally parched earth spontaneously turns a vivid spring green. This means, that on a January afternoon I can walk along a verdant bluff lined with palms enjoying a dazzling view of the great Pacific and Catalina Island to my left and a view of snow covered mountains in the distance to my right. Truly paradise.

I was able to enjoy the new green of the California landscape even more yesterday when I went up to see my brother at his college: Cal Poly Pomona. Most of Orange and L.A. counties is solid concrete stretching for miles to the sand and sea, but as you drive east toward those suburbs with exotic sounding names and plebian streets, such as Azuza and Cucamunga, you'll start to drive through more open hills leading up to the California mountains. Normally these hills are dead and brown, though I love them dearly because they speak of home to me. After the rains, however, they are an unimaginably beautiful green that springs up like magic practically overnight. So yesterday I drove up, with Strauss Waltzes and Tchaicovsky's 4th symphony on the radio, to my brother's college in Pomona, which is nestled in among these newly green hills in a very un-Los Angelian spot in L.A. county. The college has a good agriculture program, meaning that they have a farm store with wonderful fresh foods available at all times, and a large space in the front of the campus where magnificent Arabian horses run nearby a 1920's era Spanish style home on a hill. Both the horses and the house are protected as a permanent fixture of the campus by the bequest of Henry Kellog (of cereal fame) who donated the land for the school.

Set in the center of these peaceful pastoral surroundings, not far from the gracefully running horses, the laden fruit orchards, and the buzz of bees in the happy business of producing delectable fresh honey, is the abode of my young brother and his three room-mates. Anyone with any experience of what happens to a place when four guys share an apartment will know that I am not being melodramatic in the least when I say, abondon hope all ye who enter there! Mum and I went up because the kid's been really sick for the last week and we felt it our duty to offer maternal/sisterly succor, get him some food, take him to the health center etc. What began as a mission of mercy quickly was transformed into a mission of exploration and discovery as we made brave attempts to put the apartment into some kind of working order. There was the adventure of the exploding vacuum cleaner bag (apparently it never occured to young men that you have to change the bag as it gets full...though perhaps we're just grateful that there's evidence that it has been in use). There was also the fascinating discovery of the science lab in progress around the kitchen sink and counters (surely a competition among these budding engineers and scientists to see who could grow the fuzziest and hardiest mold speciman). There were more interesting discoveries such as the desiccated dozen red roses under the living room couch, apparently destined for one roomy's girlfriend, but lamentably forgotten until I discovered them. The most remarkable find of the afternoon, however, was the box of 100 baby diapers and the collapsing playpen in the hall closet, which apparently were both there when the guys moved in, and were simply left ignored. So now we have these four single guys storing their six-packs of Budweiser next to a huge box of baby diapers and a Winnie the Pooh Play Pen. And what was the reaction when we pointed out that there were diapers in the coat closet and mold under the dishrack? Did they shriek and recoil and utter exclamations of astonishment like the blind who had miraculously been afforded the power of sight? Did they say, wow thanks for scrubbing that stuff and saving us from certain death by toxic mold poisoning? No, they shrugged and said, "whatever" and wanted to make sure I hadn't thrown out a moldy plastic water bottle sitting on the counter which was supposedly perfectly good. I now have a hypothesis that young men are sensory deficient in some fascinating and selective way that enables them to take in every detail of virtual video game surroundings, while being largely legally blind with regard to their actual surroundings. Of course, my brother has a hypothesis that sisters and mothers are both gifted and cursed with unnaturally detailed perceptive senses when it comes to the home environment, which in turn leads to an unusual attention to apparently random detail. All depends on point of view.