by Diana Stone
“Do you have children?”
“No, I was too busy with my horses and the business. The timing was never right, and I think I held back not wanting them with him.”
“Infidelity sucks, I’m so sorry. You’re too nice to have that happen to you.”
“Thanks, I have a lot of baggage and I’m really trying to work through it.”
“What are your plans for a career? Are you going to stay here?”
“For now I’m leading trail rides. I’m not making a lot of money, but I’m enjoying life and I’m healing. My needs are low at the moment, but this won’t last forever. I may try to integrate insurance work back into my life. I’ve been trying to figure out my wants vs my needs. I also own a house that I’m renting out to supplement my income.”
“Well Jess, you’re a strong woman, you’ll make it. You have at least one thing going for you, you’re not living in the past. You’re moving onward and looking forward.” Sounding very sad she says, “I’m living in the past and I don’t intend to come out of it. Alex was the love of my life. If someone could tell me he’s with me, I’d feel better. I don’t want to go on alone,” she tears up again.
“You may not be able to prove it, but you know his spirit is with you,” I quietly say.
“On another note, I see Nicki is happy with you here,” she strokes the sleeping cat.
Five minutes later, she shows me the cat food and cat box supplies. “I have the guest room made up, let me show you.”
The room is lovely and I can’t wait to sleep in a soft bed. I’m overjoyed after the small confines of my horse trailer’s dressing room. She also has towels, little shampoos, and lotions set out for me.
The kitchen is stocked with food, and there are a few goodies I’ll try to ration.
We lean against the wall, talking for a while longer. I see she’s looking tired after a long day. I’d better head home and let her get some sleep.
“Thanks again for staying. I’m so glad we’ve become friends,” she gives me a hug and the front door key.
I leave with a smile. What a lovely, soulfully sad love story. Is it better to have sealed yourself off emotionally like I have, or to have found the love of your life, and lost him so early?
The streets are empty, the small town has rolled up for the night. As I drive through quiet Solvang, the little twinkly lights in the shops make this seem like a fairytale village.
It’s chilly, so after a minute I turn on the heater, blowing wonderful hot air. I promise myself to keep learning and growing. I want to be happy. I have always been older than my years and a bit uptight—so I’ve been told. I’m not going backward, I’m moving on. On to a fun, bright future.
Before bed, I check on Bunny. She has finally passed some manure coated with mineral oil. It looks like her digestion is starting to work. I rake it up and hope to find more in the morning.
14
Sage Healing Remedies
Today dawns glorious. The sun is bright, but not too intense. We have puffy clouds drifting up from a storm in Mexico. I’d love some rain, but that never happens. Even with an 80% chance of rain, it would somehow never materialize. Welcome to our dry Southern California weather.
Two riders today are from Texas. I ply them with questions, and they are happy to fill me in on what Texas is really like. My only knowledge of Texas is of the old TV show with J.R. Ewing, big hair and oil money. They give me the real scoop on life in Dallas, and I set them straight on Malibu and Hollywood. It’s a lot of fun, and I’m getting paid for this!
For the second ride, we have a naturopath doctor looking for native medicinal plants. I had no idea our native sages have pain-killing properties. Jim explained to us how the Chumash Indian healers used to make concoctions to ease pain and even cured rattlesnake bites. He points out several varieties of sage plants. Then tells us we can soak black sage in water for a few days, and soak our feet in the mix. It’s good for minor pain relief. The properties absorb through the skin in your feet, but the pain doesn’t have to be in your feet to work.
White sage can be made into a tea for light pain relief. He said something about putting a leaf in your water to drink from it throughout the day. It doesn’t relieve pain since it hasn’t been broken down by the sun or a pot of hot water. It does something good for you. Darn it, I don’t recall what it does, but it isn’t addictive. It does something like clear your spirit. That doesn’t sound logical, but it sure sounds good.
The most amazing pain relief is from Artemisia californica—California sage. This is the light green, citrusy sage I see growing everywhere in the hills. He says to soak handfuls of the stems and leaves in alcohol mixed with a natural oil. After about 6 weeks, the liquid has become an elixir for amazing pain relief that rivals Vicodin, plus it doesn’t have any side effects. There is no way to patent the plant, so the big drug companies don’t spread the word.
The first thing I’ll do is collect sage to make tea. Then I’ll soak the elixir of Artemisia californica in a small jar. He says to use rubbing alcohol, but I already see a way to improve the recipe and keep it natural by using cheap vodka. I’ll also buy locally grown olive oil from the lady down the road.
I’m whispering all of this into my phone notepad as fast as I can, without disturbing everyone else who are trying to listen. Now he’s telling us about the Chumash Indian healers and their remedies. He says most of the knowledge was lost when the U.S. Army arrived sometime in the 1800s and told them to leave, or they’d be killed. When they went south to Mexico many of the remedies and secrets were lost. It’s such a shame that most of the remedies were considered demonic because they didn’t come from the Catholic Church.
Jim gives everyone his phone number and website information. I make sure to enter it in my phone for future reference. He’s passionate about educating people about the healing plants and getting the word out.
When we return from the ride, I see the mineral oil Dr. Simon pumped into Bunny has finally made its way through her intestines. What a relief. She can go back into the herd and I can stop worrying. Such stress. Horses are fragile, and I always have a low level of permanent stress, worrying about their health and well-being.
15
Cat Sitting
At last, tonight has arrived. As I let myself in Monica’s front door Nicki comes to greet me. The friendly little cat makes her house a home. She walks me to the kitchen with her tail carried high, making little hungry-cat noises. I bend down to stroke her sleek little body, then proceed to the fridge for her canned food.
On the refrigerator door is a yellow sticky-note “Look inside for dinner.” With interest, I look in the fridge for dinner… and she wasn’t kidding. She not only bakes, but she makes great looking lasagna and crusty bread, toasted with butter and garlic. My stomach growls in anticipation, I’m sick and tired of protein shakes for two meals a day.
Nicki and I sit at the kitchen table. I’m dining, and she’s watching me. She may or may not be allowed on the table, but I don’t mind, she can sit on the corner.
Each forkful of lasagna is bursting with flavor. I can taste the fresh spices instead of dried Italian seasoning from a jar, it makes a real difference. The whole wheat noodles look homemade, they have flavor and taste like real food. I know she slow cooked the sauce for hours. No one does that, except an Old Italian grandmother I once knew. I’m used to thin, boring, store-bought pasta sauce. Eating her great homemade food isn’t a good idea, it will ruin my acceptance of mediocre food. When I return home, I’ll be stuck with the bland stuff I normally eat. The lack of flavor, as well as the lack of quality and freshness will be obvious. Salt is not a seasoning, that’s what a chef says. Yet I always use it. I’m irked with myself for sliding into mediocrity, but I don’t want to take the time to create a great meal.
After dinner, I do a quick wash up, then head into the living room to melt into her deep couch with my iPad. Nicki joins me, and together we watch a British baking competition on PBS. The castle gr
ounds are British green. It’s never British green here, even after two weeks of rain. In fact, we never get two weeks of rain. The creativity and passion of the contestants makes me crave something really important in my life. I need to get passionate about something, but what?
Monica left me her online library card. It’s the greatest thing in the world. Now I can look online for books and check them out, all without leaving home. I’ll read them, then return them with a tap of my finger. All this knowledge is available without getting off her couch. I’ve checked out a several books of different types, but don’t know which one to begin first. I’ll start reading two at once and see which one grabs my attention.
The first one is about feeling better and growing again after your divorce. I think I’m coming along pretty well. I still have lapses, but I’m changing. They tell me it’s a state of mind, a feeling, and a belief.
I know I am feeling better these days. I think it has to do with changing my life. I left my old life behind. I’m listening to my soul, or my spirit, whichever one is speaking to me in the wee hours of the night. I’m meeting charismatic people with life stories that can either make me sad or make me envious. We’re each on our own journey and there isn’t a right or wrong path. I won’t kick myself anymore, because mistakes are part of the journey of life. I’d sure like to avoid problems, so I’ll tread carefully and listen more to my intuition.
Some things resonate with me, so I jot them down in my own words:
1. It is best to be single if I can’t find the right man. I don’t want to be stuck with the care and maintenance of the wrong one.
2. Don’t pretend to be someone I’m not. It will damage my essence.
3. Don’t settle for a dull life. Become passionate. I’m trying, but I’m not sure how to find my passion.
For the rest of the night, I slip into an adventure novel with an idealized husband and wife team. The couple is up to their eyebrows in danger while trying to find ancient artifacts stolen from a museum. They’re both good-looking, intelligent and talented. It’s fun and easy to slide into the story for a few hundred pages. I’d like to have their relationship. How do I find that kind of Mr. Right? I head to bed, bleary-eyed and groggy, but happy. Nicki tip-toes along with me and curls up on the bed for the night. I love having a cat to keep me company.
My eyes flutter open to the morning sun and see Nicki staring at me. “Hi, cutie.” She gives a wide yawn, then stands, expectantly. “Fine, I’ll get up.” Together we make our way to the kitchen for a quick breakfast.
“I’ll be back this evening and we can read again,” I pick her up from the sofa and cuddle her for a few moments. Then I head out for a day of riding.
* * *
It’s Sunday afternoon and it’s been a very pleasant day leading rides. I feel more relaxed than usual. I know I’m looking forward to this evening at Monica’s. I love her house and the ambience—yes that includes her cat and the dinner.
Unlocking the door to her house feels as natural as coming home. Little Nicki has already stationed herself at the door to greet me. This time, I scoop her up and carry her to the kitchen. We select the ocean fish cat food for her, and lasagna with garlic bread, for me.
Oops, I missed it last night—Monica left me a bottle of Chianti to go with dinner! It’s on the counter, but the yellow sticky note had fallen off. ‘Enjoy with your lasagna’, it advises me. I will certainly do that tonight.
I heat my large portion and carry it to the kitchen table looking out on the garden. It looks so peaceful and I especially appreciate the low maintenance aspect. Life is too complicated to work on your days off. This may be my question for this evening: How do I keep my life simple, yet fun?
The sun finally dips below the horizon and darkness slips in. It’s a peaceful darkness.
I tidy up in the kitchen, then Nicki and I proceed to the deep couch, and make ourselves comfortable. She gives herself an after-dinner wash, and I scroll through wine tasting videos. This is interesting… the orange-ish color indicates an older wine. I thought it meant it had turned. As I watch the videos I’m beginning to understand a little more. I guess it takes some of us longer. Then I search for how to make Chambord. Oh, I can do this too! You take berries and soak them in vodka for a couple of weeks.
After filling my head with knowledge, I flip to the other side of my brain and read the adventure story until after midnight. Then we head to the warm, deep mattress, sink in and drift off. Nicki stays with me all night. She’s either on a corner or by my shoulder. I miss having a cat of my own.
Morning comes all too soon, and I have to leave. “Goodbye Nicki-dear,” I again pick her up and snuggle my face into her slick well-groomed coat. She’s adorable. I’ll definitely encourage Monica to take more trips!
16
The Brew Pub
I’ve been looking forward to my date with Jack for the past few days. I’m dressed and ready to go when the phone rings, and he says he’s running late. He can’t pick me up but offers to send a car. It isn’t really a problem, I’m reasonably flexible and I don’t want to seem demanding. However, once a guy gets used to an accommodating attitude, he may expect it all the time. I tell Jack that it’s okay, I have an errand in town, and it’s a quick drive into Buellton… this time. I don’t have an errand, but I don’t want his car to pick me up, it feels too weird. Maybe I should have agreed to it. I should be open to new things, I guess.
I pull into in the full parking lot see that I’ll have to park in the back, where there’s room. Jack walks up to the truck just as I’m swinging my bare legs out of the cab. He must have been watching for me.
“I’m sorry I couldn’t pick you up, I was on a business call to France. You look lovely,” his eyes flick down to my feet and back. I’m wearing one of my summer dresses and slip on sandals. I have enough makeup on to look cute in a dark pub, but not garish in the bright daylight. “Your long hair is beautiful, you’re a real California Girl.”
“Thanks, you look good too,” I reply with a gleam, so he knows I’m not just being polite. Yes, he looks good with his 3-day beard. He’s a rugged and handsome man, not pretty, and not metrosexual. He looks a little tired, but still worthy of a second look. Wearing jeans and untucked cream-colored shirt makes him look sexy, and he has that aura of a man who commands a room.
He directs one hand toward the entrance. His other hand lightly touches my back for a few strides as he guides me toward the door.
We squeeze out to the patio with the growing crowd. He points to the table he reserved for us. We slip into our chairs and look at each other with a smile.
“I’m glad you could meet me, I’m looking forward to getting to know you better,” he says.
Again, I admire his masculinity. I must stop being attracted to his looks. Must Stop.
Why must I stop? Because being handsome and wealthy, he’ll be used to women flocking to him. I don’t want to be the 200th in line. I start to argue with myself. Give him a break, he may not be like that. He could be a nice man, raised with good values, who did well for himself in business and is nice to look at.
“You’re thinking about something?” he innocently inquires.
“Oh, nothing important.”
I quickly put on a smile. I wonder if he lives with his soon to be ex-wife. I’m a little keyed up and stressed. He really is a great catch, and I’m thrilled to be seeing him tonight.
I return to the present when a man walking past our table stops to speak with Jack. It distracts him so that gives me time to relax and unwind from days of waiting for this date.
I slouch back into my wooden chair and take a deep, soothing breath. I’m here at last. I want to absorb the atmosphere and remember this. I let my eyes pan the scene from left to right. Taking in the young crowd of nice looking people. It’s a dating scene, so the girls are dressed in cute clothes, and the men are attentive. The waiters are busy turning on the space heaters to keep the patio a pleasant temperature. Everyone is on their
best behavior. Bigger than life beer labels hang on the walls, they have the same idea as at Citronelle; but done with beer labels, instead of wine. The pub has done a great job of making their place crafty. It’s welcoming and quaint with their paintings of country scenes and brand logos.
I hope I like their beer.
Jack turns his attention back to the table. He asks what I’d like to drink, and it proceeds from there. It’s been ages since I’ve had a beer, since I don’t buy it for everyday use, nor order it in a restaurant. The server explains that if I’d like a tasting, they offer 5 little glasses of different brews. That sounds the best for me, it’s like a smorgasbord.
While the server is away, we chat about beer versus wine. He’s a wine-man but appreciates beer as well. Then we move on to that psycho-Pickett and whether he’s trying to scam the old lady. I know what I saw, he was kissy-kissy with her. His interest in her is especially questionable because he jumped on me. Jack spoke with the detectives yesterday, but they haven’t been able to find him yet. They also haven’t been able to reach Mrs. Johansen, the future victim. At least Jack agrees with my theory and he doesn’t think I’m making up an implausible story.
My beer tasting arrives with five very different beers. They range from pale ale to a darker, richer stout. First I take a sniff and then sip each one. I like the citrusy flavors. The more yeasty ones remind me of bread and aren’t my favorites. I’d really like something to pair with this—pizza would be perfect. A few minutes later the scent of pizza wafts toward us from their outdoor oven. Hey, someone else has the same idea!
Soon we’re eating slices piled with mushrooms and the works. I taste the beer again and now it tastes good. The alcohol content is low, so I’m able to drink without getting smashed. He orders another round of samples, but I don’t remember type which I like. I’m just enjoying the conversation and my evening with this amazing man.
