That is what I will call a reminder that I received about the fact that I had not written in this blog since mid-August. Coincidentally, I had been thinking about the "The Journal" over the weekend and the need to sit down and just write my thoughts. They begin to flow easily if one simply begins...
Reading some of the earlier August entries about our travels reconnected me to the Missions Sue and I had seen on our road trips. There are radically divergent views about the nature of the missions and the impact the Spanish efforts to convert the native populations had on that population. The dark view is that the Mission system was akin to a Gulag, or concentration camps for enslaved Indians, who were forcibly made to stay on the Mission property to slave away in the fields, the bakeries and in the construction gangs. The opposing view is the romantic "Old California" lifestyle as depicted in movies, books and television.....think "Zorro".
I don't know the reality, but I think it is somewhere between the two extremes. One mustn't forget that the drive to save souls was mandated by the Spanish Court. Forceable religious conversion was all too common in the world back then......in Spain, in Europe, in the spread of Islam...as was religious persecution. The Europeans saw the native population as savages and heathens....to be saved from the darkness of their ways.
Anyway, we traveled to Santa Barbara over the weekend to see an art show featuring impressionist paintings from the Armand Hammer Museum in Westwood, L.A. It was an excellent show. We walked the shops on State Street afterward. The city is a charming place and State Street is lined with unique shops and eateries. Earlier in the year we had searched out an Irish bar on the beach end of State looking for an Irish coffee. I wrote about that in the blog...if you remember.
On Sunday morning we arose early and went to the 7:30 mass at the Mission. The mass was celebrated with great formality in a beautifully restored interior. While walking the grounds after the mass we happened upon a plot of land newly planted in olive trees....all young. The stations of the cross had been set up on paths running through the grove. Spotted around the grounds were still-flowering golden poppies. I picked a few blooms and tucked them away in a book when we returned to the car.
All the missions have been restored to their present state. Many were virtually nothing more than eroded adobe walls just a few feet high. I believe the main drive to restore the missions began in the 1920's when
a great love affair with the beauty, climate and history of California began....and the romantic view of the Missions' place in California's past took root. Buried in the cemetary behind the Carmel Mission is a man who devoted almost his entire adult life to the restoration of that Mission. One can see his advance in age documented in the many photographs of the restoration efforts he led for decades. His grave is marked with a simple granite headstone no more than two feet high. I was touched deeply. His body ended up resting
just feet from the stone walls he had helped to restore. There were poppies growing nearby. I would like poppies on my grave.
I must find that book. Where is it
SRH
I promise to write more often for those who care.
Wednesday, August 31, 2011
Sunday, August 14, 2011
Another "Full Moon"...
Saturday night marked another Full Moon cycle since I started this blog. I think it is the fifth full moon that has risen in the eastern sky to mark the passage of time in this journey. I have found that the memories of the last six months are so scrambled that it takes a real effort to sort them out within a timeline. I often find myself using my fingers to mark the weeks since one procedure or another. I am sure of three dates...just as I am sure of my birthday: April 12th, April 14th and May 24th. The dates stand for, respectively, the angiogram procedure, the bypass surgery, and the cancer surgery. Everything else falls somewhere before, in-between, or afterward....logically enough. The other day, upon not remembering involvement in some project at work, I joked that the lapse in memory must be a result of the anesthesia. The retort was "How long are you going to run with that excuse?" I replied..."Oh, maybe another few years." General laughter rang out....but I really wasn't involved in the project and should have had no memory of it. Actually, I am still pretty sharp.
I sent Dr. Amersi an e-mail this morning. I told her that "fate can abruptly bring people and events into our lives. It brought you." I thanked her for her kind caring and the level of expertise she brought into our lives. She responded within three hours . That is the kind of person she is.
More..........Later
SRH
I sent Dr. Amersi an e-mail this morning. I told her that "fate can abruptly bring people and events into our lives. It brought you." I thanked her for her kind caring and the level of expertise she brought into our lives. She responded within three hours . That is the kind of person she is.
More..........Later
SRH
Saturday, August 13, 2011
"It Feels Good to Feel Good..."
I think readers may wonder how I am doing physically and emotionally. I am constantly asked "How do you feel?" or "Do you feel better than you did before surgery?" by family, friends and aquiaintances. Some people ask the question gingerly, fearing the question may be too personal or the answer may be less than positive.
I can see it in their face and posture, but I understand. My answer is straightforward. Some venture further with the subject, others are easily satisfied and switch to more pressing issues. There are a few who have gone through the same gauntlet as I.....and then a more personal and deeper discussion ensues. There is a mutual recognition of that bond that exists with the other. Of course, I have the distinction of having passed through two gauntlets so I have more possibilities to "bond" than most others...too bad it isn't like poker where I can raise the stakes in the game of conversation.
One early morning, just days ago, I was walking with Sue through the streets of Carmel.... up the hills, down the hills; block after block in that charming town. I turned to her and said thoughtfully...."It feels good to feel good!"
If one counts the "miles" walked and cycled in re-hab sessions and adds the actual miles I walk out of re-hab then it isn't unusual for me to have walked six or seven miles by the end of that day. I have also started lifting
weights to restore lost muscle tone. It is all invigorating, and I now recognize that I am feeling physically better than I did prior to heart surgery. The incision is healed completely, but I still feel tingles and pressures around the scar as the internal healing continues.
My heart surgery looms larger in my mind and day-to-day activities than the cancer surgery. In fact, the cancer surgery has receded so far into my everyday thinking that I was surprised when I thought of myself as a cancer survivor. It simply hadn't occured to me to think of myself in that way. When I asked Sue if she thought of me as a cancer survivor, a flash of emotion crossed her face and she answered "yes". So I guess I am a cancer survivor. Of course, if I had to undergo some regimen of treatment, as so many others do, I would have that as a stark reminder of the of the condition.
I am fortunate.
I saw a whole new crop of cardio-rehab rookies Friday morning. It was touching to see the expressions on some of their faces....wariness, confusion, hesitency...as they took in the room full of treadmills and exercise equipment. While I sat cooling down from an exercycle session, I observed one of the new recruits, a woman in her late fifties or early sixties, being introduced to the treadmill. There was a mask of utter fear on her face. As it was, the treadmill was set to something like a quarter mile per hour and it took all the concentration she could muster to keep up. She was not enjoying the experience. I'll see if I can ease her fears when I see her next.
I am always surprised to see a woman's heart surgery scar; the "brand" as I call the dark pink incision down the breastbone. It mars her body and perhaps her pysche. My brand is almost hidden by the chesthair that has grown back. Lucky me.
It Feels Good to Feel Good...
SRH
I can see it in their face and posture, but I understand. My answer is straightforward. Some venture further with the subject, others are easily satisfied and switch to more pressing issues. There are a few who have gone through the same gauntlet as I.....and then a more personal and deeper discussion ensues. There is a mutual recognition of that bond that exists with the other. Of course, I have the distinction of having passed through two gauntlets so I have more possibilities to "bond" than most others...too bad it isn't like poker where I can raise the stakes in the game of conversation.
One early morning, just days ago, I was walking with Sue through the streets of Carmel.... up the hills, down the hills; block after block in that charming town. I turned to her and said thoughtfully...."It feels good to feel good!"
If one counts the "miles" walked and cycled in re-hab sessions and adds the actual miles I walk out of re-hab then it isn't unusual for me to have walked six or seven miles by the end of that day. I have also started lifting
weights to restore lost muscle tone. It is all invigorating, and I now recognize that I am feeling physically better than I did prior to heart surgery. The incision is healed completely, but I still feel tingles and pressures around the scar as the internal healing continues.
My heart surgery looms larger in my mind and day-to-day activities than the cancer surgery. In fact, the cancer surgery has receded so far into my everyday thinking that I was surprised when I thought of myself as a cancer survivor. It simply hadn't occured to me to think of myself in that way. When I asked Sue if she thought of me as a cancer survivor, a flash of emotion crossed her face and she answered "yes". So I guess I am a cancer survivor. Of course, if I had to undergo some regimen of treatment, as so many others do, I would have that as a stark reminder of the of the condition.
I am fortunate.
I saw a whole new crop of cardio-rehab rookies Friday morning. It was touching to see the expressions on some of their faces....wariness, confusion, hesitency...as they took in the room full of treadmills and exercise equipment. While I sat cooling down from an exercycle session, I observed one of the new recruits, a woman in her late fifties or early sixties, being introduced to the treadmill. There was a mask of utter fear on her face. As it was, the treadmill was set to something like a quarter mile per hour and it took all the concentration she could muster to keep up. She was not enjoying the experience. I'll see if I can ease her fears when I see her next.
I am always surprised to see a woman's heart surgery scar; the "brand" as I call the dark pink incision down the breastbone. It mars her body and perhaps her pysche. My brand is almost hidden by the chesthair that has grown back. Lucky me.
It Feels Good to Feel Good...
SRH
Thursday, August 11, 2011
Garden Gates
Why Do You Weep...
What Are These Tears Upon Your Face...
I saw these words carved in a stone lintel over a garden gate while on a walk in Carmel one morning. They caught me and I stopped dead in my tracks. I could not walk away without committing the lines to memory. I fumbled around for a scrap of paper and a pen and wrote them down. They have haunted me since that morning over a week ago.
What do they mean.....are they something said to comfort a child, a lover, a grieving parent, an old friend, or even oneself?
I subsequently found the source of the lines. They appear in an Elven poem written for the Lord of the Rings by Tolkien. They are beautiful in their mystery and tenderness.
The garden graced by these stone carved lines was a special place. Gardens are therapeutic and bring peace of mind, I think. A garden is a refuge.
That is why those words were carved into stone....
SRH
What Are These Tears Upon Your Face...
I saw these words carved in a stone lintel over a garden gate while on a walk in Carmel one morning. They caught me and I stopped dead in my tracks. I could not walk away without committing the lines to memory. I fumbled around for a scrap of paper and a pen and wrote them down. They have haunted me since that morning over a week ago.
What do they mean.....are they something said to comfort a child, a lover, a grieving parent, an old friend, or even oneself?
I subsequently found the source of the lines. They appear in an Elven poem written for the Lord of the Rings by Tolkien. They are beautiful in their mystery and tenderness.
The garden graced by these stone carved lines was a special place. Gardens are therapeutic and bring peace of mind, I think. A garden is a refuge.
That is why those words were carved into stone....
SRH
Tuesday, August 9, 2011
Angels....?
Do you believe in angels?
I am not quite sure what triggered the thought of angels. But I sat back and the idea of angels and peace of mind came to me. I don't mean the hovering, smiling winged angels of our Christmas cards or manger scenes. I mean invisible forces, or voices in the mind, or perhaps a stranger who affects us in some significant way...a stranger never to be seen again...leaving you wondering who it was and why were you so touched. Perhaps we have all had such an experience, or know another who has revealed an experience. I say "revealed" because what I am talking about happens on a very personal level, and not all are willing to talk about it.
When it happens, you know it. It may not be explainable....or it may be very explainable logically or circumstantially...but there is a feeling that logic is not enough, like an aftertaste of something flavorful or sweet. I think it is spiritual.
As a young boy I was told that my maternal Grandmother, while laying alone in her bed grieving the sudden death of my Grandfather, was filled with the awareness that a presence was in her darkened bedroom. A voice broke the silence and soothingly told her that Matt was alright and happy. A peace settled over her.
My father went through a traumatic experience when his business partner and he went through a very bitter and personal fight about the future of the enterprise. Dad was aging physically and his soul was withering from the anxiety and stress. My mother was supportive, but she knew that she could not make the
decision. Both felt locked in to a specific course of action that had been defined by a proposed agreement crafted by lawyers. To go forward with that decision would entail uncertainty and risk and a continued burden of responsibility. One night as my mother lay in bed beside my father praying for guidance, she heard a voice plainly tell her what they should do. It was the opposite of what everyone had expected he would do, and it was the wisest advice they had received.
And then there was the little grayhaired lady dressed in black. She had been assigned a seat next to me on a flight back to the east coast. She wore a small black hat over hair tied back in a bun, and a long black dress that fell just below her knees. Her shoes were black and practical. It was like she was from another era. I didn't pay much attention to her at first. I was preoccupied with business worries and the objectives of the trip to a our new customer. We had been in business for only five years or so and I would often lay awake long into the night or wake up very early and worry about deliveries and cash flow. Anyway, we struck up a casual conversation, though I really did not want to chat. In time we were discussing the business, my worries, what I wanted to do, what she wanted to do, and any number of topics. Her observations and comments were wise. I don't remember her words, but we discussed life and what was important in life. What I remember is that a pervading sense of peace swept through me. And from that time forward I have
found it easier to face the ups and downs of existence with a sense of equanimity.
Upon landing she left the plane, little black suitcase in hand. I looked for her in the terminal (she couldn't have been more than thirty or forty feet ahead of me) but she had vanished. I wanted to thank her......
I think she was some kind of angel. She was a very special one, too.
SRH
I am not quite sure what triggered the thought of angels. But I sat back and the idea of angels and peace of mind came to me. I don't mean the hovering, smiling winged angels of our Christmas cards or manger scenes. I mean invisible forces, or voices in the mind, or perhaps a stranger who affects us in some significant way...a stranger never to be seen again...leaving you wondering who it was and why were you so touched. Perhaps we have all had such an experience, or know another who has revealed an experience. I say "revealed" because what I am talking about happens on a very personal level, and not all are willing to talk about it.
When it happens, you know it. It may not be explainable....or it may be very explainable logically or circumstantially...but there is a feeling that logic is not enough, like an aftertaste of something flavorful or sweet. I think it is spiritual.
As a young boy I was told that my maternal Grandmother, while laying alone in her bed grieving the sudden death of my Grandfather, was filled with the awareness that a presence was in her darkened bedroom. A voice broke the silence and soothingly told her that Matt was alright and happy. A peace settled over her.
My father went through a traumatic experience when his business partner and he went through a very bitter and personal fight about the future of the enterprise. Dad was aging physically and his soul was withering from the anxiety and stress. My mother was supportive, but she knew that she could not make the
decision. Both felt locked in to a specific course of action that had been defined by a proposed agreement crafted by lawyers. To go forward with that decision would entail uncertainty and risk and a continued burden of responsibility. One night as my mother lay in bed beside my father praying for guidance, she heard a voice plainly tell her what they should do. It was the opposite of what everyone had expected he would do, and it was the wisest advice they had received.
And then there was the little grayhaired lady dressed in black. She had been assigned a seat next to me on a flight back to the east coast. She wore a small black hat over hair tied back in a bun, and a long black dress that fell just below her knees. Her shoes were black and practical. It was like she was from another era. I didn't pay much attention to her at first. I was preoccupied with business worries and the objectives of the trip to a our new customer. We had been in business for only five years or so and I would often lay awake long into the night or wake up very early and worry about deliveries and cash flow. Anyway, we struck up a casual conversation, though I really did not want to chat. In time we were discussing the business, my worries, what I wanted to do, what she wanted to do, and any number of topics. Her observations and comments were wise. I don't remember her words, but we discussed life and what was important in life. What I remember is that a pervading sense of peace swept through me. And from that time forward I have
found it easier to face the ups and downs of existence with a sense of equanimity.
Upon landing she left the plane, little black suitcase in hand. I looked for her in the terminal (she couldn't have been more than thirty or forty feet ahead of me) but she had vanished. I wanted to thank her......
I think she was some kind of angel. She was a very special one, too.
SRH
Sunday, August 7, 2011
The Bones of the Earth.....
Started Saturday, Aug. 6th
I am still possessed, though having returned home earlier this afternoon, by the beauty of the Central Coast of California . The experience of this region is not one that is conveniently tucked away and put out of mind. It stays with you and only gradually fades as life's immediate demands once again rudely shoulder it aside and push to the forefront of the mind. But the memories are not entirely displaced. I don't think they can be......they are like a dream that leaves a lasting imprint on our waking hours.
We left early last Sunday morning with no defined travel agenda, other than visit as many Missions as practical and make "landfall" in Carmel by late afternoon to check in at the Hotel La Playa. After breakfast in Santa Barbara, we went over the San Marcos Pass, past Lake Cachuma, and into the Santa Ynez Valley.
Taking some backroads past Los Olivos we entered the flow of traffic heading north on Hwy 101. North of Santa Maria we pulled off the freeway to visit Mission San Miguel Arcangel, a modest structure, under some restoration, but peaceful and sunbaked. Our eventual destination on 101 was Greenfield where an obscure road that traversed the coastal mountains to Carmel Valley originated. I had taken that road many years ago and found it challenging. It coursed through beautiful hills and valleys.....true backcountry sparsely settled. However the road was not marked in any manner along 101 and we found ourselves backtracking to Greenfield looking for it, finally parking and going into a 7/Eleven for directions.
Greenfield is in a parallel world to ours. It is entirely Mexican. I saw about four other gringo's, all passing through, while I was in the town. Then it struck me that essentially the town of San Miguel, site of the mission bearing the same name, was Mexican. Then I remembered on an earlier trip that the town of Guadalupe was also entirely Mexican. I am sure there are many more such places in California. These towns are where the labor force that tends and harvests the crops we consume lives when not working in the fields. The towns and the people who live in them are largely invisible to the general public passing by on the highways. It was as if we had happened upon a camp of gypsies, so foreign was the feel of the place. Hwy 101 was no more than several hundred yards away from the main street, but it might just as well have been in another dimension.
The 7/Eleven clerk looked up from his last transaction and was a bit surprised to see an "Anglo" standing before him. He looked uncomfortable, but gave directions in broken English and took the money for my bottle of water. The road was two blocks down the street, still unmarked..... we turned and drove into the West toward Carmel. Once out of the valley flatlands and across an old steel bridge spanning a river gorge we climbed rapidly into a world of rugged beauty...oak studded hills the color of straw and valleys green with sycamores, willows and twisted, ancient white oaks adorned with dripping tendrils of spanish moss.
Past memories of this road included a tight curve ascending seemingly into the blue and a lone live oak rising to the right, silhouetted against the sky. It was if it were a paved path to heaven for it took the breath away with the expectation that there was nothing beyond the horizon. That same curve and the oak tree is still there and they measured up to the memory, confirming that it wasn't a fantasy. I last saw that scene almost thirty years ago, perhaps more.
That stretch of road marked the crest of the coastal mountains and the descent into the Carmel Valley began.
It is out of this valley that the Carmel River begins its run to the sea. Higher up the stream is narrow and tumbles through banks covered with oak, sycamore and willow. Poison oak seems to be the predominant understory so there was no straying from the road to streamside when we stopped for a stretch. About a quarter mile of the road and adjoining stream was a preserve for a species of newt that was peculiar to the area. We had a good laugh at a message posted on the roadside trees....."Watch for newts crossing the road in damp weather".
Carmel-by-the-Sea, for that is the correct name of that special village set among cypress and pines, touches the soul of all who have visited the town. Memories are made there, memories that stay with one for a lifetime. Every visit is memorable. Every visit is too short. Every parting is reluctant and regretted.
I think twenty years have passed since we last saw Carmel. The boys were very young, but old enought to travel. Upon first look it has not changed much. There are more stores selling $20,000 wristwatches than I remember, and there seems to be many more galleries. It is out in the residential neighborhoods that one can see subtle changes. Many of the original cottages built in the twenties and thirties have been leveled and new homes erected in their place. Most of these newer homes are done in good taste and replicate the old "stone and wood" rustic look demanded by the environment and the planning commission. A large number of homes were on the market and priced in the millions of dollars. The closer to shore, the higher the asking price.
It wasn't unusual to see homes posted with four to seven million dollar price tags.
Within sight of the Carmel beach is a promontory jutting out into the sea and forming the protective southern arm of Carmel Bay. It is called Point Lobos and it is a preserve. It is here where the crashing surf breaks
against the towering rock of the bluffs. They are like ramparts manned by cypress and pine standing sentinel against the wind and waves that eternally assault the lower walls.
I liken these dramatic rocky cliffs to bones projecting through the thin veneer of life that sits atop them. The bones of the earth reminding us that we are small and shortlived. Walking along the water's edge of a small cove I could see the eroded stone strata turned vertically and exposed like so many ribs after the waters had eroded the softer layers of stone between the harder. The ocean surged back and forth through a small slot and revealed a section of rock that had been worn to a knob.......the pattern of erosion determined by the shape of the knob, ironically.
Whatever footprints I left behind were gone in hours, washed away by the tide.
"...and a lone live oak rising to the right..."
"...oak studded hills the color of straw..."
SRH
I am still possessed, though having returned home earlier this afternoon, by the beauty of the Central Coast of California . The experience of this region is not one that is conveniently tucked away and put out of mind. It stays with you and only gradually fades as life's immediate demands once again rudely shoulder it aside and push to the forefront of the mind. But the memories are not entirely displaced. I don't think they can be......they are like a dream that leaves a lasting imprint on our waking hours.
We left early last Sunday morning with no defined travel agenda, other than visit as many Missions as practical and make "landfall" in Carmel by late afternoon to check in at the Hotel La Playa. After breakfast in Santa Barbara, we went over the San Marcos Pass, past Lake Cachuma, and into the Santa Ynez Valley.
Taking some backroads past Los Olivos we entered the flow of traffic heading north on Hwy 101. North of Santa Maria we pulled off the freeway to visit Mission San Miguel Arcangel, a modest structure, under some restoration, but peaceful and sunbaked. Our eventual destination on 101 was Greenfield where an obscure road that traversed the coastal mountains to Carmel Valley originated. I had taken that road many years ago and found it challenging. It coursed through beautiful hills and valleys.....true backcountry sparsely settled. However the road was not marked in any manner along 101 and we found ourselves backtracking to Greenfield looking for it, finally parking and going into a 7/Eleven for directions.
Greenfield is in a parallel world to ours. It is entirely Mexican. I saw about four other gringo's, all passing through, while I was in the town. Then it struck me that essentially the town of San Miguel, site of the mission bearing the same name, was Mexican. Then I remembered on an earlier trip that the town of Guadalupe was also entirely Mexican. I am sure there are many more such places in California. These towns are where the labor force that tends and harvests the crops we consume lives when not working in the fields. The towns and the people who live in them are largely invisible to the general public passing by on the highways. It was as if we had happened upon a camp of gypsies, so foreign was the feel of the place. Hwy 101 was no more than several hundred yards away from the main street, but it might just as well have been in another dimension.
The 7/Eleven clerk looked up from his last transaction and was a bit surprised to see an "Anglo" standing before him. He looked uncomfortable, but gave directions in broken English and took the money for my bottle of water. The road was two blocks down the street, still unmarked..... we turned and drove into the West toward Carmel. Once out of the valley flatlands and across an old steel bridge spanning a river gorge we climbed rapidly into a world of rugged beauty...oak studded hills the color of straw and valleys green with sycamores, willows and twisted, ancient white oaks adorned with dripping tendrils of spanish moss.
Past memories of this road included a tight curve ascending seemingly into the blue and a lone live oak rising to the right, silhouetted against the sky. It was if it were a paved path to heaven for it took the breath away with the expectation that there was nothing beyond the horizon. That same curve and the oak tree is still there and they measured up to the memory, confirming that it wasn't a fantasy. I last saw that scene almost thirty years ago, perhaps more.
That stretch of road marked the crest of the coastal mountains and the descent into the Carmel Valley began.
It is out of this valley that the Carmel River begins its run to the sea. Higher up the stream is narrow and tumbles through banks covered with oak, sycamore and willow. Poison oak seems to be the predominant understory so there was no straying from the road to streamside when we stopped for a stretch. About a quarter mile of the road and adjoining stream was a preserve for a species of newt that was peculiar to the area. We had a good laugh at a message posted on the roadside trees....."Watch for newts crossing the road in damp weather".
Carmel-by-the-Sea, for that is the correct name of that special village set among cypress and pines, touches the soul of all who have visited the town. Memories are made there, memories that stay with one for a lifetime. Every visit is memorable. Every visit is too short. Every parting is reluctant and regretted.
I think twenty years have passed since we last saw Carmel. The boys were very young, but old enought to travel. Upon first look it has not changed much. There are more stores selling $20,000 wristwatches than I remember, and there seems to be many more galleries. It is out in the residential neighborhoods that one can see subtle changes. Many of the original cottages built in the twenties and thirties have been leveled and new homes erected in their place. Most of these newer homes are done in good taste and replicate the old "stone and wood" rustic look demanded by the environment and the planning commission. A large number of homes were on the market and priced in the millions of dollars. The closer to shore, the higher the asking price.
It wasn't unusual to see homes posted with four to seven million dollar price tags.
Within sight of the Carmel beach is a promontory jutting out into the sea and forming the protective southern arm of Carmel Bay. It is called Point Lobos and it is a preserve. It is here where the crashing surf breaksagainst the towering rock of the bluffs. They are like ramparts manned by cypress and pine standing sentinel against the wind and waves that eternally assault the lower walls.
I liken these dramatic rocky cliffs to bones projecting through the thin veneer of life that sits atop them. The bones of the earth reminding us that we are small and shortlived. Walking along the water's edge of a small cove I could see the eroded stone strata turned vertically and exposed like so many ribs after the waters had eroded the softer layers of stone between the harder. The ocean surged back and forth through a small slot and revealed a section of rock that had been worn to a knob.......the pattern of erosion determined by the shape of the knob, ironically.
Whatever footprints I left behind were gone in hours, washed away by the tide.
"...and a lone live oak rising to the right..."
"...oak studded hills the color of straw..."
SRH
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