Home for the Holidays

Home for the Holidays

December 26 - 28

Pine Mountain, CA

A week after graduation, I moved out of my apartment in Fort Worth.  With a full load on my Tacoma, I drove the 700 miles to Nashville.  The timing of my move could have been better; it poured rain all day, which required full waterproofing of the bed of my truck and slow speeds on the highway.  By nightfall, visibility was so low that I was driving 40 mph on the highway with 18-wheelers passing me at 70 mph. I opted to park under a remote overpass and let the storm pass for the night.  In the morning, I finished my drive to Nashville, put all of my belongings in storage, dried off anything that got wet at the local laundromat, and flew home to Los Angeles.  

This is what my apartment looks like in a Tacoma.  The rear springs didn't like this. 

I spent Christmas Eve and Christmas day with my family in Southern California, which was much needed quality time with my family.  The day after Christmas, I somewhat began my travels by going up to Pine Mountain, a quiet mountain village an hour and a half north of Los Angeles, and the home town of my Grandmother for the last few decades.  In this town, everyone is on a first-name basis, complete strangers wave at you and smile, and fences, if they exist, are designed to keep dogs in rather than keep neighbors out.  It’s not uncommon to take a shortcut through a friend’s backyard on the way back home.  Already, my Grandmother’s quaint log cabin was a sanctuary from the concrete jungle to which I have become accustomed.  Upon arrival, she gave me a much needed tour of her home and town, both of which I have not seen for at least 15 years.  Even a quiet village like this one changes over time.  

Grandma's log cabin in the mountains (with obligatory Jeep).

Back at home, Grandma did several things to remind me she was my Grandmother.  She made a box of her signature Pizzelle cookies for a neighbor that recently moved in.  She made me a tuna salad sandwich flavored to taste like home.  She made baked pancakes (more formally named Dutch Babies) from scratch.  And she played her guitar to a song she wrote to the tune of The 12 Days of Christmas.  Grandma has been a lifelong musician, and makes music part of her everyday experience of a vivid and full life.  

Grandma, the lifelong lover of music, playing her guitar.

Grandma's home cooking: Pizzelle cookies, tuna salad, and Dutch babies.

A good friend of mine from Kenya reminded me that December 26^th was the first day of Kwanzaa, and the focus of the day is on Umoja, or Unity.  It is a day to reflect on family, community and foundations, and is celebrated by gathering together friends, family, and even strangers.  Although our family does not celebrate Kwanzaa, that night, I joined Grandma at the Pine Mountain Clubhouse, where she and several friends (who are also musicians) have a room reserved every Tuesday evening.  At these sessions, dubbed “Tuesday on the Mountain,” everyone gathers to play Celtic tunes that have been passed down by hundreds of years of tradition.  Grandma’s instrument of choice is the hammered dulcimer, and there are many other percussionist and guitarists in the band.  Although four key members couldn’t make it that night (due to other holiday plans), it was still a spectacle to watch Grandma play music with friends she has known for decades.  There is a special social dynamic when people gather to play music together; the laughter is genuine.  

Grandma playing her hammered dulcimer at the weekly "Tuesday on the Mountain" music session.

On the evening of December 27^th, four of Grandma’s friends, Terri, Mindy, Marian, and Gabby, met at her home for a writer’s workshop, where everyone shares stories and poems they have written.  I was asked to share one of mine, and we each went around the table picking a favorite for the night.  I was not surprised to find out that Grandma had managed to gather such a talented group of writers together in her small home town.  Each story carried a part of each person’s true self.  Not only were their stories and poems gripping, but each writer contributed to the betterment of each other’s talents, deepening the connection their community shares.  

Posing for photos with some of the Writer's Club.  From left to right: me, Stan, Grandma, Mindy, and Terri.

My visit concluded the next day.  I thanked Grandma for her hospitality and made my way back to my Mom’s place to make any final preparations before leaving the United States for the next two months.  

Wild deer spotted while walking through the neighborhood.

They even have valet parking up here.