Day 95: The Last Light

Shelter in Place, San Francisco, California

When all is said and done, I cannot complain. We have it pretty good. Lingering over a glass of wine a few night ago, after a delicious meal of fried night smelt right off the boat, a bright and crunchy cucumber and snap pea salad, and just a spoonful of lemon sorbet, I looked over John’s shoulder in time to see the last of the evening sun hit the huge yucca flowers in our neighbors’ yard. The blossoms are two months old and faded now - almost forgotten - but for just a moment, they stole the only sunlight left and turned themselves to gold. From somewhere beyond that stand of trees came a chorus of hoots and shouts and banging pots. 8:00. Time to remember how lucky we are to be here safe and sound.

I have had the good fortune to spend two Solstice nights in northern cities that know how to celebrate the longest day of the year: Leningrad, in 1990, where we saluted the orange half-light with Victor’s vodka, cool and plentiful, until the sun began to rise again; and Paris in 1993, a generous, beautiful city that hires musicians of every stripe to entertain the citizenry on various corners and beneath my window until well past my tired, working bedtime. They even provide a map. I wonder if there will be music there tonight.

A headline this morning said that due to the virus, the Solstice at Stonehenge has been cancelled. Further reading confirmed they meant the human celebration, not the light. I suppose if you tune in to the live stream - yes, they actually have one - you’ll have to focus your attention not on the ceremony this year, but on the light, the glorious, lingering light.

(This one is for my mother who always noticed and delighted in the evening light, and remembered without fail how lucky she was to be alive)

Happy Solstice.

Day 94: In the Company of Cats

Shelter in Place, San Francisco, California

June 19, 2020: In the Company of Cats

We have a number of cats that feel free to roam our garden, not often at the same time. For the most part, they show little interest in us. In fact, they tend to leap over the fence when we appear. We’re grateful that the sum of them keep down the mice population, and sad that they’re probably responsible for the increasingly noticeable dearth of birds. You can’t have everything, I suppose. 

This little girl was particularly skittish when she first visited the garden. Slowly, she began to approach us gingerly, sometimes even rubbing tentatively against our legs, but leaping away as soon as we reached down to check her bright pink collar. After a few months, she made herself a little nest under the barbecue coverlet on the deck, and waited for us to come outside; then she’d scamper ahead of us down the stairs to the garden, always just out of reach. Since the pandemic, however, the cat seems more aggressively affectionate. She never wants to come inside, nor does she appear to be hungry, but she’ll come as far as the door to check on us, and when we’re out, she follows us around, mewing all the while. Many mornings, the cat is already in the garden chair when I go down, or she comes from under a shaded bush or fern to greet me, her back arched, begging for a rub. in fact, she now seems desperate for affection, and climbs eagerly into my lap. What a change! I’m grateful. I don’t really want a full-time cat, but I find it very soothing to have a borrowed one that seems to need some physical contact just as much as I do these disjointed days. Is the timing a coincidence? Did something change at her owner’s house after the shelter-in-place edict to make her look for affection elsewhere? Are we out in the garden more and therefore more trustworthy? I suppose I’ll never know. But meanwhile, I’ll take the comfort and companionship she seems happy enough to share.

Yesterday, the San Francisco police captured a young mountain lion that had been wandering the near-empty downtown streets for several days - along Russian Hill, through the business district, around the Salesforce Tower (the city’s tallest building), and down the Embarcadero. A mountain lion! In a Twitter alert to city residents on Wednesday, the police said “If approached by the mountain lion make yourself appear big and shout. Remain vigilant and use caution outdoors.” How strange, and not so reassuring. We’ve all read about the foxes and coyotes that have been coming into town for several months, emboldened by the quiet streets - we’ve heard, in fact, a coyote howl in the streets nearby. But the thought of a mountain lion moving into the heart of the city and wandering around for three whole days or more unchallenged - one has to marvel at the disruptions in our own world that made it even possible for the poor thing to survive.

Day 93: Signs of Summer

Shelter in Place, San Francisco, California

Summer in San Francisco is fairly predictable and not at all like tourists expect. We are hot when the prevailing wind blows from the east, and cold when it comes off the ocean to the west. It is sunny and still in the mornings; the afternoon winds bend the trees and rattle the stove pipes. Occasionally, here on the hillside, the fog will get so thick that droplets wet the street, but there is no rain. Summer is the season of warm fleece and forest fires, dry grass and colorful perennials.

The south end of the patio - the sunny one - comes into its own this time of year, the flowers are bright and simple. This Lantana (nicknamed Luscious Marmalade) began to bloom last week. Next will come the Golden Feverfew, the pink Penstemon, the bright yellow yarrow and the purple salvia. The yellow and apricot roses are ready for a second run at blooming. The squash I planted a week ago is already coming up, but so far is only green. Most of this summer crop of flowers is hardy and long-lasting, so the tapestry behind our wooden bench will last - if well watered - through the summer months to come.

There are fewer signs outside the garden that summer is upon us and time is moving on. The light, of course, wakes us earlier each morning (at least it will for a few more days) and lingers with us over dinner. Last evening, the sound of fireworks and fire trucks surrounded and surprised us in that dusk. My goodness, can we be nearly to July? There will be no parade, no big street fairs this year, of course, but still, folks seem determined to make some noise. Most years, kids would pour into the streets right about now, giddy and free, but they’ve been out of school since March so summer simply means, I guess, there’s even less to do. Where are they going to play now that summer’s come? Not outside, it seems, not here. Home improvement projects, however, seem to be slowly getting back on track, at least we think so from the noise. Last week, it was house painters calling back and forth at a job across the street; today, a grinder drones from somewhere back behind the fence, and Spanish banter spills into the yard. Ubiquitous and annoying before the pandemic changed our world, construction sounds like progress now, a sign of hope and normal life returning. 

Little will change for us this summer, I'm afraid - nothing happening like we planned - no visits from or to the grandkids, no weekends in small cabins in the mountains or by the shore. Fourth of July parades in small towns are my very favorite events to photograph, but we’ll not venture out this year. Instead - if the weather lets us - we’ll celebrate the holiday amid the bright colors that mark this season in our yard.