Old Postcard Wednesday--Weaverville, California, in the "Trinity Alps"

(If you have arrived looking for my Mag 80 it follows this OPW post...or click it. )

I was going to scan a postcard of the rugged Pacific Ocean coastline this week, as my husband and I will be at the Oregon coast on Thursday to celebrate our 16th anniversary. Because I am tired right now my thought was to post this card of the ocean and a simple Zen poem or haiku about the sea. The site I chose has numerous poems in that genre but I wasn't finding anything about the ocean as I scrolled. Then my eyes landed on the poem below (that has absolutely nothing to do with the ocean) and I felt it was a little message from my mother to post instead the Weaverville postcard that was right behind the Pacific Ocean card in my grandmother's card box.

My grandmother waited out the Great Depression up in Trinity Canyon with my mother (who was just out of high school) and my aunt (then a little girl) on some property owned by one of my uncles. They called it "the ranch," but the house was really a shack with an outhouse down the path. My mother nearly lost her mind at first, having come from Santa Monica, California, where they left all friends behind, and perhaps would have if not for trips on the winding road down to Weaverville. There they bought necessities not grown in their garden at "the ranch," and found a semblance of a social life through the Grange nearby. She grew to love Trinity County, where Trinity Canyon in the "Trinity Alps" and Weaverville gave her a hardy outlook on life that included her survival instinct and deep respect for forested mountain areas.

In October 2009 I posted a different Weaverville postcard and told my favorite story of my mother's Trinity County experience that includes the wonderful song Red River Valley. You can find it here. And, after the death of my aunt in 2008, I wrote a post about her life, including more on the years spent at Trinity County. That post has a photo of my mother and my aunt on a hike in Trinity Canyon, and I have decided to post it again here as an introduction to the poem about Trinity Canyon.

Trinity Canyon by Mike Garafalo

Shivering rafters
pull to shore–
the river moves on.

One by one
jumping into the deep pool–
a swinging rope.

Honking horns
echo down the canyon walls–
falling rain.

zig-zag walk
along the rocky riverside–
falling pine needle

I'm sitting, still.
The chanting canyon stream
is moving mountains.


While doing research about Trinity County and Weaverville, my eyes quickly scanning the search lists, I saw two words that really made me take a deep sigh: Lost Horizon. As that 1937 film about finding the mythical Shangri-La was my mother's favorite movie of all time (I am not kidding here, it really did just come tripping into my search), I will simply post the article that a Weaverville realtor shares on her website...and will wish you all a wonderful Wednesday and a terrific Thursday.

Incidentally, my mother would have gone absolutely nuts over this article but it was published four years after her death....

Unassuming Shrangri-La in Trinity Alps Weaveville blends mystic East, Old West in Gold Rush alchemy
- John Flinn, SF Chronicle Staff Writer, Sunday, August 1, 2004

Weaverville (Trinity County) -- In 1941, James Hilton, the British author of "Lost Horizon," was on a lecture tour of the United States. Inevitable, a reporter asked him: In all your wanderings, what's the closest you've found to a real-life Shrangri-La?
 
"A little town in northern California," the writer responded, presumably with a wistful, far-away look in his eye. "A little town called Weaverville."

I thought the comparison was pushing it a bit, but I started to wonder as I drove into this pretty alpine hamlet, which is cradled by snow-tipped peaks, and found a weathered string of Tibetan Buddhist prayer flags flapping along the main street. Then a pair of saffron-robed Buddhist monks, from the nearby Chagdud Gompa, came strolling out of a natural food store.

Maybe Hilton was on to something after all.

For most visitors, though, Weaverville's chief lures are that it's a wonderfully preserved Gold Rush town and gateway to the exquisite Trinity Alps, a miniature Sierra Nevada between Redding and Eureka.

Its Old West downtown has changed hardly at all since Hilton's visit, although a new conglomeration of strip malls and fast-food outlets is metastasizing a mile to the east along Highway 299.

In the red-brick downtown, the swinging doors of saloons still open onto wood-plank sidewalks, locust trees still line Main Street, and white metal staircases still spiral upward to wrought-iron balconies. . . .

Downtown's most intriguing feature -- and something that contributes to the Shangri-La aura -- is the Taoist Joss House, the oldest Chinese temple in continuous use in the state. It was originally built in the 1850's, when Weaverville had a sizable Chinese population from Guangdong Province, with their own stores, barbershops, theaters and gambling houses. The temple was rebuilt in 1874 after a fire and hasn't changed much in appearance since then. It's now a state park. . .

Rising straight above town are the Trinity Alps, a compact and inviting mountain range filled with soaring pine forests, frothing streams, turquoise lands and castle-like granite peaks, some sporting tiny glaciers. The summits aren't nearly as lofty as the Sierra Nevada -- the highest, Thompson Peak, tops out at a mere 9,002 feet -- but because of the range's northerly latitude, its timberline high country begins at an easy-to-breathe altitude of 6,000 feet.

The Trinities are a renowned fly-fishing venue, and popular backpacking trails such as Canyon Creek get a lot of traffic on summer weekends, but it doesn't take much effort to carve out a little piece for yourself.

At the edge of town, I turned onto a dirt road that switch-backed up the side of a mountain for 9 somewhat jouncy miles -- it was fine in an all - wheel-drive Subaru Outback, and I'm told that, with a little care, normal passenger cars can make it -- to a fire lookout with 360-degree, king-of-the world views.

From a nearby turnout, I set out with my dog Tucker on a hiking trail that angled up to a little notch on a ridge and then descended sharply to a rocky amphitheater containing East Weaver Lake. Ringed with wildflowers and craggy buttresses, it was an unbeatable spot for a leisurely picnic, a long swim (Tucker)  and a siesta on  a sun-warmed granite slab (me). At an alpine lake this easy to reach in the Sierra, I would have had to elbow my way through a mob of hikers just to reach the shore. In the Trinity Alps, Tucker and I had it all to ourselves.

Back in town, I bought an ice cream and went for a stroll through the town's leafy back streets, past tidy old miner's cottages, a few of them festooned with strings of sun-bleached prayer flags. I wondered about a former colleague who had retired here years ago. Weaverville, I decided, would be a pretty great place to grow old -- or perhaps to not grow old at all.


John Flinn, San Francisco Chronicle Staff Writer
Sunday, August 1, 2004

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More about the movie Lost Horizon at imdb.

This post describes yet another in my growing collection of ICMs (Ironies and Cosmic Messages).
Others: here, and here, and here.

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I receive an ICM from my mother the night after Mother's Day

flame by Lisa KC

    A counted number of pulses only is given to us of a variegated aromatic life. How may we see in them all that is to be seen in them by the finest senses? How can we pass most swiftly from point to point and be present always at the focus where the greatest number of vital forces unite in their purest energy?
    To burn always with this hard gem-like flame, to maintain this ecstasy, is success in life.

~Walter Pater* (1839-1894)

After Michael had gone to bed Monday night I fell sound asleep while watching TV with Feather and Willow stretched out in my lap, the three of us there in the recliner that was once my mother's recliner, the one I was sleeping on beside her bed the morning that she died.

A gentle stroke drew across my right cheekbone up to my temple hairline to waken me. Drowsy and dazed from being out cold, with the local news jabbering in front of me, I knew that I had just been touched so lovingly. In seconds I began to discount it, then a wash of comfort reclaimed the moment and I figured it must have been my mother's touch.

I later selected from my bookshelf a vintage book (so old there is no copyright date - only noted as DONOHUE, HENNEBERRY & CO., 407-425 DEARBORN STREET, CHICAGO) that belonged to my mother's mother. From the pages of The Pleasures of Life, by Sir John Lubbock, Bart., M.P., the above quote demanded my attention.

Chalk up the happenings of the last few hours as being among those ICMs (Ironies and Cosmic Messages) I have written about receiving in the past. They come unbidden, and almost always when I am most in need of compassion.




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*Several online sources, including this one, indicate a one-word difference in the first sentence of the quote. They say, ". . . variegated, dramatic life" instead of  " . . . "variegated, aromatic life."  I chose to use exactly what was in front of me in the pages of the book cited.

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Old Postcard Wednesday--Irish Brigade Monument, Father Corby Statue, Gettysburg, PA--combined this week with Songs My Mother Taught Me . . . How Are Things in Glocca Morra

Glocca Morra is a fictional Irish village that seems very real in the play and movie, Finian's Rainbow. The Battle of Gettysburg in the Civil War was all too real, the horror of which we might only wish was fictional.

Gettysburg has never been high on my list of U.S. sites to visit, but after looking at this antique souvenir booklet of postcards from Gettysburg kept by my grandmother I realize that I would want to see it if I was traveling anywhere near its vicinity. This postcard from the booklet seemed to beg to be selected for posting in conjunction with one of the songs my mother taught me: How Are Things in Glocca Morra. The song always puts a lump in my throat, and even more so when I think of young Irish-American soldiers fighting at Gettysburg and possibly dying with images of Ireland as last thoughts in this life.

The best birthday I had as a kid was when I turned ten years old. My mother told me to invite school friends -- I think there were eight girls -- for my special party. She then clued their mothers in on the festivities, but it was kept a surprise from my friends and me until we arrived at the University of Nevada theater to see a stage production of Finian's Rainbow. It was so marvelous, like being in a dream I never wanted to end. I thought How Are Things in Glocca Morra was the most beautiful song about the most beautiful place I'd ever imagined. It was sheer excitement for a group of girls, and was topped off afterward when we went to Harold's Club, where my mother had reservations in the 3rd floor restaurant that allowed children accompanied by adults (rules were more stringent then than in casinos now). Harold's Club had the best bakery in town and it made the most delectable banana nut cake. That's what I remember eating, although lunch preceded cake. Years later, when I was a student at the University of Nevada, I had a part time job in a local savings and loan that had a practice of providing a cake each month to celebrate the birthdays of all employees born that month. I was in charge of getting the cakes from Harold's Club bakery, then still considered supreme for fine cakes. Can you guess what kind of cake I ordered when my birthday month came around?

As the luck of the Irish would have it I discovered, while working on this post late Tuesday night, that the first Broadway revival of Finian's Rainbow is set to open Thursday.....as in the day following this Old Postcard Wednesday! The production website -- finiansonbroadway -- is exciting, with video previews. I also enjoyed an introspective essay about the show at Daily Kos, in part:

"Look to the Rainbow," the return of Finian

I rarely get a chance to go to Broadway shows anymore, but am planning to schlep into NYC, and stand in line for tickets to see the first Broadway revival of Finian's Rainbow, a musical that debuted in 1947, the year I was born.

The Irish Examiner has an interesting review of the show, scheduled to open on October 29th at the Saint James, which speaks pointedly to why the show hasn't graced the main stage in 63 years, even though it produced songs that have since become standards, like "Old Devil Moon", "How Are Things in Glocca Morra," and "Look to the Rainbow?" . . .

I had written the majority of this post Tuesday afternoon, describing the selection for the postcard this week, my tenth birthday party, etc., and then spent the evening with Michael before returning to finish it late at night. Discovering that the revival of Finian's is opening this week, and this occurring on the anniversary of my mother's death, is one of those ICM's (Ironies/Cosmic Messages) I wrote about in an earlier post that relate to her. ICM's are random and magical occurences that have comforted and amused me since my mom's passing, especially in the month between her birthday and death.

Now I'm finishing this post feeling ........ comforted and amused!







HOW ARE THINGS IN GLOCCA MORRA - lyrics
From Finian's Rainbow
(Words by E.Y. Harburg / Music by Burton Lane)


I hear a bird, Londonderry bird,
It well may be he's bringing me a cheering word.
I hear a breeze, a River Shanon breeze,
It well may be it's followed me across the seas.
Then tell me please:

How are things in Glocca Morra?
Is that little brook still leaping there?
Does it still run down to Donny cove?
Through Killybegs, Kilkerry and Kildare?

How are things in Glocca Mora?
Is that willow tree still weeping there?
Does that lassie with the twinklin' eye
Come smilin' by and does she walk away,

Sad and dreamy there not to see me there?
So I ask each weepin' willow and each brook along the way,
And each lass that comes a-sighin" Too ra lay
How are things in Glocca Morra this fine day?




I also love the version by fleetingdays on his "Italian 1970's Pearlized "White" Gem (Quad reed) Chemnitzer Concertina Solo."  *Click* to hear the sweet sounds.

{This is the 13th in an undetermined number of songs my mother taught me I'm posting this month in her memory. For background, please visit the post containing the first song, Ivory Tower.} 

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La Boheme on my mother's birthday

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• photo of "the young and vibrant cast" of Portland Opera's production of La Boheme.
  

• interview with cast members by sponsoring radio station kink.fm - OPERA You Can LOVE!

Portland Opera's la Boheme  

Hold on to your heart!

A wondrous young love blossoms in the bohemian world of 1830s Paris.

It all begins with Mimi's gentle voice at the door. Might she have a light for her candle? And that one small light ignites opera's most touching and poignant love story.

From the moment Rodolfo stares into her eyes and Puccini's violins slowly rise from the quiet, an extraordinary journey begins. For them. And for us. With their first tender kiss, we're swept back to the miraculous time of our own first love.

One of the most romantic operas ever composed! Soaring, lyrical, and intensely emotional.

Sung in Italian with English translations projected above the stage.

- overview from Portland Opera website

I am so excited that we will be at the 2:00 p.m. production of La Boheme in Portland today. Mike and I attended Portland Opera's February 2001 production of this opera, just four months after my mothers death. We had been season ticket-holders for five years and had worked our way down to the center orchestra section by 2001, so close it was almost like being on stage. When, amongst the snowy scenery in Act III, there was a white bust of a woman in the foreground setting that looked so much like my mother that Mike and I gasped together as the curtains parted, it became a wondrous connection with her.

After my mother's death in October 2000 I experienced a random and magical series of occurences that I called ICMs (Ironies and Cosmic Messages) when describing them to Mike, in my journal, in letters to my sister. The bust on stage at La Boheme in 2001 was one of those.

We let our Portland Opera season tickets lapse in 2003. The money needed to go elsewhere and I ceased using charge cards for entertainment. But oh how I have missed the opera. Listening to it on the radio and on CDs is nice, but doesn't come close to being in the audience. Determined to attend at least one opera in the 2009-10 season, I was thrilled to see that the new production of La Boheme was scheduled on my mother's birthday (one of those ICMs as the anniversary of her death also approaches) - and I got us great Box Seat tickets, cash not credit, so all seems right with the world.

Massenet feels it as a Frenchman, with powder and minuets. I shall feel it as an Italian, with desperate passion.

-- Puccini, quoted in M Carner, Puccini (1974)

candle photo via tinypic

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