Caveat Emptor

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Searching for Csilla: The Library in Part 4

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an illustration in the serial story, Searching for Csilla

Once she’d confirmed that the lovely, Romanesque style red brick building two blocks down, was indeed 1229, Ezther was ready to move on.

“Wait a minute.” I scurried up the steps to read from a brass plaque bolted to the wall. “The sign says it’s the original library and it was built in 1917.”

“Oh you and your old buildings!”

Catchup on the story, Searching for Csilla

Searching for Csilla: Part 4

Did you miss any previous episodes in this serial?

Searching for Csilla: Part 1, Searching for Csilla: Part 2, Searching for Csilla: Part 3

The old mission buildings had been restored about five years before. I stopped to run my fingers over the rough walls and admire the bits of gravel and ancient straw that had been left sticking out of the plaster.

My daughter passed the time while I admired the building, checking her incoming text messages.

“Really Ezter, you ought to look at the color of this stucco. Isn’t it gorgeous? Can you imagine the people who did all this labor? I wonder what they talked about when they were working and what they thought of it when it was done.”

“Umm. We had to listen to a whole lecture on it in my class. Do you know what the population of native people was estimated at before the friends-of-the-inquisition arrived and forced the locals to build this place? And do you know how many of them died from the diseases the Spaniards introduced?”

“No. How many before and after?”

“Unh, well I forget. I learned it for the midterm, though. And if you recall, our people didn’t hold up so well in that era either.” Ezter slipped her phone back in her purse and gestured down the street. I think the numbers go up if we go that way. I’m looking for 1229.”

I took one glance back at the red tiled roofs, sent out a brief wordless message to the people who’d built them, as well as those who’d been compelled to create buildings from the monuments of Rome to the great white buildings in Washington D.C. , and followed after my daughter.

Once she’d confirmed that the lovely, Romanesque style red brick building two blocks down, was indeed 1229, Ezther was ready to move on.

“Wait a minute.” I scurried up the steps to read from a brass plaque bolted to the wall. “The sign says it’s the original library and it was built in 1917.”

“Oh you and your old buildings!”

“It’s one of your old buildings, isn’t it? Didn’t you say this is where your field trip is? It’s probably to do with the library.”

“No. It’s something about a time capsule that was buried in the yard when they built this. One of the humanities profs is opening it tomorrow. And there’s some guest coming from somewhere in Europe I think. I’m not sure.”

“If it was built in 1917 that was just a year after my great-aunt and her husband moved here from Hungary. You remember what I told you about your Grandmother and her twin? They were so close. And her sister left before things got so terrible for Jewish people during and after the war. But then Csilla died here and Grandmother survived to come later.”

“Un huh,” Ezther was clearly unimpressed. At this point in her life, her interest in history didn’t extend back much beyond how many pounds she’d pressed the day before, and how long it had been since she’d eaten apple cobbler.

I moved around the brick porch and read the rest of the plaques, using the light of my phone to pick out the letters under the dimness of the overhanging roof. I learned that the library had been built using money from one of the Carnegie grants, and that the original site had been something to do with an area called ‘Las Pilitas’.

By the time I finished reading the plaques and descended the steps, Ezther had found a flat square of grass and was doing some kind of abdominal exercises. They looked painful. There was an old walkway of colored mosaic tiles that wandered around past the steps and disappeared on the other side of an ancient growth of prickly pear cactus, that was covered in beautiful apricot and yellow buds .

The path was clearly a lot older than the library. I followed it around to the back of the building. It looked a lot like an old television show from my sixties-era childhood, called ‘Old Mission Days’.

There was a circular courtyard of terracotta pavers complete with a bubbling fountain, well stocked with algae but charming non the less. An adobe bench had been shaped out of a crumbling wall topped with more of the mosaics. The broken shards shimmered in the afternoon sun. Just as I’d been attracted to the walls of the mission, their very age made me want to touch them. I sat down on the old seat and slid a hesitant finger over the plaster, enjoying the rough texture and the warmth that rose from the old material after a day of absorbing the sun’s energy. Something swished past the fountain and a large, marmalade tom cat advanced slowly across the pavers in my direction. I wiggled one foot encouragingly

The motion raised some loose gravel that shot back under a gap in the bench and I felt a whiff of warm air rise up from underneath. There was a kind of faint snuffling sound and something rustled along beneath my seat. I’d had one or two encounters with mice that I hadn’t particularly enjoyed. I rose up quickly as the marmalade gentleman shot across the patio, his chubby cheeks aquiver with interest, and disappeared under the ledge of the stucco bench.

To Be Continued

Csilla's Story: Part 3

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Did you miss any previous episodes in this serial?

Searching for Csilla: Part 1

Searching for Csilla: Part 2

As I reached behind the art deco lamp and drew out the antique secretary box that Hilda pointed out, something inside me quivered. There was a something in this box, that was meant just for me.

The sensation reminded of a popular British mystery series my mother likes to read. The detective is an antiques dealer who has a sixth sense for the truly valuable, the one in a thousand true finds. She always feels a sudden tingling in her flesh when she touches something old that is truly unique. And of course that same little bit of e.s.p. always led her to discern who-done-it. I had tried one of the books and found myself unable to buy into the fantasy of the psychic reaction. Now my own skin was prickling.

I was sure I could feel something pulsing as I began thumbing through the old ivory edges in their plastic sleeves. The light was so dim in my corner of the shop, that I could barely make out the images of European castles, outsized pieces of fruit and scenic wonders of the western United States.

By the time I got to the very last card in the box, my hand was actually shaking. The card had fallen over onto it’s face and lay wedged against the back of the box. I’d known all along that this was it, the quest for this object had drawn me to this shop.

Was it a mistake that had positioned the card like this, I wondered? Or had some unseen presence hiding the image from a chance glance placed it there, just for me to find? Carefully, I dug the card out and, still keeping it upside down, I walked across the store to lay my find atop a red lacquer table that stood beneath an art deco skylight. Very slowly, I turned the plastic wrapped image over.

A beautiful, ribbon bedecked pig smiled up at me. So much for my spiritual quest.

“Did you find something, you liked?” Hilda was at my elbow, eyeing the red lacquered table in an appraising manner.

I picked up the card and pointed to it’s $3.95 tag. “Yes. My daughter has a collection of vintage Lucky Pig cards. She ought to like this one.”

“Oh yes? Did you look through that whole drawer? I just got that batch of cards in a few days ago. Maybe whoever brought them in was a collector as well. I’ll tell you what, you write down your name and email and I’ll keep my eyes peeled for you.”

As I followed her back to the counter I guessed that any future lucky pigs were going to cost me more than a nickel short of four bucks. Really the mystical spirit that moved me had been my daughters pig collection! Did I not have a life?

The two dealers were examining an old Raleigh bike in the front of the shop when I went up to pay for my solitary card.

“They just never believe me when I tell them I can’t pay more than forty or fifty dollars for an early twentieth century bike! It’s ninety years old and it works. Must be worth a fortune!”

“Especially since that article in the local about that Sudbo that turned up. Didn’t somebody pay ten thousand for it? Well you never know, Gail. Maybe somebody will bring us in one of those next. After all, he did build a hundred of them. There might just be another one in a shed somewhere that didn’t make it to the scrap yard.”

“Stranger things have happened. Hey, speaking of hot finds, did you hear that “County Pickers” got-“

I tuned out the two dealers fond hopes, and went on my way with my solitary pig card rattling around in it’s paper bag. Ezter had better appreciate it. I was starting to laugh at myself for putting together my fantasy discovery story. I’d wanted to see my daughter and made up an excuse to make it happen. I wondered what specials were on the menu at the Bear Valley Diner.

Over a a late lunch for me, and a very early supper for my daughter, I heard about Ezter’s three new clients at the gym. Two had asked for her by name. She had changed her major from business to sports nutrition that semester, and the new job was about all she seemed to think about, or at least it was all she was willing to tell her mother about.

I remembered the lucky pig card, midway through the apple cobbler à la mode. My daughter examined it briefly and dropped it casually in a plastic envelope in her purse. “Don’t lose it I snapped I paid $3.95 for it. When you decide to sell that prize collection of yours, in twenty years it could be worth $4.50.”

“Why are you being crabby, Mom? Bet you didn’t get enough exercise with driving down and all.” Besides, she added practically, they don’t put out the free cookies in your hotel until 4 o’clock.”

My daughter, the personal trainer was probably right. A walk after a big meal was always a good idea. And I still had that deflated feeling, as though something, but what I didn’t know, hadn’t panned out.

“Where do you want to go? Monterey?”

Monterey Street contained three of Ezter’s favorite clothing stores.

“I knew what’ll happen if we go that way. Let’s shop for you tomorrow morning before I leave. You probably need two new pairs of workout pants and at least three of those sixty dollar lace bras that last about four months.”

She wrinkled her nose but gave in.

“What about that area around the mission? I’ve got to drive down there on a field trip for my architecture class tomorrow afternoon, and I need to figure out where we’re going and if there’s parking.”

“Field trip on a Saturday?”

She shrugged. “It was the only time everybody could go. We’re not weekend slugs like when you were in college, Mom. You have no idea how much harder it is to be a student than it was when you were one.”

I kept my mouth firmly closed, having heard it before.

To be continued

We're Playing the Glad Game Once More

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to get a better idea of my response to two days of codine

With a tip of my hat to dear little Pollyanna of Edwardian fame. Remember how she appreciated those crutches in the Ladies Aid barrel, even though she badly wanted a dolly? Because her kindly father told her that she should be so glad she didn't need those crutches! Of course then he died less than a chapter later. In those days, nobody seemed to be concerned for the resulting psychoses the little darling was sure to develop by adulthood.

Just kept playing that Glad Game the last few days, even though it felt like that rock hammer my husband keeps for field work, was lodged right inside my brain. I sure do appreciate access to modern western medicine. Some other time, some other place, I would have just died from an infected tooth root. You gotta love this kind of pain, when you know it will be over after a few days.

The Gleaners

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Romancing Halloween in the High Country: That Old Chestnut

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One good thing about spending my Halloween gleaning chestnuts up at Skyline Chestnut Orchard ( just south of the southern Skyline Ridge Trail Head parking lot in the Mid-Penninsula Regional Open Space), was that it finally forced me to find out why people say "Not that old chestnut!" when somebody tells an old joke. Since I come from a family that repeats their jokes, and like to hold with this cultural tradition myself, I've had my chestnuts raked out of the fire quite a few times.

Yes, that's what's known as mixing metaphors. According to the web write-ups I found the line has to do with an old has-been actor, of the English Regency era, who overdid his storytelling. When he mixed up one of his standard stories, he was corrected by his hearers, who had heard the story so many times that they knew it involved a chestnut tree.

Another good thing was that I had an excuse to drive up to Skyline, the slow moving highway that runs along the top of the Santa Cruz Mountains on a gorgeous fall day. I should say that it's slow moving when I'm driving on it. Yeah, I did pull over whenever it was safe. And I had a few disgruntled locals shoot past me, when I couldn't find pull outs fast enough. It must be exciting to be so important that you are always in a hurry. Maybe.

And on top of that I learned the trick of twisting the chestnut burs in my hands to display (usually) three glossy nuts. If I'd only wanted a half a pound or a pound of the little beauties, I could have just scavanged for what was laying out in the debris under the trees. That was what the kids nearby were doing. They were delighted to show me how to gnaw open a nut with my teeth. I'd always had the impression you had to roast them before you'd want to eat them. Actually after trying this technique and eating them raw, I still think that. But don't tell the kids.

I spent about an hour and a half twisting open the prickly husks and plopping nuts in my container until I'd amassed nearly six pounds. Now comes the challenge of incising them, soaking them, roasting them and hulling 'em. I asked for advice from a few of the people I chatted up, as we scavanged cautiously around each other, never wanting to invade each others patches, but enjoying the company. A couple of people I talked to are regulars, each has their own techniques for removing the woody hulls and ideas for cooking them that had never occurred to me. A woman, who I think might not have been here long from Korea, boils them and eats them plain. She was interested when I suggested that she try making them into soup.

My gleanings cost me just under $30.00. The point is not to save money over buying them in the store. The point is the pleasure of gathering your own historical chestnuts from trees that are likely nearly hundred and fifty year old trees.*

It was a perfect California fall day, clear air, blue sky, slightly breezy, and no need for the jacket tied around my waist. And it was terribly romantic to imagine spending a few weeks in the fall harvesting chestnuts and then processing them at home. But I know the real reason I enjoyed my harvest was that it makes me appreciate how much autumn work I don't really have to do.

* Though the actual age of trees in the orchards is unknown, the orchard farmers have done some ring counting from deadwood.