Whence Came the Easter Bunny?

St. Bede, the 8th-century English scholar, believed the name Easter originated with the Scandinavian "Ostra" and the Teutonic "Ostern" or "Eastre,” goddesses of spring and fertility. (Gee. Guess how the word “estrogen” got started?)  Their festivals were appropriately celebrated on the day of the vernal equinox, on or around March 21, when days lengthen, weather warms, and things start growing again.
So what’s with the bunny? According to “The Unauthorized Biography of the Easter Bunny” in the spring issue of Mental_Floss, he’s a German sleeper agent. His roots go back to a 16^th century character named Osterhase, who infiltrated North America during a mass migration  of Germans in the 1900’s.

What accounts for his meteoric rise in the egg delivery business?  Charm and virility. Both rabbits and eggs have been symbols of rebirth for centuries. And when Germans started hiding eggs for children back in the 16^th century, hares’ nests were the hidey-holes of choice.

Not all Western Cultures embrace bunnies. In Australia, for instance, they’re a devastating, crop-ravaging plague. In the 1990s, they finally hit upon a replacement for the hated hare: the bilby. Bilbies are long-eared marsupials that can look like Easter bunnies while still respecting Australia’s valuable crops.  So down under, the kids are treated to chocolate bilbies.

So there you have it. Happy Vernal Equinox!

From the Great Southwest Back to Paolini’s Inheritance Cycle

Inheritance, the last book of the Cycle, arrived before Christmas. But I was involved with Tony Hillerman’s Navajo tales and was loathe to leave it mid-series.

I’ve been engrossed in the American Southwest, ancient and modern, for some months now. There was a trilogy of Anasazi Mysteries  by anthropologists Mike and Kathy Gear; Kirk Mitchell’s series featuring Emmett Parker, a Comanche agent with the Bureau of Indian Affairs, often  teamed with a Modoc FBI agent, Anna Turnipseed; and lastly all 18 volumes from Tony Hillerman. Actually, Hillerman penned more than that. I only followed the adventures of Lt. Joe Leaphorn and Sgt. Jim Chee of the Navajo Tribal Police. Great stuff.

But now I’m back to my home genre – fantasy. And no one writes it with more meticulous detail than Christopher Paolini. And, as I did with Harry Potter, I won’t read the new book without first re-reading all the preceding ones. One can’t just dive in without getting reacquainted with the characters, places and situations can one? It’s been way too long since Book Three, Brisingr. And it’s complicated.

So that’s where I am now - halfway through Eragon.

I have no idea how I got so caught up in Native American mysteries and culture. It was quite a profound experience, actually. Maybe it harks back to my travels through Shiprock, NM and Casa Grande, AZ back in 1973. But now (clicking my ruby slippers together three times) it’s good to be home.

One Last Mention of the Mountains



Yes, I know. I’ve been back in Texas for weeks now. But my sister’s mountain cabin still dominates my mind. I can still see the sweeping vistas of mountain ridges – one behind the other all the way to the ocean. Over the hills stretch endless rows of grapevines, their meticulous symmetry adding their own sense of beauty. And I vividly recall the wild fragrance of the woods beyond the vineyard gates. When Sarah sent me an envelope filled with bay leaves, rosemary and lemon thyme it nearly sent me over the edge. I’d run back there in a minute.

And there is one more thing to mention – the neighbors. None are within walking distance, at least not at our present age, and none can even be seen from the house. The nearest is Ellen, the kind lady who took care of Sis until I got there and then met the airport shuttle. One day we drove up, down, and around on the one-lane, more or less blacktopped road to have lunch on her patio.  It was sunny and cool and the view, of course, was spectacular. The visit was full of local history and further insights into mountain life.

Another time we called on Anita, a lady who has read my books and wanted to meet me. As it happened, I was wearing one of her husband’s cast-off shirts (which Sis had acquired at some point) because the airlines had yet to find my luggage.

Anita’s gardens were almost as fantastic as the scenery. Off the driveway was a beautiful bit of landscaping with junipers, flowers, herbs, art objects, and pathways. Every other side of the house had vegetable plots as well as orange and persimmon trees. We left with almost more produce than we could carry.

That evening I discovered that preparing super fresh foods is quite different. For instance, cutting a carrot right out of the ground releases a sweet, moist fragrance. Another surprise is how quickly they cook. The rhubarb, cauliflower, Swiss chard, and carrots were tender in minutes. Even a couple of days later this was still true for the snap beans, cabbage and broccoli. With access to such fresh and wholesome foods, it’s no wonder Sarah healed so quickly.

All right, that’s it. I promise. Next time it’s back to the books!

Mountain Fun

It Wasn’t ALL Hard Work!

Flavors Unlimited

Our first stop after my luggage-less arrival in Santa Rosa (after Target and two grocery stores) was Flavors Unlimited, an ice cream parlor/sandwich shop in touristy Guerneville. It was, I discovered, Ellen’s standard pit stop on the back up the mountain.
The "Unlimited" means you aren't limited to the flavors of ice cream that are already offered. You order your ice cream (or frozen yogurt) mixed to taste from a seemingly endless array of candies, nuts and fresh fruits. We all selected 2-dip waffle cones. Ellen mixed fresh blueberries with cheesecake; Sarah chose toffee with chocolate and M&Ms in vanilla. Mine was pumpkin and peanut butter with walnuts. The idea nearly made the guy throw up, but it turned out to be really good. Honest. 



Trinks Cafe in Gualala, CA

Trinks Café in Gualala was an outing with two purposes: to meet Sarah’s BFF Paula, and to get me online.  My cell phone, a Samsung with AT&T provider, was completely worthless up there.  Sis does have a pretty decent Mac, but her iffy dial-up connection and ISP refused any and all requests to check my email. So by the time I hit Trinks and settled in with a monstrous mocha latte, my inbox and Facebook page were seriously backed up. 

When Paula joined us, we moved out to a patio table and ordered from their trendy breakfast menu. I took the coward’s way out with scrambled eggs and toast. Paul either had the Griddle Combo or eggs with mixed greens, and Sis indulged in some insane breakfast sandwich on an “everything” bagel. She ate it all, too!  

Sizzling Tandoor



The Sizzling Tandoor, an Indian restaurant about which the locals rave, was our stop on the way home from Sarah’s post-op checkup. It was my first time Outsourcing supper, and I didn’t know what to try. Sis took a lamb curry, and I pointed to some sort of chicken thing which turned out to be dry and not as spicy as I’d hoped. On the side, however, were generous pieces of garlic nan (puffy Indian fried bread) served warm and fresh. And there was an incredible creamy chai tea which, were it generally available, would cost coffee one of its biggest fans. 

Duncans Mills




Studio Nouveau at Duncans Mills

Duncans Mills, a rustic roadside collection of antique and specialty shops, restaurants and galleries, was our last outing as we headed for Petaluma. The next day I would catch the 4:30 AM shuttle to the San Francisco airport and home.  We strolled through nearly all the shops finding a scarf at Worldly Goods, a floor puzzle for grandkids at Pig Alley, a very special pair of earrings at Studio Nouveau (later lifted by the TSA), choice packets of exotic tea at Mr. Trombly’s, and finally coffee and pastry at the Gold Coast Coffee & Bakery. Duncans Mills is definitely a place to visit again.

There was a quick stop for gas at Bodega Bay. Very pretty views, but you know what? Not so much a seagull in sight!   



Mountain Life

After breakfast one morning, standing on the porch of my sister’s cabin, a large brown rabbit came out from behind the wood pile and hopped right up to the steps. With only an indifferent glance in my direction, he began nibbling at the vegetation there. He couldn’t have been two feet away. Sis later explained that he and his family lived under the cabin, which I suppose could account for his blasé attitude toward humans.

It was this day that Sarah discovered that the dead ferns in her asparagus patch were in dire need of chopping. She’s rather famous for her asparagus in these parts. Fancy seaside restaurants call her for it every day it’s in season. So the task was no small matter. It had to be done.

There was also the problem of a thick, thorny vine trying to take over the rosemary. That stuff was vicious. I had to take a bow saw to it.  Ripped holes all over my sweatshirt.

Then came the task of trundling off the refuse. Sarah has a heavy, good-sized wheelbarrow but it was quite a chore getting even that wide balloon tire over the rough terrain.  Fortunately it only took two trips to that distant spot (well, okay, probably not more than a quarter mile) deemed safe for burning. My post-surgical sis faded on the second row of asparagus, but by golly I managed to finish it all before lunch...with the help of a Five-Hour Energy Drink before, and a Hydrocodone after.

My sister has been doing heavy work like this for 27 years. No wonder she’s so tough! Her doctors are astonished at her rate of recovery. Three days out of the hospital, she made the ¾ mile round trip, uphill and down, to the mailbox without even breathing hard. Geeez. It would take me 27 years just to work up to it all.

But enough about the work. I won’t even mention what it took to clean the vintner’s big old bunkhouse on up the mountainside. Next time we’ll just take in the sights.

Aside from the travel disasters, it was a really great trip

Knowing Sis had had such a radical surgery, I was expecting to be met at the Santa Rosa shuttle stop by her neighbor while Sarah waited, pale and weak, in the car.

Wrong.

There she stood, bright-eyed and bushy-tailed, ready to great me with a big hug. Admittedly, it was a careful hug, given that long row of staples on her right side. Before heading for the hills, we shopped at Target (to replace essentials on the lam with my luggage) and two grocery stores. Sis shopped right along with us.

It was nearly dark when we started up the long, winding, rugged mountain road. Ellen, the kindly neighbor at the wheel, went barreling along, careening around the switchbacks with no hesitation whatever - even through patches of fog too thick to see the hood of her sure-footed Toyota truck. She makes this drive every week, you see. She owns that road.

The next morning I woke to a thrilling sunrise. Every day of my stay started with this vivid pink in varying patterns. As quietly as I could, I slipped out of the bed and pulled on a sweatshirt against the morning cold. By the time I made coffee and wondered out onto the porch, the day was underway. The panorama spread before me in every direction with surreal clouds of fog defining the ridges of mountains. Sister Sarah has lived here for 27 years now. It’s easy to see how such a place can lay claim to your soul.

Fly if you must, but DON’T CHECK YOUR BAG

TSA Rife with Thievery

On the way to Petaluma, Jan. 10, 2012, Sis and I stopped at a rustic roadside shopping area at Duncan's Mills. There, in a tiny shop called Studio Nouveau, I saw the earrings I've always wanted: lacy silver 2" ovals fringed with dangles and set with sparkly stones. My sister watched me hold them up to a mirror and enthusiastically pronounced them perfect. Then, even though she is a subsistence mountain woman who could ill afford it, she immediately bought them for me. I put them on right away. The rest of the day she kept glancing over at me, beaming because her little sister looked so great in her gift.

And that’s what disappeared from my suitcase on January 11, 2012, in the San Francisco airport at approximately 6:00 AM.

I'd tucked them carefully into an athletic knee wrap (brought in case a yoga injury acted up) and placed between layers of clothes. For the TSA to have even found it, it must've been exactly the sort of thing they hoped to find.

Understanding the invasive security measures necessary in these terrorist times, I wasn’t that concerned when I found the Notification of Inspection card in my luggage. Then I discovered the heartbreaking loss.

Yes, I’ve made the calls, filled in the forms, made the reports, etc. Now I’m doing the research. It seems TSA theft is rampant nationwide.

In 2009, a half dozen TSA agents at Miami International Airport were caught boosting an iPod, perfume, cameras, a GPS system, a Coach purse, and a Hewlett Packard Mini Notebook from passengers’ luggage. Since then, travelers passing through the airport’s checkpoints have reported as many as 1,500 items stolen, the majority of which were never recovered.

 A TSA screener at Newark Liberty International Airport was found running the largest one-man theft ring in the short history of the agency, netting an estimated $400,000 via the resale of stolen high-priced electronics. And he is just one of some 500 TSA officers fired or suspended for stealing from passenger luggage since the agency’s creation in November of 2001.

Christopher Elliott, a consumer advocate (http://www.elliott.org/the-travel-critic/tips-to-ensure-the-tsa-doesnt-swipe-your-stuff/) reports TSA sleight of hand even while inspecting carry-on pieces right in front of you. Just Google “TSA theft.” You’ll be as appalled as I am by the endless list of incidents.

The TSA’s response to these facts?  According to Howard Portnoy’s June 20, 2011 blog on http://hotair.com/ the agency considers these stats acceptable. The ratio of crooks to non-crooks, they point out, is less than ½ of 1 percent. Out of more than 110,000 employees, only 200 (a number obviously out of sync with police records) have been accused of stealing. Well, let me tell ya something: that placating statistic doesn't mean a thing when it happens to YOU. In the meantime, you can look forward to invasive pat-downs, irradiation from scanners, and the knowledge that the agency has an iffy record detecting legitimate threats.

“If that doesn’t make you feel all warm and cuddly when you fly,” Portnoy concludes, “nothing will.”