ASSORTED PLEASURES

Tuesdays in downtown Monterey proudly presents Farmer's Market, a hodgepodge of hastily but efficiently constructed eazy-ups, rickety folding tables, buckets of brightly colored produce, and a cacophony of marginally talented musicians. Thrown in the mix for good measure are peddlers, street hustlers, and the occasional Jesus freak predicting the end of the world. You can follow your nose to the kettle corn, gyros, churros, and, of course, the instant dinner rotating on an spit that opens out of the side of a shiny aluminum paneled truck. Fresh strawberries, grown organically of course, sit alongside an assortment of seasonal berries, twisted yams, leeks the size of your wrist, fragrant garlic and onions, and the ever-present, often confusing world of mushrooms. The next block will bring hand crocheted baby gear, hand woven baskets from Africa, knitted scarves, hats, and mittens. There are tables brimming with mouthwatering desserts - and not just your basic caramel apple. Oh no, these are golden delicious apples, dipped in white chocolate, rolled in honey, smothered with nuts and all promising to be absolutely the best thing you've ever tasted. There are causes with their carefully lettered signs, political hawkers, and even a bookcase with free books for anyone with a penchant to read between the dusty covers of a long-forgotten Stephen King, Victoria Holt, or Martha Stewart tome. There may even be a Dr. Seuss tucked in between the manuals on breast-feeding and how to win people and influence friends.

The people strolling along the closed-off avenue are as varied as the stands they are visiting.  There are middle-aged first time mothers with their baby stylishly strapped and wrapped against their breasts and fathers tugging behind them a radio-flyer with the toddler happily playing with the radishes just purchased. You will see the regulars, haggling over the price of fruit, toting their own reusable bags brimming with fresh cut flowers, bundles of lettuce, and three or four perfectly round, perfectly red tomatoes resting on top.  The tourists are looking at the local crafters and their overpriced jewelry, stone cups, and jade necklaces.

Weather is not a reason to pack up and go either.  The vendors have figured out how to batten down their stands with clever ties, buckets of sand, and a whole host of solutions to the Mary Poppins effect that the wind has on their canopies.  Rain is combated with umbrellas and more tarp.  Sunshine is always welcome because everyone slows down and enjoys the warmth and the camaraderie of a beautiful afternoon.  Summer markets will find everyone out and about until the last tent is taken down.  Winter Tuesdays brings out the locals bundled up with their scarves and hats and gloves while the tourists line up to buy one get one free hundred percent cashmere wrap in some god-awful color that your aunt Matilda wouldn't wear.

Farmer's Market in Monterey is truly a sensory adventure for all who wander into downtown Monterey.

SLIGHTLY USED

The cars are in town. Slightly used. Described by the decade they were put together on the assembly line by workers who knew the value of precision. Price tags don't show, but some are not as expensive as you think they might be and others call for pocket change that only a sheik would carry around - if he had pockets. Old men remember days of their youth when they envied their daddy-rich buddies who woke up the day of graduation to find one of these shiny new sports cars sitting in their driveway, resplendent with big bow and a key fob bearing the maker's logo. They still stand around, beers in hand, talking about cars. Only now, they've saved up their retirement money and have come with bid sheet in hand. If they're lucky, they'll go home with one of these carefully preserved memories. Funny how the slightly used women come out of their distant garages for this event as well. Also described by their decades, many of them are assembled with the precision of a runway model, most are put together with the detail only a circus could appreciate. Like the cars, you can tell how expensive it is by how well kept it has been. Old men still stand around, checking out the slightly used models - wondering if they can afford it, too afraid to ask how much. No bid sheets here, just a glance, a nod, and a meet and greet behind the fountain. If they're lucky, they'll wind up with one of these slightly used, but still good for some action, memories. Monterey has a seedy side to these glamorous events. Hotel bellboys keep lists of local hookers and get a kickback when one of them is summoned by some guy with money to burn. The big hotels have the better lists. A call down to the concierge can get you

just about anything you want in a matter of minutes. Many of the girls working the hotel lobby as greeters are actually high-priced call girls. It pays that ridiculously high rent that is charged on the peninsula. The prettier girls stand inside the lobby or sit at the hotel bar. The broken ones walk the street or sit at the bus stop. These are secrets that the local visitor's center doesn't want you to know. Prostitution in Monterey is just about as old as Monterey itself. In the 1870 census, sixty percent of the women listed in Monterey were ladies of the evening. Many of them were Chinese immigrants kidnapped, sold into debt peonage, and forced to service the rail workers, boatmen, and other laborers here along this beautiful coastline. Today,seedy memories are relived in seedy motels all up and down the Pacific Coast Highway. In the twenty-first century, Mexican immigrants, with nothing to harvest in the summertime, are sold into prostitution slavery along the Peninsula. Not much has changed in nearly 150 years. The cars are in town. So are the girls. Along with these baubles for sale, come the bored with wads of cash to burn. Most won't ask the price, but many of them will go home with a slightly used memory of Monterey.

No Shirt. No Shoes. No Service.

I know in some California beach towns you'll see all sorts of people walkin' around half dressed. Sun-bleached blond gods with their board shorts, surf gear, sporting nothing much else except their sand blasted Hurley flip-flops. Honey tanned just turned eighteen girls with their long hair pulled back into a messy ponytail, sporting that Roxy bikini, Havaianas, ten perfectly manicured pink toes, and a butterfly tattooed across the peach fuzz of their lower back and not much else left to the imagination. But those are California beach towns where the weather's warm, the sand is hot, and the sun is baking all those coconut oiled specimens of human perfection. But this is Monterey. Where summer is defined over a drink at the bar as a couple of weekends sometime in August. It never gets really hot enough to start shedding street clothes. The tans you see on the locals are purchased along with a fruity drink and a pair of plastic eye cups to keep you from going blind in the UV coffin at the local tanning salon. Summer here boasts of the chance to shed a layer, bare the arms above your elbows, and maybe go out without a jacket... but only if you're coming home before dark. Walking around half dressed isn't usually a sight you see on the streets of this beach community. Even those who dare the frigid bay, walk out of the water in a wet suit, shaking off the cold and jamming their bare butts into a pair of sweats and a hooded jacket as fast as they can... not because someone might see them naked, but because it's freakin' cold when that breeze off the bay hits your soaked hair. So you can imagine my double-take when I saw a man walking down the street today, half dressed. Mind you, not a street that runs along the ocean. Not even a street with an ocean view from the top balcony of any of the buildings. No. This was one of those inland streets that can smell the ocean, but not quite see it. He had on a Gilligan hat, tank top with a long-sleeved denim shirt fastened all the way to the collar, a pair of old-man sandals, black socks, and.. well, nothing else. I'm guessing there might have been a speedo underneath the hem of his worn button down, or maybe some tighty-whiteys... but, well, pretty much he looked naked. And not in an Adonis god of beauty and desire sort of naked. No, this was old-man-pale naked. Flabby knees naked. Grey hairy legs naked. Not pretty. Definitely not California naked. And it got me to wondering. Where was he going? There is a beach about a mile away, but he wasn't headed in that direction, and he certainly didn't look like that was where he had been all day. No, he was casually walking down the street, as if he was out for his twilight constitutional and simply forgot his pants. I watched him as he stopped in front of a local diner and counted the change he kept in his shirt pocket. The hand-lettered warning in the window says "No Shirts. No Shoes. No Service." Well, I suppose he qualifies for a dinner at their fine establishment. Either that, or their going to have to change their sign. Because, like Mr. No Pants, the diner seems to have forgotten something.

HOMELESS DOGS

There are over five hundred homeless people barely existing in one of the oldest beach communities in California. Their numbers surge along with the tourism industry, and you can't take a stroll downtown, along the bike path, or by the shore without encountering the outstretched hand, cup full of pennies, and a weather-worn backpack with a lifetime of dirt and grime worn into the fabric and shredding seams. Here, along the California coastline, you would be hard pressed to go any distance without seeing at least a handful of these hobos. The mild weather, the laid-back attitude of the year-round residents, and the free lunches that the local charities seem so eager to prepare and handout - thus appeasing their filthy-rich guilt and fulfilling their Christian duty to feed the hungry - all of these events conspire to draw the nomads to Monterey like a thirsty camel to an oasis. They have become woven into the tapestry of our neighborhood and are no longer come as a shock to the fastidious systems of the uber rich you find on the Peninsula. What never ceases to amaze me though, are the dogs. "Homeless Dogs" I call them. A steady diet of burritos, hotdogs, marshmallows, and, I suspect, the ocassional seagull has left these dogs looking nothing like what you would expect. They are big. With big, studded collars, a rope for a leash, and that Carmel Clint Eastwood look in their eye that says, "go ahead, make my day..." It seems like there are as many homeless dogs as there are homeless people. Some of these dogs have been trained to beg. I found one dog sitting on a corner, bandanna around his neck - along with a sign - and a cup in front of him. The sign said, "I've been a good boy, don't make me beg..." The ravaged plastic Transformers cup actually had about twenty bucks tucked down in it. Across the street, his owner played a guitar and had his own cup sitting on the blanket in front of him. He had about forty five cents in his cup. The dog was clearly doing a much better job. I've spoken to a couple of the girls who sit in the doorways bumming cigarettes and money. "Why the dog?" I ask. Keeps 'em safe they tell me. Apparently, when you're sleeping out under the stars, you are game for anyone wanting to toss you for your coins, your shoes, and any thing else you might have. Having a dog helps. They all have a story about a girl or a guy who got stabbed and thrown in the ravine. "Shoulda had a dog..." they all say. A couple of times I've been compelled to take a sign-holder into the local fast food joint and buy them a meal. I am always at a loss as to whether or not I am expected to buy a burger for the dog too.

BOXES

I have several boxes in my closet, filled with a plethora of personal history. I am not really sure what actually is housed in these cardboard mysteries, but, judging by the box that I filled today, I would say it is most likely a hodgepodge of items that I find just too dear to actually put in the give away bin or to toss in the trash. Mind you, I schlepped six stretchy plastic bags of junk deemed unworthy of historical significance out to the raccoon housing unit known as our trash bin. But I am still left with the newest addition to the collection that resides on the top shelves of my newly cleaned out closet. Every so often, I'll take down one of the boxes and paw through it, wondering why on earth I kept this or that... it must have been important that I hang on to it, so it dutifully goes back into the box until my curiosity gets the better of me next time around. I've discovered faded pictures of people I don't remember, vacations someone else took and thought I'd love to see pictures of, and old kodachrome photos of what can only be family members I've never met. There are papers written in a college course that got a passing grade, a letter with a lock of what I am guessing is my grandmother's hair (still red after one hundred years), a notebook filled with my life experiences like a script for a bad made for TV movie. I found four, count them, four empty binders and a handful of wirebound, college-ruled notebooks. Back-to-schoolers could have a field day in my closet.

It makes me wonder where all this very important stuff comes from. Dog-eared books collected over the years that I simply will not part with. Framed pictures of family members that can't be hung up on the wall, yet I can't seem to find the time to put them in a proper frame so they can be displayed. Leather-bound journals filled with random notes and shopping lists. Crayons. Office supplies. All items I, at some point in a cleaning frenzy, decided were meaningful enough to keep in my life for whatever future reason I could possibly think of. I suppose I am lucky. I've made it to this second half of my life with only three boxes of stuff to show for it. I am sure, at some point in the future, I will determine that the things in those boxes might not be worth keeping afterall. But, until then, they will remain safely ensconced on the top shelf of my closet. Waiting to be discovered, like an ancient end to a magnificent treasure hunt in some future adventure.

PRAYERS & LAWNMOWERS

My father was a strong, proud man. He fought to stay independent and demonstrated to his world around him how to stay strong, how to get things done, and how to help your neighbor when he was down. As my father aged, he lost much of his independence to a wheelchair. But that didn't stop him from going about his regular routines. One hot, Indian Summer day, he was in our massive front yard, scooting along in his wheelchair, pushing his lawnmower. He was determined to make his home as beautiful as it had once been when his back was straight, his stance solid, and his health in better shape. He worked on the stubborn grass, going around and around, up and down the lawn, making his rows as perfect as possible with one hand on the mower and one hand on the wheel of his prison. A pastor saw him struggling and came across the street where he had been laughing and talking to some friends. He greeted him and asked him how he was doing. My father, never one to mince words, told him that life was tough, but by God, he was going to stay in the game as long as possible. As my father sat there, his kerchief soaked with the sweat pouring down his brow, the pastor looked at his watch and told this wheelchair-bound man that he only had a couple of minutes, for he was in a hurry to a very important meeting and he asked him if there was anything he could do for my father. Without waiting for a reply, he went on to offer to pray for my father and his health. My father looked up at him from his wheelchair, pointed at his lawnmower and said, "I don't need you to pray for me pastor, I need you to mow my damn lawn." I've never forgotten that lesson. Prayer IS important - and please, don't ever stop praying for each other. But sometimes we need to see that our prayers are more than words. Our prayers are a helping hand, a word of encouragement, an advocate for our well-being, a hug, a smile, or sometimes, simply a listening ear. How are you praying for others?

OFFICE PLANT

It was a lovely plant. I inherited it my first day on the job. Apparently, the church secretary before me decided to leave it where it was at - and expected her replacement to figure out how to care for it's lovely blooms. I knew nothing about orchids. So I studied. I googled. I researched. And I learned. I bought a spray bottle and moved it to a place where it got sunlight, but not direct sunlight. Heat, but not too much. I lovingly named it Phyllis, and began a relationship that I hoped would do her justice. Her blooms were magnificent. White, full, with just a tinge of pink, like the blush of a young school girl. Her leaves were rich and green and the moss that carefully protected her roots was placed just so. I timed my waterings. I made sure she was watered every other Thursday, and just before I left for home, every 14 days, I would tenderly spray her leaves, pour just a quarter cup of water at her roots, and speak gently, zen-like words to ease any troubles she might have faced. I made sure I was alone when these tender ministrations too place - I did not want to be embarrassed to be caught talking to a plant. Oh, I had done damage to other orchids. She was not my first. I had bought my father a beautiful orchid, which promptly got too wet and all the flowers fell off. He used to joke that I was taking care of his "stick" - and sadly, we put the plant out of its misery early on in its pitiful existence. But not Phyllis. No. She was a trooper. She thrived under my tender loving care. The attention she received was worthy of her beauty. For nearly six months, her blooms were strong and healthy. Her leaves turned even a darker shade of green. All was going so well. Until.... I missed a Thursday. And a Friday. In fact, I didn't get to her until the following Monday. I rushed into my office, worried that I had done permanent damage to poor Phyllis. I fretted about, apologizing to her profusely for leaving her alone and uncared for. I begged her not to leave me... to give me one more chance. I made promises that I would never, ever again leave her unattended for so long. I even broke my own rule and fussed over her while in full view of my boss. I did not care who saw me talking to the plant. I only wanted her to live - and to live well. My employer watched all of this with a bemused silence. He let me work all the way through my guilt and then, when I had settled down, asked me, "So... how long have you been watering the plant?" I explained to him that I had studied, researched, and had apparently discovered the perfect formula for caring for orchids. He sat quietly for a moment, then began to giggle. Then laugh. Then his laughter turned into large guffaws. Tears began rolling down his cheeks. He couldn't catch his breath. When he finally paused at the confused look on my face (after all, what is so funny about having discovered a perfect orchid care formula?)... he gasped and said between huffs... "Are... you...... hahahahahaha.... aware.... aaaahhhhhh..... that the ....... tee-hee.... orchid.... you're... hahahaha... watering..... baah ha ha ha ha ha ha ha.... is a .... Silk plant????" He collapsed on his desk top, head on his arms, convulsing with laughter at my expense..... Phyllis stopped talking to me soon after that. It might be because I stopped watering her. I wonder.....

COUNTRY

Country. Like chickens in the driveway country. Like milk the old heifer, get the pig outta the kitchen, and pour me another beer country. Like overalls and battered, oil-stained John Deere caps, and rough suede brogans covered in horse pucky country. Yup. That kind of country. Not the kiss yer mama and marry your best girl kinda country. Not waive the American flag and honor yer brother who died in 'Nam country. No. More like the confederate flag, all terrain vehicles and boff yer cousin in the hayloft kinda country. Ig'nant country. Backwoods. Squirrel huntin' roadkill kinda country. The kind of country where Stupid and Dumbass are yer two best buddies. The kind of country where yer word don't mean shit unless there's something in it for you. The kind of country where you just don't get it. The kind of country where you're mean to your little brother and you're only looking out for number one. It give good country folk a bad name.

Good country folk honor one another, lift each other up, love each other unconditionally. Good country folk will sit with you a spell, call each other up just to say hey, and make sure you write home to your family every now and again. Good country folk go to church to praise Jesus and to make sure old man Cooper, who's gettin' along in years, is taken care of next week. Good country folk stick to their plans, return your stuff when they borrow it, and will mow your lawn when you're laid up with a broken leg. Good country folk know the difference between book learned and intelligent. Good country folk take care of their families, their friends, and their animals and expect you're doing the same. Good country folk don't judge you by the size of your pocketbook, but by the size of your heart. It don't matter if you drive a fancy car, dress in a three-piece suit, or wear alligator shoes. It don't matter if you ride a John Deere, kick mud off your boots every night, or have kissed the same woman goodnight for the last forty years. It matters only how you treat people. How you show respect. How you stick to your commitments. Are you a pig in the kitchen kinda country or the love each other kinda country? It don't matter if you live in the city... there is a little bit of country in each of us. What matters is which kind.