Saint Didacus

Saint Didacus of Alcalá, (Latin: Sanctus Didacus Complutensis), Saint Diego: the patron saint and namesake of San Diego, CA; he was a lay brother of the Order of Friars Minor who died at Alcala de Henares, Spain, November 12, 1463.

It started with a chicken pot pie and a side of col slaw, then there was a fish taco with green chili sauce, a strawberry milkshake and fries at In-and-Out, a fish sandwich on the pier, a home-made spam sandwich and a large green salad with from-scratch Italian dressing, and of course, we fed the ducks at the lake and I ate ripe tomatoes and zesty green beans from the vine too. I'd like to say the eating (and the tummy aches from over-stuffing myself) ended eventually while I was visiting my grandparents in San Diego, but it never did. Here now, weeks later, I think I am still full. Honesty. As my step-dad said, "we won't have to eat for a year at the very least."

I could write gobs and gobs about San Diego and all that I hold in my heart about the place I proudly call my birth home. It's a city that fills me up, in every sense of the word. And this visit produced no different a feeling than it always does. Here are a couple of antidotes you might enjoy.

The sun was setting, all the windows open, letting the whisk of warm air float in on a glow of orange. My grandma, a petite woman about 5' 2" with a perky step, flipped on the kitchen light and flushed the orange away with a florescent clear. She asked her enduring question, "can I get you anything to eat." I sunk down into a padded bar chair and shook my head no...at first. Then, on a whim, "Wait! actually, would YOU like ME to fix YOU something?" She hesitated. Then asked what I was planning to fix. I told her about my sister's invention. "It's to die for!" (note that my grandmother and I act like two teenage girls in the fifties when we get together, it's a hoot). The invention consists of vanilla ice cream (which my step-dad kept weeping on and on about how you can't just eat it plain) + milk (just a little bit) + and Ovaltine. Insistently, my grandmother declined. "Uck," made with a funny face, "Ovaltine and ice cream, no thanks." Shocked, I asked her why she didn't like Ovaltine. Her story: her mom "made" (oh dear god!) her and her siblings drink it all the time when they were little and she didn't care for it. okay, so then my step-dad and I gave her a hard time. "So, you're saying you haven;t had it since you were 7 or eight years old. How do you remember what it tastes like?" "It's JUST chocolate milk, who doesn't like chocolate milk?" "MADE you drink chocolate milk?! Oh you poor thing." She was a good sport and took our ribbing...but still didn't eat my concoction, even though I swore I saw her eye it.

Okay okay, so then we went to the lake one afternoon to ooggle all the fancy RV's and feed the ducks. We bought some corn feed and plopped down on a shady gazebo step. I started tossing feed. My first toss was a paltry handful, then I added a little more, gradually building the amount of yellow meal in my hand until, my grandpa said so matter-of-fact-ly, "Just throw the whole lot! They're not proud." I giggled. That's right. If there is one creature on earth that doesn't mind scrambling around like crazy folk to squabble and peck-to-the-death for food, it would indeed be residential pond ducks.

It was late at night and the sky was a solid shade of deep ocean blue. No stars. Just dim city lights glowing in the far off distance. This made the entire block pitch-black except for a yellow orb of light emanating from our open garage door. Inside are walls lined with wood working tools and garden-planting seeds, a single overhead light hung above a smooth slab of polished-cold pavement. The cars had been parked in the driveway earlier and the tennis ball on it's tattered string that my grandparents use to gauge their park job swung like a decapitated head. Flickers of bugs flying past the light, seizing in the warm night's air, made everything seem like a disco. Heaven, actually. I put on my skates, laced them tight, and crossed over circle after circle, feeling the self-generated wind whip past. An old boyfriend's pair of basketball short and a tank top, listening to the faint cry of modest mouse dribble from the radio, skating skating, skating. Oh, it was glorious. p.s. I visited Sin City Skates and bought new top stops!

okay, I must confess, I've been sitting here trying to find the words to describe it, but I can't. I fail. So my advice to you is...by a plan ticket to southern California and wake up at 5 or 6am in the morning just to watch the sun rise, turn the sky into a sorbet of a million flavors, hear the hidden birds tirp and see the people slowly emerge from their sleepy homes. Mornings in California are one of my favorite experiences.

p.p.s. hey look! it's a mini car motor, it works and everything!







hey look again! I wish my middle name were "hot wheels." we also visited this nursery/classic car museum combo!



and then there's always the zoo.

If it weren't for the unbearable traffic and high cost of living, I'd return to live.