What I Like – Simple Pleasures

Life is good. Really good.

I don’t live in a big, fancy house or drive the latest “must-have-it” car. I’m just a simple man living a simple life. Enjoying simple pleasures.

That said, there are a million little things that make life good. Things I really like.

I like the feel of a shower, of kissing my wife, of having a cat curl up on my back while I watch TV, of cold water on a hot day, of dogs leaning against me, of hugs from children, of of crisp, freshly laundered dress shirts, of pulling a weed without breaking it, and of grinding my bike up a long, steep hill.

I like the smell of the rain, of pine forests, of freshly cut wood, of candles just after they’ve been blown out, of fresh herbs, of shelf-loads of books, of canvas, linseed oil and oil paint, of chocolate chip cookies being baked, of my ancient leather briefcase, and of my wife’s hair.

I like the sound of slow, smoky saxophone solos, of acoustic guitars, of children laughing, of my wife moaning as she finally lays down for the night, of crickets chirping, of the absolute silence of the mountains after a serious snow storm, of cats purring, of pine logs popping and crackling in the fireplace, and of being far enough from civilization that I can’t hear traffic.

I like the taste of warm, gooey brownies with really cold milk, of Cinnabon cinnamon rolls, of properly-roasted chicken, of Heath bars, of really good Chinese food, of M&Ms, of fresh omlettes, of Mexican hot chocolate, and of my wife’s kisses.

I really love the taste of my wife’s kisses.

I like seeing the sun rise, seeing a storm blow in over the mountain, seeing the full moon on a really clear night, seeing the leaves change in the fall, seeing my son curled up with a cat and good book, seeing my daughter take over the kitchen table with an art project, and seeing my wife’s eyes.

Actually, to be honest, I like seeing all of my wife. I like it a lot.

Then, of course, there’s stuff I just like.

As I’ve written elsewhere, I like playing my guitar, drawing, studying architecture, cycling along the California coast, cooking with fresh herbs, and walking my dogs at night. I love the way my wife’s eyes light up when she decides it’s time for cocoa or a bath. I like taking naps on Sunday afternoons, cooking Sunday dinner for my family, going to church with my family, and pretty much Sundays in general. Families in general, for that matter, and my family in specific.

I love curling up with the scriptures in an old leather armchair — especially when my rottweiler decides to curl up on my feet. I love waking up next to my wife. I like the way both my dogs tip their heads to the right whenever I talk to them. I love the pause between finishing a song and having the audience break into applause. I like Levi’s 501 jeans, sweat shirts, and old Adidas sneakers. I like fountain pens, Moleskine notebooks, Altoids tins, old Mercedes diesels, and waxed cotton canvas.

If you just pay attention, life’s full of such delights. That’s the way God designed it.

So, what’s your list?

A Quick Follow Up

Last week I wrote about an unintended walk in the moonlight.

For the record, upon my return to the campground, I found a payphone and called my wife. It was worth the walk.

An Unintended Walk

Last Friday my son and I camped at a place called Hurkey Creek. It sits in a pine forest about 4,500 feet up the side of Mount San Jacinto, on the opposite side of the mountain from Palm Springs. We were there for a “Father and Sons Outing” sponsored by our church. But that’s not the story.

About 9:30 or so, I decided to call my wife and say “goodnight.” That far from the city, cell towers are few and far between. And my phone was showing no bars at all.

A friend mentioned that his phone had shown a bar or two out near the Ranger’s station at the entrance to the campground. So I committed my son to the care of some friends and set off on foot.

At the Ranger’s station, I still had no bars at all. Undeterred, I set off up Highway 74 toward Idyllwild in search of a signal.

The longer I walked, the more frustrated I became. Trudging up a nearly deserted stretch of highway in the dark holding up my cell phone periodically in a vain search for a signal wasn’t what I had planned.

After a couple of miles, I gave up. I figured I better get back to the campground before the Rangers locked it up for the night. So I stuffed my useless cell phone into my pocket and turned around.

And in that moment everything changed.

I found myself face-to-face with a full moon. Not just any full moon, but a full moon with the clarity and size you only see when you get away from the city with all its light pollution. It was a massive, cream-colored disk, and looking for all the world like it had snagged on one of the dark, silhouetted pine trees. A warm breeze blew up from the desert valleys, bringing with it the scents of pine and sage. And quiet; I could actually hear the people at the campground miles away.

I grew up in mountains much like these. And in the crush and confusion of life, I suppose I’d forgotten. I’d forgotten hundred-foot pine trees and the feel of a forest floor carpeted in pine needles. I’d forgotten what it’s like to actually be able to see a million stars instead of just those bright enough to be visible above the glare of the suburbs.

I switched off my flashlight, smiled, and started walking.

People Are Blind

I’ve decided that most people are blind. Okay, perhaps not blind; oblivious may be a better word.

A couple of decades ago, when I was in college, a friend took me to Catalina Island, a magic place 26 miles off the coast of California. We spent the day poking around cool little shops, touring the famous casino, and getting seriously sunburned.

As the day wound down, we made our way to the dock at Avalon Harbor to wait for the ferry boat back to Long Beach. And we waited. And waited.

As it turned out, the ferry had broken down and the ferry company had to redirect a boat from another line. And that takes time.

Avalon has a beautiful, natural, horseshoe-shaped harbor. The main pier is at the far southern tip of the harbor, set such that you can sit on the pier and look West across the harbor to the town of Avalon as it climbs up the hillside above the Pacific Ocean.

As the sun set behind the island, Avalon came alive. Lights winked on, illuminating the bell tower on the hill, then the casino, then the streets. The hillside faded through deep purple to black as one of the most spectacular sunsets ever exploded behind it. It was almost as if the island itself was boiling away into space.

My description couldn’t possible do it justice.

It was then that I realized how blind people can be. Our fellow travellers were completely oblivious to it all. Some were bitterly complaining about the delay, making vague threats about complaining to the ferry boat company or demanding their money back. Others paced about angrily. One young couple kissed, seeming unaware of anything but each other.

Of the forty or fifty people milling around on the dock, my friend and I were the only ones who even noticed the overwhelming display going off just across the harbor. Everyone else was completely absorbed in their own inconvenience.

I have found that such experiences are the rule rather than the exception. Most people wander through their lives so wrapped up in their own business that they completely miss the beauty that surrounds them every day. And the opportunities.

I suppose that’s why we need artists. To show us what we missed

Strange Way to Run a Desert

I live in a place where the far Western edge of the greater Mojave Desert bumps up against the coastal mountain range of Southern California. Not quite the saguaro cactuses and endless sea of sand made famous by the Roadrunner cartoons, but the desert nevertheless.

For what it’s worth, we do have both coyotes and roadrunners. And rabbits; lots and lots of jackrabbits.

The thing is right now it doesn’t look much like a desert. The nearly cloudless, cobalt-blue sky is the same, but everything else is green. The normally blue-gray border of mountains that looks more and more brown the closer you get is a awash with color. Fields that spend most of the year as hard-packed dirt are waste-high in grasses. Trees that spent the winter bare are sprouting leaves and blossoms at the same time. The desert valleys look more like Ireland than the arid Southwest.

And flowers; everywhere there are flowers. I snapped this photo this evening — in a vacant field along side a freeway exit.

I know this explosion won’t last. Soon the desert sun will bleach the color out of everything — fading green to gray and brown to tan — but for now it’s amazing.

I Have a Volleyball Tree

I have a volleyball tree.

Okay, it’s actually a pomelo tree. We thought it was a grapefruit tree until one of our friends suggested otherwise. It turns out that pomelo are ancestors of the grapefruit. They’re sweeter, mellower, and a great deal larger. That means right now it’s covered with neon yellow citrus fruit about twice the size of a regulation softball.

It really looks like a tree full of volleyballs.

I’ve enjoyed grapefruit ever since I saw my father eating one with breakfast and decided to copy him. No sugar or honey for us — real men eat their grapefruit straight. The tart taste is part of the alure.

This year’s different, though. Pomelo are sweet. Really sweet. As-sweet-as-a-really-good-orange sweet.

Some are trying to get everyone to eat more locally grown produce. How about this for local: I can wander out in my pajamas and pick one of these monsters to have with breakfast.

It’s a bit like concentrated sunshine in the middle of winter. No wonder they call California “The Sunshine State.”

A Good, Brisk Walk in the Early Morning

I’ve rediscovered walking.

Don’t get me wrong, I’ve been walking since I was a toddler. What I’ve rediscovered is the pleasure of going for a good, brisk walk in the the early morning, just for the sake of going for a good, brisk walk.

You see, there’s something magical about just walking around as the world is waking up. Seeing the sunrise. Watching as the colors shift from gray and white to a full spectrum.

There’s a new shop just around the corner from my house that specializes in cupcakes. And while they’re not open at dawn, the mother-and-daughter team behind the cupcakes is there, lights on, hard at work on the day’s creations. Two doors down, the donut store already has half a dozen patrons chewing on French crullers and sipping coffee as they read the paper.

Between the two of them, the smell is wonderful.

On the next block, the police change shifts. One set of shiny, black and white cruisers and white  motorcycles glides out onto the street as another set glides into their high-walled enclosure. By the time I’ve gone another couple of blocks, the night crew has divided itself between a pair of coffee shops as the officers enjoy the happy confusion of a coffee shop in full swing after the relative quiet of a suburban night.

Three pairs of mallard ducks have taken up residence in the overflow pond the construction crews put in to keep the new city common from flooding as it is slowly constructed. They swim about in pairs, male and female, gathering nesting materials and eating bugs. I have no idea where they will end up when the park is finished, but for now the overflow pond is theirs.

There are three ladies who walk through the “Old Murrieta” area every morning. They are a bustling bundle of shawls, smiles, and white hair who stop to pick up every scrap of paper or old can they find, as though the old downtown area is just another room in their undoubtedly well-kept homes.

By the time I near home, the high-school students have begun slouching toward school, all sagging pants, flat-ironed hair, and iPods.

And then the warmth of home. Kids putting homework assignments and lunches into backpacks. The dogs beating out a synchopated greeting with their tails. And my wife, bringing order from the morning’s chaos between sips of cocoa.

Life is good.

The Fig Tree

Next to our carport is a fig tree that’s at least 50 years old. It’s about 30 feet tall and 40 feet wide, with a canopy that drapes over our driveway to the ground on the other side. Regular pruning has given us a living tunnel.

Now I understand why Adam and Eve scrambled to make clothes of fig leaves when they discovered they were naked — fig leaves are big. Dinner-plate-size big. Big enough you can hear them hit the ground.

It’s winter now, even in Southern California, and today the fig tree dropped the last of its leaves. I’ve heard that leaf impact sound a lot.

For the past three weeks, part of each morning was spent raking leaves. It became my morning meditation: raking fig leaves into enormous piles and raking patterns into the gravel drive left behind. Thinking only of the leaves and of the patterns. Looking up through the lacework of newly bare branches at the impossible blue of the dessert sky.

Soon enough, my nine-year-old daughter will excitedly point out the new shoots appearing and tell me spring is coming. Then, seemingly overnight the entire glorious canopy will be full, shading the ground so completely even weeds won’t grow. Then we’ll have to find a use for bushels of figs.

But tomorrow I will rake leaves. Then I’ll rub linseed oil into the rake’s handle and put it away for another season.