My sister Jeanie is ravenous when it comes to learning about artists and their work.

Jeanie has quilted for many years: created, sewn, hand-quilted, named, exhibited, sold, traded, taught. I know Jeanie as an artist, among other things. Bob, her partner, also—he paints and draws. Both have wide and varying interests and other jobs. Still, art is a part of their daily lives.

Framed paintings, drawings and prints radiate energy from their walls. On one wall in Jeanie's quilt-making room are her quilts-in-process. Beneath them, neat stacks of fabric arranged by color proceed from one wall to the other, and on top of everything, more fabric.

Jeanie has contemplated and studied artists and their work with what can only be called joy. And her involvement exists beyond what can be translated to quilt design. Their collection of art books occupies prime space, and is growing. Some are temporary, from the library or used book store, others are permanent. Thus, visiting Jeanie and Bob always includes the discovery of artists unknown to me, as well as the luxury seeing and learning more about those with whom I am familiar.

Jeanie and Bob were the first of family and friends we visited on this trip to California and back. We left on the run from their ice storm, and planned then to see them as we returned. By this time, my head and heart were full. Especially, I was still marveling over California. How everywhere we drove the roads were circuitous—except for the straightaways on the freeways—and the landscape was rounded and mounded, often covered with the wavy lines of orchards, the grapevines, and through it all, the ever-curving roads. There was more about California that haunted me, beyond my particular experience touched by the joy of seeing Jay and Ann and Chuck, and then the resulting deep feelings upon departure.

In the end, Jeanie managed to bring California full circle, in a way that satisfied the responsive artist/joyfully seeing part of me. She and Bob and I were talking after another wonderful breakfast; often our conversation turns to seeing, feeling, making. Jeanie got up excitedly and began searching for a book by David Hockney, still alive and working, and one of her favorite artists. This book included paintings and comments based on his experiences living in California; his paintings were totally influenced by his daily life there.

Jeanie opened the book, and held it as she would when reading aloud to the four-year-olds she cares for daily. I would be happy now if I could repeat exactly what she read. How David Hockney said that the curving roads and landscape and daily rhythms of living in California all became a part of him, and had to become vital elements—subjects also—of his paintings there.

Somehow, it connected my images of Jay driving us to Mendocino, or to the green mossy-treed hilltops, the farmer's market under the sun with Ann, the cows spotting tall green hills—that compression of memory and breath and talk and seeing that filled my time in California. And I was filled with delight as I heard how he expressed what I could not in picture or word, while I looked at his brilliantly colored and beautifully linear paintings, and heard the soft voice of my sister, reading with such love of it all.

Tonight, we're atop a hill in Zanesville, Ohio. How I would enjoy exploring this place beyond the struggle to find the campground hidden in a sylvan neighborhood close to town. The homes we passed were of mixed generations, side by side. And rising with the hills. We are nearing the place (West Virginia) where my mother was born, and where her many relatives lived.

But tonight we are here on this quiet hill, finally getting a wifi signal, and relaxing toward tomorrow's travel. As we drive the trees are becoming taller, and varied. I try to memorize all the ways the branches part and grow reaching from the trunk to the sky.

Dinner is long over, and sunset; the dogs are in. The kitchen table vibrates with my keyboard. There is another new Law and Order. It is quiet outside—and cold. All part of this season.

Cloverdale, Indiana. Three big black labs outside the office door when I registered. Tall trees. The satellite dish worked fine. The wifi didn't. It was warm outside. Cool breeze came in the bedroom window as we watched a new Law and Order. How lovely.The tv image kept breaking up as the wind blew stronger.

Then the thunder and the pounding rain. Lightning. And all the windows were pulled shut. The end of our spring.

In the morning, the temperature was in the thirties. We were ready to go, even so. Andre started pulling out of our space, but we didn't get far. We were sinking into the mud. Yes, the universal mud, no matter how welcome the warmth might have been. After more resistance and struggle to unhitch the car so we could back out, there was success due to Andre's skill and ingenuity; we were free to go. And ah hepped! (But hardly).

The ice storm in Fayetteville, Arkansas descended about a month after ours struck in the hills of Western Massachusetts. The gunshot sound of cracking branches, the house-shaking falling limbs and trees. The amazement at dawn when the damage could be seen clearly. Power was out there for days as well. One commercial strip had power, so people crowded those gas stations and restaurants. At Denny's for breakfast last weekend, our waitress talked about moving to Fayetteville from Texas, and loving it. Things are slowing on the job for her, but she said business was great after the storm; they hired more people. Now, they're playing to a slow house.

Trees are broken in great numbers, branches and limbs hanging, with many piles awaiting collection by the town. The residents who are able gather it and place it curbside. Pick up was organized for the north-south streets, and then the opposite. I saw the truck and grabber two streets over, parallel to my sister's on Sunday. It is hard to imagine this great task being completed. And the feeling of sadness because of the devastation to the trees doesn't subside.

Good bye Oklahoma.













Good bye Tulsa.













Good bye 3154 South Madison. Childhood and family home for over 50 years. Until shortly after the turn of this century, when Mom and Dad had to move. Razed sometime in 2008. We don't know why.

There's an Oklahoma wind blowing tonight. Here, the soil is bright rust-red and the trees dark-barked, the few taller ones mixed in with the scrub. A row of cedars, unable to resist the wind, lean angled in together near the small yellow RV Park sign up by the road. Route 66. At night the small yellow sign flashes steadily on and off. Oddly, a quiet sort of light.

These rolling hills became the town of Chandler days after a land run in the early 1890s. One of 5 that occurred in the late 1900s. In their museum today, I saw a letter behind glass, in a glassed in display of Indian objects. Beadwork—a head-dress, ties, moccasins. Pottery from the Sac tribe, with shiny glazes of earth green and brown. Steps away, in a larger area, behind glass, were typical clothes of townspeople from the 1890s: long-sleeved small-waisted dresses, little girls' dresses, a man's dark suit. A lady's parasol.

Much of what I saw remains in my mind now. Quilts. A barbed wire collection. Photos. That story about the cyclone destroying the whole town and leaving the one church standing. The pointy shoes. The guns. The room dedicated to wars. The map showing the location of the many Indian tribes in Oklahoma.

But that letter behind glass, the edges scalloped by time, the ink faded. I don't remember the salutation. Maybe there wasn't one. No Dear Sirs, Dear Madam, To Whom It May Concern—just the clear order in a confident round hand: leave the land you were given to occupy, take everything with you and get out, or you will be removed "peremptorily". Then official signatures and notation of government agencies.

Grandma Wyant's older sister made a run for land for the family in the opening of the Cherokee Strip. The rest of the family stood on a rise and watched some of the action. There is so much I don't remember. The exact facts. Dad—until this past year—was a reliable story teller and historian. Not now. Even when I Google the number of land runs in Oklahoma, there are conflicting "facts". And at this point, I can't really care about how many. The fact is, these things that feel so unbelievable now, happened. Time passes. We all live with the consequences. We wonder. We feel. We move away, or stay, or visit. Those of us who were born to share this red dirt land.

When I was young, I dreamed of meadows, green woods with tall trees, and brooks. I never dreamed that the East was waiting for me, ready to give all those things. In Orlando, where my father was born, the red dirt was often cracked dry, and stained the sidewalks and houses. The few trees were stunted, and our walks down country roads led to bridges crossing dry creek beds. Summer brought unbearable heat.

But with sunset, and the darkness at night, came the cooling prairie winds. In bed or on the front porch swing, in this strange land, I heard the rhythm of the oil pumps in motion and the far thin zing zing of the distant highway, the creaking of the rusting front gate, the mostly silent highway in front of the house—and the ghosty wind blowing and blowing.

This evening, the wind came. I'm here in Oklahoma again, feeling it all beyond words.

Today we're in Elk City, Oklahoma. Not far from the Texas border. We're coming down from the high altitudes into the bleached white-gold grasses that stretch for miles with no mountains in sight. The oil pumps have stopped their push-pull. Now and then, there is an emerald green field of something. Dad would know.

Maybe because I am Oklahoma born and raised, it feels good to be here.

I went into town today while Andre rested. I was rewarded by finding two consignment shops, friendly exchanges with people, hearing an accent that warms me—and wandering through an "antiques" (and collectibles?) group shop that also sold seeds and fertilizers. I am not happy to say that there were very few items of interest there, although there were a few rewards in the clothing stores.

But the biggest pleasure was driving Business-40/Old Route 66, and walking downtown, just getting the feel of things. I did pull into a Braums, my parents' favorite hangout for a small burger, fries and 12 ounce milk shake—totally as an homage to them. Totally.

The owners here at Elk Run RV Park have had to raise their prices. Seems when they were at their busiest a few months ago, with the front row full of big rigs, their electric bill was $8000. So the guy in the office said. He also reported that they were full because wind turbines were being built here. 82, to be exact. With 164 more planned. And lots of people working at something connected with natural gas. I don't know who employed them all. But he says that "the oil companies were making billions; now they are only making millions, so they shut everything down."

When I came back from exploring, I found that we were finally receiving our promised wifi service; something was wrong with it when we arrived. Because Andre pursued it, the office had to call the provider, who found that the trouble was at their end, and corrected it. Now, to top things off, the grand finale, the musical Oklahoma! is on at this moment. We sang along to the soundtrack as kids, and it's always been a thrill to this Rodgers and Hammerstein lover, Oklahoman or not. Of course as you might guess, this is a deeply painful experience for Andre. In fact, before I can magnanimously suggest that he can change to something else, he has announced that in 8 minutes I will be shut down. All the more reason to live each moment fully.

I talked with Jay again about how I want a camera like his—a little Canon—after he brought up selling it to me and then realized it wouldn't be worth it for either of us. I haven't been happy with mine for a long time, and have desired the Canon. My sister, Jeanie, bought one when she finally purchased a digital camera.

Nevertheless, I have been grateful to have any camera, to have that power to suck in what I see in front of me. And to luxuriate in playing with light. This Nikon has served me well enough for my talents, although it was purchased with the vain hope that if I acquired a new digital camera my output quality would at least double. Not true; it is hard to make up for an unsteady hand, and some kind of shutter-pressing follow-through that would be beautiful if I was playing golf or bowling. But pitiful in this case.

Last Friday, we decided to go see the Meteor Crater, and after driving the six miles from I-40, we parked and were getting ready to take the walk up to the building. The wind was wild. The sun was bright. I put my camera on the table while I grabbed a hat and coat. I'd already taken pictures out the window of the parking lot and beyond, and was eager to have my camera with me as we visited the Meteor Crater.

But that parking lot picture was my last.

Somehow, in a gesture toward my borrowed Alaska hat, I swept the camera off the table. It hit the floor hard. I'd dropped this camera before, even on concrete, and I had high hopes. Or no intuition about my imminent loss. Or, for once, no worries or anxieties. Just trust. But when I turned it on, it made a clicking noise, forever, straining to focus. Nothing I did could bring it back.

So I'm without a camera now. Being without that instant response to the passing flow is a big change. I feel it deeply, though I can't judge whether it's for better or worse. Oh, I can borrow Andre's. But it's not the same. Unloading the memory card: mine, mine, his, mine, his...

The economy be damned, I'm going to start saving for that Canon.

I'm still thinking about Mendocino. About how I imagined it for years; how I heard the echo of that song from the seventies about Mendocino, or said the name myself, loving the rhythm of the word, picturing some amorphous city filled with people under the sun. With the Pacific nearby. Fresh air.

Jay had said he wanted to take us to Mendocino. He said the redwoods were there, and that the town—in addition to everything else—had shades of the hippie era. I found that comforting somehow and added that to my vague sunny picture of the town.

So the day before we left St. Helena, Jay was driving us over beautiful curving roads to see Mendocino and Heather, Jay's cousin who had been living in California for over five years. Now, she works at a camp in the Woodlands of Mendocino. The camp was built as a depression project in the redwood forest, from which the oldest trees had already been logged. There are several clusters of buildings, and people come from all over to music, dance and other camps; there are camps for children too. Heather cooks for them when camps are in session, and is living in a canvas yurt.

Standing on the deck outside her door, the land drops away and the tall trees reach up from far below. There were similar drop-offs on the rutted long winding road into the camp. After Heather showed us the yurts (and the comfortable bathrooms between them), she fixed us a snack of granny smith apple slices, cheese, olives, and homemade sauerkraut, and we set out on a hilly short walk through the woods to see the camp. And the mythical redwoods.

I'll just let Jay's photos say a little about them. Right now, they seem beyond description. Tall, mossy. Heather stopped and picked up a tiny pine cone, saying, would you believe that the tallest tree has the smallest cone? Something like that. That was only one tiny reason why I was grateful to be with Heather again for awhile.

Today that walk feels like a dream. I was so happy to be with Jay and Heather. I was happy to hug that tree.

California Dreamin'!
In Mendocino, I really had to pee before we walked to the headlands. Heather directed me to the town facility. Lovely, clean. Empty. On this winter day, there wasn't much action on the headlands overlooking the ocean; we were the action. But imagine a libra—imagine me—having to choose from this generous and forward-seeing assemblage of hospitality!