Writing – Page 15 – Costa Jill

Raindrops Are Falling On My Head

I begin to see a pattern here. First there were the warm sheets of rain falling on my head as I danced happily in the mudhole that was the Rainforest Aid Concert. Then back in my neighborhood rain forest, a friend and I are hiking with the dogs when a tormenta of vast proportions and consequences strikes. Rumbling thunder escalates into a full-fledged war we can’t see somewhere beyond the giant trees. Night comes too early. Mist thickens to fog. Tina says her knee hurts and turns back. I’ve finally gotten out into the primary jungle and want to continue. It is so eerie, ethereal, exhilarating.

Now flashes of lightning break through. Warm forceful rain falls in splats then buckets. This is no slow progression. I call the dogs to turn back. Cookie leaps, runs and jumps in excitement. Koda cringes and gets all mixed up in my feet. Could there be two such totally different labs? A bomb burst of lightning hits behind my right shoulder lifting me off the ground. My feet, like pistons, are already pumping when I hit the ground running. Though I feel and smell the electricity I’m more afraid of a massive tree crashing down on me. The strikes continue, the rain pounds, Cookie thrills, Koda cowers, and we all run like hell until we hit the open road. I lift my arms and face to the sky and laugh wildly at experiencing nature unleashed.

The next day we realize our water source has been obstructed, probably from a fallen tree or landslide. My daughter Nicole and grandson Sebastian go down to the spring to see if they can rectify the problem. Another pattern arises. Cookie slides to the forefront again. So soon after committing chicken murder there’s an attempt made on her life. Is it the law of the jungle, Darwin’s natural selection, both? Tune in next time for more Cookie Crumbs.

Cookie Killed A Chicken

Our new chocolate lab, Cookie, killed a chicken. I kept hearing a bird in distress and finally went to investigate. Cookie had it in her mouth. She’s a retriever not a killer. She was just holding on to it, not eating it. I grabbed her by the collar and swatted her to drop it, but too late. Maybe we’ll have it for dinner. It wasn’t full grown. More like a Cornish hen. Cookie is following in our last retriever bird-lover instincts, but without the fan fair and excitement.

p1010056-150x150-8352308 — Cookie by Sebas

Buck

Buck’s story has become a legend in our family. I was ready to leave Costa Rica and return to Florida. Nicole would drive me to the airport. The car was packed and everyone in except my irrepressible grandson. Sebas was racing after Buck who was racing after the one and only rooster in our brood. What great fun! “Go get ’em, Buck.” Sebas egged him on. He didn’t need egging. He leapt to the attack, grabbing the “gallo” in his soft mouth. Not to kill but to play with, enjoying the game immensely.

Until the screaming began, “SEBAS! STOP! GET OVER HERE.” Nicole running now, overtaking Sebas, gaining on Buck and grabbing his collar. “BUCK! STOP! LET GO!” No way. Buck clamps harder. Nicole grabs the legs. It’s a tug of war. Nobody wins this one. Nicole gets the dead rooster, the realization infuriating her to turn and run after Sebas. “YOU KILLED EDGAR’S ROOSTER! YOU’RE IN BIG TROUBLE. GET IN THE CAR!” The rooster’s broken neck spinning as she runs after him.

Sebas still running and sobbing, “I didn’t do it. I didn’t mean to. I’m sorry.”

“GET IN THE CAR! NOW!” All quiet except for the sobbing as we drive away. “You’re going to pay for this. What’s wrong with you?” I make my plane and rise above the turmoil past my house on the edge of the Costa Rican shore and back to Florida. I call Nicole and reflect on an event worthy of World’s Funniest Home Videos. In retrospect she has to laugh too.

Rain Forest Aftermath

p1010195-150x150-2497681 — Dominical represented at Rain Forest Aid

After a ten year hiatus I return to the Osa Peninsula for the first annual (?) Rain Forest Aid Festival. It’s summer solstice or rainy season in the jungle. Is this the time for a $2 million fund raiser to create a sustainable landfill and recycling center in one of the most biodiverse areas in the world? Obviously not.

The tourists are gone and the economy is shit. And it rained and rained. Nobody came. But I did and a few of my diehard friends in nearby communities. The foremost Costa Rican musician Manuel Obregon consented to perform for free with my friend Nancy Buchan, the fantastic violinist. They made it all worthwhile. Even though that huge goal hit the skids and ended in minus numbers.

Did Michael Crandon and the other organizers learn anything? I hope they’ll try again. How about in the dry season? How about in the rain forest or at least under shade trees, instead of a sucky soaking soccer field? How about half the price of $150 and lots more attendees?

I wish them luck and thank them tremendously for my good luck. I won the raffle for two nights in the Finca Bella Vista Tree House.

Rain Forest Aid 2009 Concert – Costa Rica

rainforest-aid-fbooksm-2004576 I’m returning to the Osa Peninsula in Costa Rica for the Rain Forest Aid 2009 concert June 19 – 21. The festival aims to raise $2 million for rain forest awareness, protection and regeneration and potentially fund a sustainable landfill for the Osa Peninsula in the next five years. That’s a massive goal, but whatever they reach will help save one of the world’s most biodiverse areas, which includes Corcovado National Park. For more information go to the website http://rainforestaid09.com.

Ten years ago two friends and I traveled down to the Osa for one of the most disastrous vacations I’ve ever had. For the ten year anniversary I have edited an almost memoir, The Last Resort, I wrote to commemorate that event and am posting it here. I will also be blogging about the concert. Check in. Send me information you’d like to share. Have fun! Dance. Listen. Learn from the indigenous people. Buy handcrafted items. Help save our environment.

Memories – Old Slices

Reading Spartina by John Casey. Not my favorite topic – boat life in New England – but I’ve dog-eared so many pages of good stuff. Like a memory of a father that brought tears to my eyes and looming memories of mine. I fight the slide into my father’s later life.

He sits alone in his recliner in his big empty house waiting for the phone not to ring. Year after year. And it doesn’t. Financial papers are strewn in piles at his feet, waiting for the attention he will never again give them. He hates what’s happening to him; watching the bedrock of his life – his superior mind – crumble into dust.

“How’re you doing Dad?” I ask.”

“I’m gonna jump off the bridge.” or “I’m gonna shoot myself.” or some other form of suicide.

“We want to take you out for dinner.”

“Got stuff in the fridge I gotta use up.”

Right. Like the moldy bacon? Or the bottle of orange juice, so sour that Terry spewed it out like a surging fire hydrant after the first swig. He’s stubborn just to be stubborn. So closed up inside he can’t break out of his hard Cancer shell. He’d rather suffer loneliness than crack open and let his guts spill out.

But time passes. The teeth-gnashing and hair-pulling stage subsides until he forgets how to be stubborn and closed in; forgets how to hate losing his mind.

And at long last. He smiles and hugs and kisses me hello and good-bye. He (the absolute atheist) goes to church because he likes the music and sings along. He says ‘I love you’ for the first time in my life.

Another Slice

jills-photos-031-150x150-9239276 — RIO MORETE

The morning rains are over and the afternoon cloud cover hasn’t smothered us yet. “Let’s go to the river!” I suggest.

“Oh, yes!” Sebastian jumps for joy. He’s still young enough at “almost eight” to do that. We pack a bag, call the pups Koda and Cookie, and set off down the steep jungle trail to the Rio Morete at the bottom of the property. I love having this time one-on-one with my grandson free from outside influence. I can be a kid again with him – laughing, singing, acting silly.

The dogs splash first into the crystal pool, legs outstretched, ears a-flapping. Sebas dives in upstream and rides the chute to greet them. I balance on the edge of the a small waterfall downstream and dive into the pool below. “Oh Fufi, let’s run the rocks to the big waterfall at the grotto. I’ll bet we can still get underneath it.” The rainy season has just started so the water levels are still manageable and the current is not yet at the “swept away” level.

“Let’s go. I’ll race you.” Of course he always beats me. He moves like a monkey perfectly balanced a bit forward and light on his feet. He’s been doing this since two years old. We pass through the impenetrable looking sheet of waterfall and pretend we live in its cave, then break through and take another slide to the grotto. The whole area below the falls is circled by sky reaching smooth grey rock carved into small circular pools.

Sebas and I swim into one of them – like a miniature Jacuzzi. I see something undulating between us. “Oh, shit!” just comes out. In an adrenal rush, I grab Sebas and propel us out of there like bullets shot from a gun. “It’s a snake!”

He’s excited. The scientist in him gets the best of his fear. “I wanna see it.” From a safe distance we stand on rocks and there it is. Still there. It obviously feels at home. We remember the details for identification later – 4 ft. long, black, skinny, narrow head. Doesn’t look poisonous but I’m not taking chances. What a story we have to tell when we get home. Swimming with a snake. We’ll add this one to our life list of animals of Costa Rica.

p1010138-150x150-2113375 — Sebastian and Koda on the rocks

Dear Regina Perry or My Historical Fiction

Having returned to the back jungles of Costa Rica, I’ve had to deal with no and slow technology, and other losses in my life slowing me down. I’m clawing my way out. Just got hooked to internet at my house – a feat of unusual difficulty. Yippy. I’m ready to roll on, though not speed.

I open my computer to a writer friend’s announcement of a blog posting. She’s been out of commission for awhile too. she explained her reasons for having the blog and all it entailed, from why she started writing to how she got published. We’re members of the same excellent writing group. I loved the story, especially since she’s a good writer and friend. Check it out at reginaperry.com

So I’m reading along and nodding my head, oh yes, oh yes. I’ve gone through the same evolution or mutation. Started writing memoirs. They are so cathartic and freeing, but not for publication. The truth can be insulting, incriminating, hurtful, embarrassing. First I tried just changing the names to protect the innocent. Hah, that doesn’t work. Then I changed the places. Not enough. Now the characters. I now call my writing historical fiction. I can add, pad and subtract from the truth, but it’s still based on it. I’ve got a good group of Costa Rican stories finished or almost. But patience. I’ll soon be ready to try for that publication, too.

And thanks Regina Perry for getting my ball rolling again.