Grass Valley and Santa Cruz

Toronto. You step from the plane, from the airport, from the baggage claim and the terminal and customs, with your heavy bags, laden with books, and your new passport that doesn’t expire until 2015, and you stumble and careen under the weight, out into the damp and humid air. I am instantly transported back to New York last August, sleeping in that red-lit room of Reid’s, and losing myself in that monolith of lights, that endless city. We spend the night in Toronto, and off to breakfast in the morning. Then to the twelfth fret where I retrieve my guitar, only to find it sounding and playing better than ever. With a new pick-up installed, a loose brace re-glued, and little adjustments made, I am as ready as ever to tumble back into performing live, which I have missed more than I will ever let on.

And while standing there, waiting with claim check in hand, there stands a man before me. White beard, and tight yellow t-shirt. He has had a guitar converted from a right handed guitar, to a left handed guitar, which seemed an odd thing to me, until he explained that cut several fingers in half on a table saw, neglecting to use the guard. His left hand in the air, he smiled as he told of the need to begin again after thirty years. He easily we take it all for granted. What struck me most, was the complete absence if remorse. It was simply what had occurred. He would simply start over. This moment, this small piece of grace, made all that I do, all of the challenges with music seem so small and fragile. Things I could crush so easily.

And so we drove. We ate chips and salsa and cheese and tomatoes by a lake on the way home. We arrived to purring cats, rolling on their backs and a forest of green. It seems that Ontario and California swap colors this time of year. I am stunned, as I was upon my first arrival here by the endless lushness of the trees and the wildflowers. It seems at first glance, that our house will be devoured by these green things. And so we unpack and make dinner. Drink good, {really fucking good} wine. Sit on the porch and watch the rain pound the earth. Listen to the thunder. The power goes on and off. The dinner, cooks and then stops and then cooks and then stops. We light candles. We toss on the bed, the heat damp on our skin. No covers.

I think back to that perfect moment I had, my second night in California, drinking yet another glass of great wine, with my feet swimming in the pool at my parent’s house. The sun falling slowly over the hills just west of Mount Shasta, the snow on top of the volcano bright in the last of the gold. There were several of these moments, and each time, having watched “Swimming To Cambodia” in the last month or so, I couldn’t help but think of Spalding Grey. How he severed parts of his soul in a car accident, and never leaned how to play left-handed, his body falling apart on the banks of a river. So today I putter around the house, putting things back where I keep them. Playing guitar. Reading. “Angle Of Repose,” by Wallace Stegner. Grass Valley and Santa Cruz. My beloved California. I miss you already.

Posted by jeff pitcher at June 15, 2005 10:50 AM

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