Sightings on the Edge of the World, #2: Tonight's Sky

The sun had already set when I walked to the cliffs above the ocean tonight, and the crowds had dispersed.  Only a few people lingered, and the path felt empty.  The sky was steel blue and cloudy; the ocean shimmered an even darker blue.   The sand was damp brown.  It was quiet.  And right where the sun had set was a glowing red line.  As I walked along the line of the horizon, the red deepened and broadened and layered up under and through the blue like ripples on water. 

Down on the beach, a little white dog stretched out on the sand, belly down, legs out, as the surf came right up to it.  A few feet in front of the dog, little birds skittered about, following the edge of the water.  The dog's person walked along between them.  A lone surfer was bobbing out in the waves.   Some kind of boat moved further out along the horizon.

A mountain had mysteriously appeared above the ocean, piercing the clouds--a big, solid dark blue mountain where usually there was only sky. 

By the time I turned to go home, a thin layer of opal yellow filtered through marking the line between sea and sky.  Red and blue rippled up through layers of clouds, and the blue mountain stood firm.

Both the beginning and the end of my walk were marked by a most unusual sight:  a young, tall, thin, extremely pale Asian woman wearing a long black duster coat and black unzipped ankle boots with thin white socks and a huge bright red backpack that ran from above her head to the bottom of her hips.  It was the color of the sunset.

On my way out to sea, she was slowly walking in toward the street, and on my way home, she was trotting back out to the cliffs, running almost on tiptoe, with her long coat flapping around her.  Maybe she’s camping out on the sky mountain now.

Missing NYC: Riding Out the Storm

Tonight I miss New York City.  I lived in New York for 14 years, most of the time living on the top floor of a 15-story apartment building in midtown Manhattan with a wide open view of the Empire State Building.  I just moved here to sunny, temperate Del Mar, California, a little over 2 years ago.  A few days ago I received my official California state driver’s license.  The more I settle into California, the more I miss New York, especially at the crucial stepping stones.

It’s 22 degrees in New York City tonight, 57 degrees in Del Mar.  Granted the blizzard turned into a typical winter snow in the city, but still it’s snowing in New York, and I miss the snow, and the cold and the grittiness.  The toughness of it all.  The camaraderie.  The “we’re all in this together” attitude.  The drive and energy.  The charge.

Here, we all walk our individual walks along the cliffs above the ocean at sunset, striding calmly, no worries.  Maybe at most, petting a dog or two, saying “hi” to a person or two.  No big deal. Nothing to stress over.  Nothing to talk about.

I watch the colors of the ocean, the sky, the sand, the flowers, and they take my breath away.  Radiant, translucent, vibrant pastels.  Sweet sage-and-ocean-filled air.

There I checked the colors of the Empire State Building every night, often wondering what they stood for, which ethnic group was being honored, what holiday, sometimes looking up the answers online, and looking out at the lights, listening to the traffic, feeling the buildings all around me, the grid, the movement, “the dance of the charged energy particles,” as my friend Barry would say.

I miss the food.  El Parador, Wild Edibles, La Giara, Cosette, Naya Express, Libretto’s—my neighborhood restaurants.  Each particular taste right on the tip of my tongue.

And I miss the people.  All the people I would never know as we walked past one another.  People I sort of knew, enough to greet.  And people I knew very well, from the inside out and outside in, and who I will always love.

I am glad the storm wasn’t as bad as expected, and the city can go on about its business and be itself in every way again. Thank you New York.  You are a rock.

A Tribute to Billy Causey, Music Minister, First Baptist Church, Zachary, Louisiana: The True Music Man

I grew up in Zachary, Louisiana, as the oldest child of the pastor of First Baptist Church on Main Street in the heart of town.  When we first moved there in 1961, I fell in love with the Minister of Music, Wayne Vincent.  He was my first love, and I would pick bouquets of tiny white flowers from the bushes around the church and give them to him and imagine our wedding.  I was 3 and a half years old, so he didn’t take it too seriously, but I did.  When he left to move to the big city, Baton Rouge, I was crushed.  I couldn’t imagine life at First Baptist Zachary without him. 

Around 1970, when I was 12 or 13 or so, a new music minister arrived, Billy Causey, and I was immediately swept away by his enthusiasm, vitality, good cheer, beautiful voice, trumpet-playing, and all-over love of life.  He came with his sweet wife Judy, the drama teacher, and they soon produced 2 very cute children, Clay and Clacy, who became darlings of the congregation, much like my sister Kim and I had been when we first arrived.  To say, I loved them all is an understatement.  

They brought new, fresh, young energy that revitalized us all, at a critical juncture—the heyday of the 60s, and they were able to ride with the energy of the times and bring it into our little world in a way that expanded it but didn’t overturn it.  My dad probably had a hand in that too, but that’s for another story.  Simply put, Billy and Judy, Clay, and Clacy, provided a nice counterbalance to my dad’s seriousness and authority, and lightened things up considerably, but with real depth of feeling.

Billy was the one who made the youth choir a truly exhilarating experience, giving us music to sing that cheered our hearts and felt contemporary and cool; taking us on tours to Disneyworld, Washington, DC, and points all over the southeast; and most of all, being a true friend and mentor, listening to our heartfelt concerns and caring about each of us.  He did it all with such depth of feeling, genuine love of music and people, openness, kindness, humor, and bonhomie, that we couldn’t help but follow him.  He was the Pied Piper, the Music Man, leading us along paths that expanded our hearts and confidence and helped us sing our hearts out.

Plus he could sing.  He had a beautiful voice that brought out the best in our voices.  And he was funny.  

As I moved away and into my adult life, I longed still to hear Billy sing, and I asked him to sing at my wedding.  I was always cheered, moved, and heartened to hear him and see him when I visited.  He had a way of looking at you that made you feel seen and heard and known.

He died yesterday, January 6, 2015, in  Zachary, still a young man.  Many, many people will miss him, his voice and presence, including me.  Even though, I haven’t lived in Zachary for 38 years, he has shaped and moved me and inspired me all this time and always will.  

Thank you, Billy, for encouraging us to sing and embodying your faith with true devotion, humor, and beautiful, strong music. Sending you many bouquets of tiny white flowers and singing “Softly and Tenderly”….

Low Tide, Blue Skies

The tide is way out today and the sky is clear blue, revealing much that is usually hidden.