A Slice of Santa Barbara, or: Time, The Ocean and Two Cloudy Days

Monday,

What can I say about this place? That I came up from L.A. thirty years ago for air and stayed? That I'd grown allergic (literally) to the L.A. smog? That Santa Barbara called me here, then swallowed me like a blotter absorbing ink? Quietly, painlessly, the years dissolved. When I drive through the city now, on my way to the library, or to buy a gift for a friend, I coast the familiar streets with their rock-lined hedges, their bougainvillea, oaks and palms . . . and I wonder . . . how it could be that all those days have washed away and left barely a ripple?

Today, under dense clouds, while most of the world is churning, and I can practically hear it groan, I've decided to stop at the beach and take a peek at what lies beyond the hedges and the rock walls. What color is the ocean today? My guess is that it's opal. And who waits on the sand? It's safe to say seagulls. But what I know deep down, is that there, beside the water, no matter how cloudy or sunny, at high tide or low, what I'm certain to find, hovering in the mist -- is some kind of magic.

Tuesday,

 Yesterday, when I took myself to the beach, after writing that a visit to the ocean guaranteed magic, I found myself on a cloud-shrouded shore at high tide. To my left, a cove lined with cottages, arced to the south, with only a thin strip of private beach untouched by the high tide.

To my right, beside the beach wall, sat a girl in a turquoise T-shirt, with long, blonde surfer-girl hair. Perfectly still, she stared toward the inaccessible north coast.

I stood on a small patch of beach in front of a storm drain. This was not what I'd had in mind when I predicted magic. I had pictured myself walking beside the water with my arms and legs swinging in sync with the rhythms of the surf. Instead, I perched on a pile of rocks and gazed at the agate ocean as it pushed and pulled and pulsed.

When I looked back toward the cove, I saw a tiny being on the sand: a squat toddler in bright blue shorts. He took solid steps and seemed amazed that he was upright as he planted each foot like a stake in the sand, fully at home in his world.

To my right, the girl at the beach wall, like a painting by Andrew Wyeth, continued to sit and stare. Behind me, stood a mass of concrete, etched and pock-marked with erosion. On closer inspection, I found within it and around it an eerie gallery of strangely stunning modern art.

    And that was the picture, nothing dazzling, nothing bright -- a quiet diffused scene.

Later in the day, while hiking in the hills, after the sun had finally broken through, I caught a glimpse of The Islands and was amazed to see that they had completely changed from what they were earlier in the day. In the morning, at the beach, The Islands had been fuzzy and charcoal gray; now, from out of nowhere, they bared the clearest typography I'd seen in years.

**Be cool all of you lovely people. I'll be posting again on August 20th. ~ Anitra

Bert Convy on The Price Is Right Twice

**Sorry, this clip has been removed from our database. Fortunately, there is much more to view. I invite you to look more deeply into the many moments shared here.

Here is a clip from The Price is Right, something to boost your adrenaline. Actually there are two clips here. One of me and one of Dian Parkinson. I love the audience's response. Those TPIR audiences were fantastic -- great food for the ham at heart.

I want to give credit to our viewer, Bitsey, who first told me about this clip. Thanks so much Bits.

**I'll be making two posts in August. One on the 10th, and the other on my regular date of the 20th. Hope to see you then. My warm regards, ~ Anitra

Large Splash of Ocean

After my last few posts: my visit to L.A., Father's Day and then photos that illuminated the past, I'm in the mood for a change -- something to cleanse the palate -- I think a large splash of ocean might fill the bill.

It's summer and most of the country's been sweltering under record-breaking heat. Our beaches are full, the parking lots are crowded, and perhaps that's why my thoughts keep drifting back to a cooler, quieter time. I've been thinking about a day last November.

I'm not sure what caused me to stop at Shoreline Park that day. I think it must have been the dramatic clouds (something fairly rare in Santa Barbara's perpetual blue sky.) I stood at the edge of Shoreline on a bluff above the ocean and drank in the expansive view. Leadbetter Beach curved in the foreground, with the mountains beyond it to the east.

After taking in the view from shoreline Park, I drove the short distance down the hill to park at Leadbetter Beach. There, I got out and walked to the beach wall, where I stood, basically, in one place. At the wall, I simply gazed at what I saw around me. Here is a vignette of what I found.

 

 

Wishing you all soft breezes and cool mists. My next post will be on the 20th. Hope to see you then. ~ Anitra

Reflections . . .

Then and now circle around me vying for my attention: My vibrant driven past that is surprisingly still alive in so many ways, and the ocean of this day, teeming with sustenance, wide sky and seemingly endless possibilities -- this day with hummingbirds, trumpet vines and the magic of each moment unfolding.

    




** My next posts will be on the 10th of July, and then again on my regular date of the 20th. On July 4th I will be celebrating with joy and honor, but will not make a post on that date, as I will never, ever be able to capture five pelicans flying in unison past the American flag again (I invite you to take a look at last year's post on the 4th.) Until then,   ~   My warm wishes,    ~   Aneet

With Love to Dad

On this Father's Day, I'm taking you to Santa Barbara's Natural History Museum, to view fathers on outings with their children. With its Spanish architecture and tile roofs, the museum is housed in a park-like setting that encompasses the rocky watercourse of Mission Creek and its surrounding oak trees.

 

 
The Natural History Museum is a perfect place to spend an enlightening time with your child. Beginning with its entrance, where you'll be greeted by the life-sized skeleton of a blue whale. You'll proceed through tiled hallways to twelve exhibition rooms with displays of regional birds, mammals, insects and marine life, as well as artifacts from the museum's vast collection of Native American and antique art.

This day, I enjoyed watching the different moods of fathers with their kids, from playful, to pensive, to protective. They all enacted their fatherly roles with warmth and caring, and made me well aware of the memories they were fostering.

I watched them observe the animated dinosaur, with its flashing teeth and ground-rumbling roar. I saw them wander past docents who displayed live birds: fine-feathered kestrels from the falcon family that were perched on poles. From there, the fathers took their children to one of my favorite exhibitions:

the biennial Butterflies Alive exhibit. Here, live butterflies are enclosed inside a large netted bungalow with a lush interior of flowing fountains and floral gardens. It is always an enchanting scene.

 

Dear Fathers, thank you, and please take a bow!



**My next post is just days away, on the 20th. I hope to see you then. Sincerely,    ~   Anitra

Homebody in L.A.

Though I've never considered myself a big city person -- I like open spaces, vacant lots, room to breathe -- I wound up living in L.A. for my career. And except for the year or two that I returned to my home town of Manhattan Beach, I spent the better part of 20 years in Tinseltown. The pace and size of Santa Barbara suits me better than L.A., but when I return for a visit, or a periodic cat-sitting stint, I never fail to find delight in this diverse metropolis.

Which brings me to the fact that I house sat for my daughter, Erin, recently, and her four cats (two of which you haven't met until now.) Along with the incomparable Charles, and the elusive Ruby, Erin has two black cats: Frank and Joey, who are litter mates. They're mellow, lovable saps, without the complexities of a high-strung Abyssinian, or a skittish feral Tortie. Frank and Joey are an affectionate team -- brothers through and through.

While Erin and her husband went to the desert for a get-a-way, the four cats kept me hopping, and it was a refreshing change of pace from my Santa Barbara day-to-day. At Erin's, I delighted in the steady stream of goldfinches that clustered on her thistle-filled bird feeder. On walks around her neighborhood, I spotted a beautiful sidewalk shadow and a mailbox inspired by Man Ray. Later, at a friend's house in Benedict Canyon, I got lost in the liquid shapes and colors of his koi pond.

At one point Erin called from Palm Springs to tell me about an art exhibit she'd seen. It was one of the many exhibitions connected to "Pacific Standard Time", a widespread retrospective of Southern California artists from the 50s and 60s. The six-month-long event, which was just winding down, had been celebrated at scores of galleries and museums from San Diego to Santa Barbara. The exhibit she attended had been at the Palm Springs Art Museum, which she found to be first class. There, she viewed artworks by David Hockney, Ed Ruscha and Dale Chihuly. Last but not least, she described a photo gallery in the museum, displaying themed photos of scenic swimming pools. In the gallery, she found a pedestal encased in Plexiglas. Under the Plexiglas were three magazines. One of them, a Saturday Evening Post from 1964 . . . and guess who she found on the cover?

**Have a wonderful Memorial Day! I'll be back on Father's Day and again on my regular date of June 20th

Memories of Mom

My mother had gowns -- dazzling gowns -- that she kept in a trunk in our garage. They were keepsakes from when she'd been an actress on the stage. She had satin gowns and beaded dresses, as well as feathered fans and boas. Each piece as stunning as a Bob Mackie design. Retired from her acting days -- and a full-time wife and mother -- Mom let me play with her stage wardrobe.

A little girl of age seven and skinny as a twig, I donned her shimmering clothes. And in boat-sized high heels, trying to keep my balance, I clopped across the patio. Holding the hems high, I lifted my shoulders tall and pretended the gowns fit. And as I waved my hands and spoke with an invisible prince, I dreamed of a day in the future when I might really wear those kinds of clothes.


With memories of my mother, Cleo, and her effervescent spirit, I want to wish all of you Lovely Readers a beautiful Mother's Day.

Sincerely,   ~   Anitra

** My next post will be next week, on the 20th.