Walkin' with Joaquin

You don't always want to hear the sound of chainsaws when you are taking a nice walk in the woods, but today it's kind of special. You may have heard about the Joaquin Miller Park fire on the news. Today I drove up into the fog, which shrouded the hillside. I went past my usual turnoff and emerged into sunlight. I turned up Skyline and parked at the Horse Arena, where drove as far as I could, until my way was blocked by...fire trucks! I went back and parked, and  heard the sound of a two-stroke motor. I walked up the path but was blocked this time by traffic cones, a truck, and a massive tree across the road. As I made my way back to the fire trucks, a pick-up full of yellow hoses drove by me. The three friendly fire-fighters told me they'd come up to collect them after soaking the fire area overnight. After posing for a victory photo, the one with "R. Johnson" emblazoned on his jacket led me through the jumbled forest to a pile of blackened trees on a high, hidde...

It's spring and I will probably go back to writing outside, so today I thought I’d give a little tour of the ranger station. In the winter months, I’ve done a lot of writing at this wonderful wooden table, the surface textured with the marks hand-chiseling. Five chairs and a bench, all lovingly padded with tied-on cushions. The wooden floor is peeling up, ready for renewal, which seems to be on its way. I look up at the stone fireplace in the center of the building to see a painting of a kindly, elderly ranger, who is clearly the author of a book, kneeling which children holding magnifying glasses. The title on the book is “The Naturalist” by Rex Burress. I suppose there is a list of rangers who cared for this room somewhere. I don’t know if this is Rex himself, or if Rex was another ranger.  A poem hangs on the wall near the office door, attributed to Louis O’Dell, Ranger from1966 to 1979. Clearly written as tribute to Miller, it begins, “I am the spirit of a land alive.” Mayor Li...

Every time I come up to the Ranger station, I check the display on the desk, and tidy it up a bit. There's so much great info here, about helping the community and defensible space and things to do in Oakland. I call the space behind the desk "The Poet's Nest" and envision a different poet working there each week, with a little sign, *The Poet is In." How cool would that be? What if people knew they could stop by and ask for some fresh poetry at the counter, along with a trail map? This trail map, by the way, do you have one? I went to my eye doctor yesterday in the Dimond and he told me he hands out trail maps to his clients, as prescriptions!  I brought a basket up to tidy up the Lost and Found clutter on the counter. Do you know anyone who has lost their keys? Their travel mug? Have you found a camera or an iPhone? Please stop in! Once I found a bag of prescriptions! There was an address on the bag. I delivered them to their owner, hating the idea ...

It’s one of those sunny spring mornings where I can’t wait to get out of the car and start walking. I bring my phone, mask, and tea, actually not tea but a warm unsweetened organic soy milk fortified with alfalfa, beet powder, and chia seeds, full of all the things my changing body thinks are yummy these days.  Often as I wander the Park I think about the hikers of 100 years ago, 150, 200 years, 500 years. I wonder how the Ohlone enjoyed their tea? Certainly not walking around with a plastic cup. (Actually mine isn’t plastic; it’s made from wheat fiber and magic with a rubber lid and it will decay in my lifetime. $5.49 at Whole Foods .) How the heck did they even boil water without iron pots? In deer hides? In baskets? In abalone shells? I’d read about native hot pots—they’d put hot stones in water to heat it up. The Oakland Museum only has one Ohlone basket; they took years to make and were burned with their users.  When I come to the bottom of the hill, I come to the bottom ...

Today I met Ann Schlader of the Schlader family, who have been the showrunners and guardians of the Woodminster Theater since 1967. She was hoping I was someone coming to take away some furniture…it’s cleanup season backstage, and there was a leak in the costume closet, so all the costumes came out into for air. Ann swept her arm, gesturing at two dozen boxes of shoes and boots, scarves and sweaters, jackets with bric-a-brac, getting ready to donate costumes to another theater company. There are crochet yente shawls from Fiddler on the Roof, Delta Nu screenprinted sweatshirts from Legally Blonde, odd fripperies from Seussical, and a box of bustles. (If you’re interested, let Ann know !)  As we pawed through racks of sweaters, furs, capes, and dresses, I said, “Wouldn’t it be great if Oakland had a central warehouse where local theaters could come borrow costumes?”  Her face lit up. “Like down in Alameda.” Yes, where the antique auctions are.  I told her I’d once gone on...

I'm excited to announce a workshop by poet Paul Corman Roberts this weekend at the Ranger Station! Paul is a wonderful force in Oakland's literary community. A founder of the Beast Crawl Literary Festival and a member of the California Writers Club since 2019, he loves Joaquin Miller Park and, in fact, read pieces by Miller at last fall's beautiful  Blanket and a Basket of Chow event. The author of four chapbooks and two full-length collections of prose poetry, including Bone Moon Palace from Nomadic Press, Paul is a four-time nominee for the Pushcart Prize, Best of the Web, and the Northern California Book Award. For his MA/MFA Graduate of the New College of California Poetics program, he studied with David Meltzer, Genny Lim, and Neeli Cherkovski. In addition to teaching at SF Creative Writing Institute, he also teaches workshops for the Older Writer’s Lab at the San Francisco Public Library. His day job as a substitute teacher for the Oakland Unified School District h...

 This morning, I drove through “God Rays” as the sun on the hills pierced the pea-soup fog that snuggled around the city.  In the Park it's mellow, green and sunny. A state of grace.  Here’s a poem I found about Joaquin Miller, written by California's first poet laureate, the amazing Miss Ina. The Poet He walks with God upon the hills! …. And sees, each morn, the world arise …. New-bathed in light of paradise. He hears the laughter of her rills, …. Her melodies of many voices, …. And greets her while his heart rejoices. She to his spirit undefiled, Makes answer as a little child; …. Unveiled before his eyes she stands, …. And gives her secrets to his hands. Ina Coolbrith, Century , December 1885;  Songs from the Golden Gate  (1895) photo by Felix Baum